by Anna Jacobs
The following day Judith rang her former housekeeper to tell her she would be collecting her car that afternoon.
'I think you'd better speak to Mr Corrigan, madam.'
'Why? It's the car I need. I won't have to come insjde the house.'
'The car isn't here any more.'
So Judith rang Des's office.
'What car are you talking about?' he asked.
As if he didn't know. 'My car, the Mercedes you bought me for my birthday.'
He chuckled. 'That's a company car, not your personal possession. It's being used by an employee of the company now. I don't like things to go to waste.'
'You're a bastard, Des Corrigan.'
He was laughing loudly as he put the phone down.
She rang up her lawyer, but he could do nothing to help her get the car back if it really had been a company car.
'Your financial situation will take some time to sort out, I'm afraid, Mrs Corrigan. It's rather complex.'
'How long?'
'Well, your husband is being awkward about quite a few things, so I'm afraid it's going to drag on a bit.'
'I see. Then I'd better buy myself a new car.'
'Yes. Best thing to do. And about the company you thought was in your name . . .'
'Mmm?' She waited, sure there was another nasty surprise in store.
'There is some doubt about your owning it. It seems that it's owned by the family trust. Rather a complicated tax avoidance set-up, perfectly legal, of course, but complicated. So you'll not be receiving any income from that until everything is—'
She finished it for him, '—sorted out.'
When she'd put the phone down, she sat down to do some calculations. She had the money she'd taken from their joint account, but wasn't sure how long it'd last. It had been a good many years since she'd lived frugally. She had her jewellery, of course, but she didn't really want to sell her bits and pieces. Most were antiques that she'd searched for until she found exactly the right thing. Des had never understood that it was the beauty of the pieces that mattered to her, not their antiquity or value.
Damn him! He could well afford to make her an allowance, wouldn't even miss it. But she wasn't going to beg for it.
The next day she received a letter from Des's lawyer informing her that since she had now recovered from her unfortunate accident, they wouldn't be paying for her hotel room as from Thursday morning. That was tomorrow, she thought, looking round. Right then, she'd need to get cracking.
She went out to buy herself a car, a second-hand one. She was lucky enough to find one that suited her, a silver Ford Focus. It seemed very utilitarian after the Mercedes, but it would be economical on petrol, and that was the important thing now.
She paid for two more nights in the hotel rather than move somewhere else. After all, she was on a cheaper, long-term rate. She could have saved money by staying with her mother, but that might make difficulties with Des, who was still popping in to see Hilary, so she didn't even suggest it.
The bed seemed harder that night and her knee was aching because she'd been on her feet a lot. She tossed and turned, worrying about money, about Mitch, about the future.
And creeping in to settle like a fat ugly toad on her shoulder, was a feeling of apprehension about what Des would do next. She was quite sure he wouldn't just let her go in peace, not when she had been the one to end it. He enjoyed paying people back for what he saw as slights, and could be very inventive about how he did it.
In the morning she phoned her mother and asked if Mitch could come to the hotel to say farewell.
'Des just rang me, Judith. He said he doesn't want the boy going near you again on his own. I'm to be with the two of you at all times, so that you don't poison his mind against his father.'
'You won't stop Mitch coming to say goodbye, surely?'
'Certainly not. I'll drive Mitch to the hotel myself, give him half an hour alone with you, then join you both, if that's all right. I want to say goodbye too, darling, even though you're only going up to Lancashire. I fully intend to come and visit you there, by the way. I only have one daughter'
'Thanks, Mum.'
'That's my pleasure. And Judith? If Des withdraws his financial support from me, I'll still have enough to live on, you know.'
'Not in such comfort. And that house you're living in belongs to him.'
'I still own my unit. I didn't take his advice about selling it, but rented it out. So do what's necessary for your future happiness, love.'
'You're the best, Mum.'
Judith went to repair her face, feeling warmed by her mother's support. Hilary had always got on well with Des, and he seemed fond of her, too, but the fact that she was prepared to give up her comfortable home to stick with her daughter meant a lot.
Only - if Hilary did move back to her tiny one-bedroom unit, where would Mitch stay?
What a sad tangle this was!
Later on, the concierge rang her room. 'Ms Horrocks?'
'Yes?' It still felt strange to be called by her maiden name.
'There's a Mr Mitchell Corrigan to see you. All right to send him up?'
'Yes. And thank you for being careful about who comes to my room.'
'Our pleasure, madam.'
She didn't mention her financial problems to her son, but Mitch raised it with her. 'Dad said you tried to pinch the company car.'
'Is that what he calls it now? It was a birthday present to me, if you remember.'
He nodded. 'Of course I remember. It came tied with a big bow. Is he being difficult about money?'
She nodded.
'Tell me.'
'I can't get a penny out of him until things are settled legally about the company I thought I owned. Luckily I've some money saved, but I'll have to be a bit careful and I'm afraid you'll be totally dependent on him financially. I can't help you much till it's all sorted out. But I don't want you to get involved in our quarrels, so don't discuss it with him.'
'I am part of this, whether you want it or not. But I appreciate the way you haven't tried to blacken Dad to me.'
It wasn't that she hadn't been tempted! she thought bitterly.
Half an hour later the concierge sent her mother up. Hilary came across to fold Judith in her arms. 'You look tired, love.'
'I didn't sleep very well.'
'We came by taxi, so let's have a bottle of champagne to launch you in your new life. My treat. Mitch is old enough to help us drink it, don't you think?'
So they sat and reminisced, then drank to Judith's future.
When they'd gone she felt bereft, wanted to run after them and drag them back.
Didn't, of course. She was determined to stand on her own feet from now on. But what could she do to earn a living? She wasn't good enough to be an artist, even though she still loved to paint. She was going to be dependent on Des at first, whether she wanted it or not. She'd given up everything to marry him.
How stupid she'd been! She should have finished her studies. Would at least have her teaching qualification now. Only he wouldn't have waited for her, she'd known that.
A week or so after Kate's visit to the doctor the doorbell rang. Joe was out so she went to answer it.
'Why didn't you tell us?' her father said by way of a greeting. 'You look dreadful.'
She held the door open and her parents walked in. If she'd been dressed, she might have tried to brazen it out, but she wasn't. It hadn't seemed worthwhile, when the effort of putting on clothes would only tire her out and send her back to lie on top of the bed. Her hair needed washing, too. She looked a mess and she knew it.
She followed them back inside and sat down beside her mother on the sofa.
Her father began to pace to and fro. 'Joe says you've been ill since February. Since February! And not a word to us!'
Her mother took her hand and held it, patting it gently as she had when they were children and upset about something. That brought tears to Kate's eyes. It was tempting to throw herself int
o her mother's arms and allow herself to be cosseted and comforted, as if she were a child again. Too tempting. She pulled her hand away and forced herself to sit upright. 'I didn't want to - bother you.'
'Well, now we're more than bothered.' Her father slapped one hand against his thigh. 'And you're coming home with us so that your mother can nurse you better.'
'I can't. I have to get back to work and—'
'Joe says your contract has expired. You're unemployed. Living off your savings.'
She scowled at the floor. 'He's been saying too much, then.'
Her mother raised one hand, a gesture that had stopped traffic in its time and always stopped her father, who had a bit of a temper. He closed his mouth and let her take over now that he'd vented some of his anger. He liked an easy life, Leo Corrigan did - and had found it.
Her mother turned to her and said, 'The point is, Kate: how can we best help you?'
It wasn't the words, but her loving expression that did it -and the extra pat on the hand. Kate couldn't hold back the tears any longer. 'I don't know what to do, Mum. I can't even think straight. And - and I'm not getting any better.'
'Seems to me you'd better come home for a while, then, love. Have you seen a doctor?'
'Yes, but she said there was nothing she could do, so I was going to find another one.'
'We'll take you to old Dr Ramsay. If he can't help you, no one can.'
Her mother's Lancashire accent reminded her of childhood. Her mother's hand was warm in hers. And heaven help her, Kate couldn't say no to them. She was at the end of her tether.
When Joe came back, she was packing and her parents had just got back from shopping for winter clothes, making the most of their visit to Sydney.
She glared at him. 'Why didn't you tell me you'd contacted them?'
'You'd have thrown a fit. But you won't see another doctor and you're not looking after yourself. You definitely won't get better if you don't eat.' He held up one of her arms. 'Look at you! Skeletal. I don't have time to care for you properly . . .' He hesitated. 'And . . . well, I haven't told you yet, but I'm being transferred to Melbourne next month.'
'So that's it. I'm inconvenient when I'm like this, so you need to get rid of me.' Anger pounded through her. 'Well, good riddance to you, too, Joe Carvalli. I'll be better off without you.'
'Kate—'
She pushed him away then collapsed on the bed, sobbing.
Her mother came in and murmured something. Joe left the room.
'I'll do the packing for you, love. Joe says he'll clear your household bits and pieces out for you when he moves and send them up to Callabine.'
'He's ditching me, Mum,' she whispered. 'Going to Melbourne.'
'Yes. He told us about it when he phoned. That's what trouble does, real trouble. It either brings you closer or it tears you apart. Better to know the truth about what he's like now, don't you think, than after marrying him?'
It didn't feel better, Kate thought. Definitely not. She couldn't think what to say and was glad when her mother didn't dwell on Joe's defection.
'Let's get on with this, then, love. No need to prolong the pain.'
Kate tried to think what else she should take with her, but the grey fog that had plagued her almost from the start of this illness was expanding inside her head, blotting out the capacity to think clearly, and all she could do was subside on the bed and let her mother finish packing her clothes, make-up, books and computer.
When they went back into the lounge, Joe came towards her. 'Kate, I—'
She stepped back to avoid him. 'You're a shit!' Then she tried to push past him.
'Look, wait - I found this in a bookshop. It might help.'
Kate thrust the book to one side as she passed.
Her father glanced at the title Chronic Fatigue Syndrome: A Hidden Epidemic? and took it from him.
'I'm sorry, Kate,' Joe called after her. 'I can't cope with an invalid. I don't have the - the stamina, whatever you call it. But I am sorry.'
She didn't even turn her head.
Six
Cars are strung like coloured beads on an abacus all along the motorways. They dodge in and out, now speeding up, now slowing down, as their numbers add to and subtract from the grand vehicular total.
Judith didn't sleep well on her last night at the hotel, then fell into a heavy sleep in the small hours of the morning, not waking till eight o'clock. By the time she'd had breakfast and paid her hotel bill, it was past ten o'clock, a chilly morning but fine at least.
She took the M40 out of London, finding traffic moderately heavy. When she turned on to the M5, traffic was much heavier and everything began to slow right down as she approached the junction between the M5 and the M6. She spent well over an hour driving a mere couple of miles. By then her knee was aching, but there was nothing to be done about it.
Her thoughts skipped here and there as she drove a hundred yards, waited, drove a little further, stopped and waited again. Her mind couldn't seem to settle on anything for long and she felt utterly disoriented, suspended between her old life and her new. Well, at least she had her Auntie May's house to go to, a place where Des had never even set foot. That seemed important now.
A few months ago, when he'd started working secretly to regain the original Corrigan's from his sister, Judith had begun to think that if things went seriously wrong between them she might need a refuge. She'd shied away from that thought for a while, then faced it squarely and contacted the agency who managed her house, asking them to keep the tenant on one month's notice from then on.
After her accident she'd asked the agents to give the tenant notice and make sure the power and phones were connected in her name. There was some furniture in the house, left over from her aunt's day, but she'd no doubt need to buy more, as well as doing a lot of re-organizing and decorating. That would keep her nicely busy for the first few weeks. Then she realized she wouldn't be able to afford it, not till the settlement came through and she knew where she stood financially. Damn you, Des! she thought. You're only delaying things to get back at me.
She stopped at the next services but didn't fancy anything to eat, so bought a cup of coffee and took it back to the car. She didn't want to be surrounded by people, not today.
When she set off again, traffic was moving slightly faster and soon she was circling Manchester on the ring road, getting closer and closer to her destination. She felt exhausted now after her sedentary life of the past few weeks.
In Rochdale, the town centre had changed so much she had to stop to ask the way out to the village of Blackfold. The accent of the woman who offered directions, the way she called Judith 'flower', brought back vivid childhood memories. Her aunt had spoken in the same way. Judith's father, however, had been ashamed of his accent and had modified it to what he considered 'better English'. But his sister had laughed at the way he spoke and continued-to use her long slow vowels and dialect words with relish, exaggerating it when her brother and his family visited her -which wasn't often.
He'd died at fifty, Judith's father. So young. Why, she was less than ten years from fifty herself! That thought made her shiver.
She arrived at Blackfold around four in the afternoon. Since she hadn't been here for some time, she parked near the centre and studied the amenities - a minimart, a few small shabby shops and three pubs. It pleased her that nothing had changed much since her last visit and she smiled as she drove slowly along the main street. She remembered it so well from her childhood visits.
The house stood on an acre of land at the far end of the long, narrow village, backing on to fields that were bright with the promise of spring. The moors were only a hop and a skip beyond them, within easy walking distance of her new home. The Gatehouse, it was called, no one knew why, because it had never guarded the gates to anywhere. The house itself looked unchanged, but the front garden was untidy and unloved, as it had never been in her aunt's day.
The Gatehouse was built of local stone, once golden,
blackened now by two hundred years of exposure to the elements. It was a solid, square building, looking as if it'd put down deep roots and intended to stand there until the last trump sounded. It was three storeys high, with weaver's windows along back and front of the top floor, a whole row of them to let in as much light as possible. They'd be the devil to clean with all those small leaded panes, but Judith remembered how lovely they looked from inside, fracturing the light on sunny days and sending it shimmering round the walls. Maybe she could make herself a studio up there? Even if you weren't good enough to earn a living from your painting, you could still enjoy it, couldn't you?
The house had been built long before garages were needed, so she parked the car on the gravelled space in front and stood for a few moments looking up at the moors then back along the main street. The fresh, damp air felt so invigorating after the car fumes on the motorway and she breathed deeply in appreciation.
There were some outbuildings at the back of the house: long, low buildings, quite substantial and appearing to be in a reasonable state of repair. She'd look round those tomorrow. They'd been full of junk when she was a child, but who knew what they'd contain now? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps even more junk.
When she had trouble opening the front door, she frowned and examined the keys again, but she was definitely using the right one - it even had a label attached to it saying Front Door in ornate italic script. Only the key didn't fit the hole at all and when she studied the lock, she realized that it was brand new.
She went round to the back, getting the heavy, old-fashioned key ready - but again there was a new lock and she couldn't get in.
Bewildered, she went all round the house, checking whether there was a window open. There wasn't. Why had the estate agent not told her he'd changed the locks? Why hadn't he sent her the new keys?
She got back into the car and called him on her mobile.
'We haven't changed any locks, Ms Horrocks. We paid a security firm to drive past every day or two and check that the house was all right, as you asked, and of course someone from the office went out there regularly to check the inside. Perhaps you've been sent the wrong keys? I'll drive over straight away with the correct ones. I do apologize profoundly. I'll set off immediately and be there in about half an hour.'