by Annie Groves
‘Don’t see how anybody could forgive or forget something like that,’ Wendy said bluntly. ‘What about all the money you lost? I feel bad now that I couldn’t afford to pay you for my bridesmaid’s dress. It was a beauty and I’ve worn it a few times.’
‘It doesn’t matter; in any case, later on you bought me a lovely silk blouse in compensation.’ Grace paused, feeling uncharacteristically resentful. ‘I’m glad Hugh had laid out as well, at least he didn’t get away scot-free.’
‘But he ended up marrying a rich woman, so it didn’t matter so much to him, did it?’
Grace simply shrugged and gazed out of the corner café onto an Indian summer afternoon. It was early October and gloriously mild weather. Women were still strolling in summer dresses and open-toed sandals. But appealing as the sunlit scene was, Grace couldn’t put from her mind the loss of her little nest egg. After the shock of being jilted by Hugh had subsided a bit, the realisation that she’d wasted her savings on an aborted wedding had come as a huge blow.
She hadn’t yet managed to build up her little kitty again. A wistful twist shaped her lips. But there was scant likelihood of needing savings to pay for a wedding any time soon.
‘You finished?’
Grace was jolted from her thoughts by her friend’s voice. She pushed away her empty cup and plate and nodded.
‘Come on, let’s go and spend some money,’ Wendy said and led the way out of the café and, arm-in-arm, they headed in the direction of the market.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘How’s things going at work?’
‘All right now the pikeys have gone,’ Chris informed his dad. ‘Feel sorry for Kieran Murphy; he came over and asked again for a job. I spoke to Rob but I knew what his answer would be: there’s not enough in the contract to warrant another pay packet. Anyhow, the lads would never have stopped moaning; they’re all after overtime, and again Rob says there’s nothing doing on that score.’ He paused. ‘We got a good day in today though and are back on schedule. What’s for tea? I’m starving.’
‘Doin’ a mince ’n’ onion pie.’ Stevie turned awkwardly on his healing leg to watch his son plonk down at the kitchen table and unfold his newspaper.
‘You not getting in the bath?’ He ran an eye over Chris’s mucky appearance.
‘Yeah … in a bit.’ Chris carried on reading the midweek football scores. ‘Fancy coming down the Arsenal Saturday?’ he asked his father.
‘Yeah … don’t mind …’ Stevie continued spearing sideways glances at Christopher while rolling pastry. ‘Going out tonight?’
‘Nah … gonna listen to the wireless and get an early night.’
Stevie didn’t keep tabs on his son’s social life, but he was beginning to suspect that Chris hadn’t seen Grace for a couple of months. At first he hadn’t given it much thought because sometimes a tiff, or family circumstances, just made it work out that way. But now he suspected it was something far more serious than that.
‘You used to see Grace most Thursday evenings.’ It sounded like an idle observation.
‘Don’t now,’ Christopher said, standing up. ‘I’ll run me bath. How long’s that gonna be?’
‘About an hour.’ Stevie patted the pastry lid on his pie and started crimping it. ‘Grace was right for you, y’know. You want to tell me what’s gone wrong?’ he asked quietly.
‘No,’ Chris said and strolled off into the hallway.
Sighing, Stevie shoved the pie in the oven. He wasn’t fooled for a moment by Chris’s nonchalance. If he were over the girl he’d be out on the pull with his mates, or boozing it up at weekends. The fact that he wasn’t, and had spent the past couple of months moping around at home, made Stevie think that his son was behaving himself because he hoped to get her back. But he seemed to be taking his time about doing it for some reason.
When he’d first got discharged, Chris had been like a mother hen, but once his son had realised that, apart from being slow on his pins, he was quite healthy, he’d eased off fussing and they’d fallen back into their old routines.
Stevie reflected on the evening that he had waited up for Chris to come home so he could tell him the news about his plans for a caff. His son had come in looking shell-shocked and had gone to bed without saying a word. Stevie had guessed immediately he’d got woman troubles; he recalled seeing that vacant expression gazing back at him in the mirror a few times in his life. During his divorce from Pam he’d walked round like a staring-eyed zombie for months.
Having put the potatoes to boil Stevie sat down at the table and frowned sightlessly at the newspaper. He regretted bringing his ex-wife to mind. The thought of the horrible tension he’d caused to exist between him and Chris, just before his accident, now made him feel uneasy and ashamed.
He knew he’d cheated death, and whether it was that humbling knowledge or the hefty bang on the head that had knocked some sense in to him, he couldn’t be sure.
While in hospital he’d had ample time to reflect. He couldn’t escape his conscience, or the fact that Matilda had been right – as she usually was. He shouldn’t have been so hard on his son because he wanted to find his mum. Stevie knew the shock of hearing Matilda’s news that day had made his mouth work faster than his brain, but there’d been no excuse for carrying on being stubborn and resentful.
Any proper father would have talked things through like an adult with his only child; instead he’d made both their lives hell with his sullen silences. He understood now that Christopher had the right to know about his past, whether it were good or bad, and it was no longer his job to sift out the stuff that might upset him, because he wasn’t a kid any more.
Christopher was a man and he’d fallen in love with a nice girl. Stevie realised he wished things would come right for Chris and Grace. He wished his son might soon be a father himself. But most of all he wished he’d told Chris he was sorry for what he’d done, and if he still wanted to find his mother, he wouldn’t stand in his way.
Since he’d got out of hospital nobody had mentioned Pam, not even Matilda. Having mulled things over in his mind Stevie had come to the conclusion that it would be unwise to dredge it up, even to apologise. Many months had passed since it all blew up so the best thing might be to let sleeping dogs lie and in that way Chris might put all his efforts into getting back with Grace …
‘Smells good … make the gravy, shall I?’ Chris came into the kitchen towelling his hair. He pulled a box of Bisto out of the cupboard, dropped it on the table then wandered off into the front room to turn on the wireless.
‘Oi! That gravy won’t make itself, y’know …’
Chris’s contribution to the gravy making was always limited to finding the box, leaving it on the table, then disappearing.
Stevie heard his stomach grumble and he realised he was hungry. Pushing aside his troubles, he got stiffly to his feet and opened the oven door. Inside he could see a crisp golden crust, from which was coming a rich, savoury aroma. He smiled wryly wondering why it had only just occurred to him how good it was to be back home.
Chris stopped drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and started tapping his feet instead. Suddenly he thrust back against the seat, dropping his eyes to study his fists clenched on his thighs. Abruptly he hauled open the van door and jumped out. Having carefully locked the vehicle he strode away. He swung about, came back to test the door. It didn’t budge. He rubbed a hand across his mouth as he quickly turned to enter an un-gated garden path. He rapped on the door, then clasped his hands behind his back. There was no answer but a middle-aged woman two doors along, sweeping up fallen autumn leaves, straightened wearily from her task and stared at him.
‘D’you want me?’
‘Er … no … I’m after Mrs Riley.’
‘That’s me …’ She smiled at Chris. ‘You’ve come about the gate, have you? I saw you sitting in your van and wondered if you were the builder I called yesterday. Managed to get here sooner than you thought, did you?’
Chris licked his lips; his voice seemed trapped deep in his throat. Carefully he planted a hand on her red-tiled windowsill to steady himself as he felt his head swim. From his father’s, and Matilda’s, descriptions of Pam Plummer’s looks and character he’d built up an image of his mother now being a blowsy old bottle blonde, about Shirley’s age, and with a similar tendency to appear as mutton dressed as lamb. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The woman getting slowly to her feet was thin and dowdily dressed in a shapeless cardigan and pleated skirt, her lank, greying hair scraped back into hairgrips fastened either side of her head.
‘Oh … you’re wondering what I’m doing over here.’ The woman was now brushing together her palms to get dirt off them. ‘It’s Mrs Lockley’s garden, not mine. She’s almost eighty and widowed, you see, and isn’t up to a job like this.’ She came out onto the pavement, latching her neighbour’s gate behind her. ‘She had a bit of a tumble on wet leaves last year. Done her hip in, poor old girl.’ She was rolling down her cardigan sleeves as she approached. ‘Don’t mind helping out ’cos we’re all gonna be old someday. ’Course you’ve got a way to go, by the looks of it, but it’s catching up on me, I can tell you …’ She halted by the opening to her property, grimacing at the space where a gate should be. ‘So, how much d’you reckon? Doesn’t need to be fancy; a plain wooden one with fastenings will do, and I’ll paint it myself.’
‘I’m not here about the gate.’ Christopher barely recognised his own voice and his knuckles showed white against the red tiles.
‘Oh? Who are you then?’ She looked him up and down. She’d wondered why a builder would turn up in his best clothes to price a job, unless he was going straight out on the razzle, of course. It was only mid-afternoon but he looked the sort of handsome young man who would have a full social life.
‘Christopher …’ Chris ejected his name hoarsely. ‘I’m Christopher Wild …’
She was still smiling faintly at him, but when her features froze in shock, and she sagged at the knees, he simply watched his mother crumple to the ground. Jerking into action Chris rushed forward with his arms outstretched to help her up. She flapped both hands at him, her eyes screwing shut as though he were an abomination she couldn’t bear to gaze upon.
‘Go away,’ she gritted through her teeth and lowered her head so her chin rested on her chest.
‘I just came here … wanted to say hello … see you … that’s all,’ Chris stuttered quietly. ‘Please let me help you up …’
‘Go away … go away and never come back!’ his mother hissed into her muffling cardigan.
‘I just … I’m sorry … I just wanted to say …’
‘Go away!’ she screamed, her small hands balling into quivering fists.
Chris stumbled past her cowering figure and hovered on the pavement for a moment, staring at her. He strode to the van, then returned, his hands alternately plunging into his pockets and ripping free again. ‘I’m sorry. Let me help you up …’ His voice was raw with pleading. He glanced to his right and saw that a neighbour was peering out of a window. A moment later the woman was opening her front door and staring open-mouthed at the scene.
‘You alright, Pam?’ the woman called urgently. ‘You got trouble with him? Do you want me to call the police?’ Gladys Rathbone came further down her path but halted behind the protection of her gate. ‘What’s happened to her?’ she demanded of Christopher. ‘What in God’s name have you done to her? I’ll get the police on you.’
Pamela Riley slowly hauled herself to her feet, using the privet hedge as support. ‘It’s nothing,’ she told her neighbour. She tottered quickly towards her front door, searching in a pocket. ‘My fault … Just had a trip, that’s all. It’s nothing.’ Her voice was so low it was virtually inaudible yet it held an unmistakable demand for privacy. A moment later she’d found her key and thrust it into the lock. She barely opened the door but managed to squeeze herself through a tiny aperture, before closing it.
As soon as Christopher found an area that seemed deserted he pulled up and jumped out of the van. He prowled to and fro on weed-strewn concrete outside an ugly brick building that resembled a warehouse. As though comforting himself had just occurred to him he jammed a shaking hand in a pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. He smoked one while pacing then lit another from its butt before halting and remaining motionless till the cigarette clamped between his lips had had the life sucked out of it, and the stub had been shredded beneath his foot. Like a drunk, he weaved a path to the brick wall of the building, turning his back to it for support. Squeezing shut his burning eyes he sank to his haunches then gripped his scalp with both hands as the first sob tore out of him.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Supper’s ready …’
Grace had known it was suppertime even before she heard her mother calling up the stairs to her. The warm aroma of toast had wafted into her bedroom while she sat, dressed in her pyjamas, legs curled under her on the eiderdown.
It had been a Coleman family ritual, for as long as she could remember, to have a light supper of toast and jam, or toast and dripping, with a hot drink of Ovaltine, just before turning in. As children, she and her brother would draw out their suppers for as long as possible to delay bedtime. Grace didn’t really fancy anything else to eat today; however she’d go down and eat a few mouthfuls so her mother would have no reason to again remark that she wasn’t herself since breaking up with Chris Wild. The comment was always followed by a heavy hint that it was time she stopped moping over him, because he wasn’t worth it, and started going out with friends to find herself a nice fellow this time.
The faded photograph on the coverlet drew Grace’s eyes and she picked it up, placing it back in the shoebox with the other little treasures that Chris had given her when they’d been a couple. There were blackened copper coins, and a tin soldier that he had said had probably been pilfered from the factory in Thane Villas. It might even have come via his father’s cousin: Alice had worked there before the First World War when just a girl, straight out of school. There was also a brass belt buckle that Chris had said he believed once belonged to his grandfather. It had been found in a house where Stevie and Rob had lived with their parents for many years. His father had found the buckle and, having stared silently at it for several seconds, had flung it away as far as he could. He’d told Chris afterwards he recalled being thrashed with such force by his rotten father, Jimmy, that a buckle had come loose from his leather belt, and he’d got another swipe because of it.
Even before Chris had told her a bit about his wicked grandfather, her mother had related a few tales about the notorious Jimmy Wild, with pointed references to how bad blood in families passed down the generations. Apparently, Jimmy had been a pimp and a criminal in his time, but what sickened Grace was the knowledge that he’d regularly beaten his wife and children.
As soon as Chris had mentioned to Grace he and his workmates were unearthing odds and ends in the Whadcoat Street houses she had expressed an enthusiastic interest in seeing them. The first item he’d brought her had been a battered old cocoa tin, rusted firmly shut, but containing something – probably coins – that clattered when it was shaken. When Chris had made to force it open, Grace had stopped him for some reason, wanting the treasure to remain safely sealed within.
The tin had been discovered behind loose bricks in a wall. Chris had explained a likely reason it had been put there: when his father was a kid growing up in Campbell Road, his mother, in common with most women, would use hidey holes to conceal money from husbands who drank or gambled. He’d gone on to tell her his dastardly grandfather would loot any small savings his grandmother, Fran, would stash away to buy Christmas treats for Stevie and Rob, as children.
The photo had been found wedged down the back of a drawer in a built-in cupboard, and was badly fissured, but the face of the handsome youth, taken when he was many years younger than she was, Grace guessed, was still brightly smiling. He was dressed in First World War army uniform
. Chris had told her that his dad had studied the photo, but hadn’t recognised the young private as a neighbour from his days living in The Bunk. But then Stevie had been only seven years old when the Great War started, and the fellow might have perished on the Somme, and never made it back home to Campbell Road.
The last item he’d fetched her, before they’d split up, had been a tattered letter that had brought Grace to tears. A woman called Violet Brewer, living in Lancashire, had sent it in January 1901. In a spidery, uneducated hand the poor wretch had begged her husband, Alfred, to come home, or get some money to her somehow, so she could feed their remaining five children, the baby having recently died of a fever.
Grace touched the stained and crumpled envelope, but didn’t take out the note to reread it. She felt guilty for having pried at all into Violet’s misery. But she wondered, as she always did, whether Alfred had returned to help. Chris had read the letter too, and had said, in his blunt way, he doubted the poor sod would have had any help to give if he’d ended up in one of The Bunk’s notorious doss houses …
‘This is going cold, Grace, and I’m not making more, ’cos there’ll be no bread left for breakfast.’
‘I’m coming down now,’ Grace called in response to her mother’s tetchy complaint. She put the lid on the shoebox and returned it to its place in the wardrobe.
‘Who on earth’s come calling at this time of the evening?’ Shirley dropped her jammy toast to her plate and, sucking her sticky fingers, exchanged a look with Grace. The knock on the door had startled them both while they’d been sitting at the kitchen table, enveloped in a comfortable quiet.
Shirley hurried into the hallway and disappeared into the front room. Having twitched aside a curtain to spy outside she whipped back to hiss, ‘It’s Christopher. Did you know he was coming round?’ There was a hint of blame in her voice.
Grace shot to her feet. ‘Of course not!’ She glanced in dismay at her pyjamas.