by Isla Dewar
‘Yes, plain,’ said May. ‘I saw that the minute you were born. I was so relieved.’ She looked out at the rain. ‘I like being in a car at night. The streets are empty. Everyone is sleeping and I’m out here, safe and warm and nobody knows I’m here. I get a little respite from my worries.’
‘If you paid your taxes you wouldn’t have so many worries.’
May said she always had worries. ‘If it’s not one thing it’s another. You get one dilemma sorted out and you think, well that’s that. I can get on with living now. I can have a little peace of mind. Then another thing comes along and whams into you. Life is never ordinary. Life is full of whams and bumps. When does all this whamming stop?’
‘When you start paying taxes.’
‘I already pay taxes, just not as much as those in power think I should. But that’s their problem.’
Alistair said nothing. He wasn’t prepared to argue with May about governments, politicians, nuclear bombs and taxes. He’d done it often before and not once had he won.
He pulled up outside the family house, got out of the car and went round to help May climb out. She leaned on him as they walked to the front door.
‘You’re a good man,’ she said. ‘I sometimes wonder how that happened. I’m sure it had nothing to do with me.’
Once inside, she said she was going straight to bed. ‘Too tired to make a cup of tea. Too tired to drink one. But you help yourself to anything you find in the kitchen. You’ll stay here tonight. The bed in your room is made up. It’s always ready for you.’ She kissed his cheek and started her slow climb up the stairs to her bedroom.
Alistair went to the kitchen, put on the kettle and leaned against the unit waiting for it to boil. Why did he have a mother like May? Why couldn’t he be the son of some quiet, gentle soul like Nell’s mother – a woman who delighted in her ordinariness and demanded nothing more than the odd visit when she’d take pleasure in dishing out plates brimming with egg and chips? He sighed, made a pot of tea and carried it to the kitchen table.
There was no point in going to bed; he wouldn’t sleep. How familiar it was here. He listened to the house. He knew well every click and shift and small movement. These noises had been part of the soundtrack of his childhood. He remembered lying in his darkened bedroom as a boy and being comforted by the sounds of water in the radiators, the creak of the stairs, the windows rattling and the low murmur of his mother and father talking. Back then, he’d wait till May and Harry had gone to bed, then he’d creep downstairs to poke through the drawers. The details of his parents’ life had always fascinated him.
It was almost Pavlovian; he heard the same old noises, and his mother and father were asleep upstairs. He got up from his chair and started to do what he’d done as a young boy. He rummaged. He wondered what he’d find if he had a look around tonight. Maybe, he thought, there’ll be no evidence of recent dodgy dealings and my making a stand has made a small difference. He ignored the recipe drawer where May put cuttings from magazines and newspapers, and started towards the drawer at the far end of the kitchen. The dreaded drawer, May called it. It was where she stuffed all the bills and other things she didn’t want to think about. He could hardly open it. Slips of paper, envelopes, and letters tumbled out.
He gathered them, spread them on the kitchen unit and started to read. There were bills, final demands and threatening letters. The worse the threat, the further down the pile it had been shoved.
Alistair was well aware of Harry and May’s attitude to money. If they had it they spent it. If they hadn’t they still spent it. He remembered his mother saying that she didn’t take money seriously. ‘I don’t reckon having it and I don’t reckon not having it.’ She’d thought a moment before adding that on the whole she’d rather be rich than poor. ‘Being poor is draining.’ Now, he wondered how seriously she was taking this financial mess. It was worse than anything she’d gone through before.
There were phone bills, electricity bills, bills from her suppliers, bills from Harry’s suppliers along with several alarming letters from the Inland Revenue. A quick totalling of the sums owed made him gasp. Thousands and thousands, he thought.
Of course, it had happened before. There had been tough times in the past. Perhaps they hadn’t been as dire as this, but there had been scary moments. He remembered hiding upstairs with his mother and brother when a couple of men (probably debt collectors, he thought now) battered on the door. May had clamped a hand over his mouth when he’d started to ask why they were here and why weren’t they letting the men in.
‘Ssshh,’ May had hissed, and her hand pressed over his mouth so he could hardly breathe. She’d been wearing Chanel perfume. He could smell it still; he hated that scent.
From time to time, the electricity had been cut off. May treated this as an adventure. Eating tinned corned beef by candlelight and going to bed early to keep warm had been a test of the family’s pioneering spirit, she’d claimed. ‘You’ll never keep a Rutherford down.’
Alistair had long realised he’d spent his young years being frightened. Of what, he didn’t know, but he’d always had the feeling that doom was nigh. He’d known it had something to do with money, so he’d saved. He’d put all his pocket money and any cash he’d got his hands on into a small piggy bank he’d bought. Any coins he found lying on the pavement went into the china pig along with money retrieved from down the side of the sofa and change he might have left over from any message his mother sent him on. When the day of doom arrived, he’d be ready. He might even have a whole five pounds to hand over in triumph to his parents.
He snorted; fat lot of good that would have done. His piggy bank savings were pathetic. He never did get the chance to come to his parents’ rescue. If, during worrying times, Alistair went to the pig to fish out his savings, he’d find it empty. His mother had raided it. She had a nose for money. Alistair was convinced she could smell it. To be fair though, when good fortune returned, she always paid him back.
It was her flamboyance that was the problem. May’s extravagance was legendary. When the good times rolled she’d come home glowing with joy from a shopping trip laden with goodies: toys; clothes; sweets, books; records; anything she thought her beloved boys might want. She entertained lavishly. She bought lamps, rugs, cushions and bed linen for the house. She filled her wardrobe with coats, shoes and handbags. She booked the family on trips to expensive hotels. Saving never occurred to her.
Alistair saved. He went over his bank statements with a fine toothcomb. He always knew exactly how much money he had and only parted with cash if he absolutely had to. He knew his mother thought him mean, but he didn’t care.
He wanted to be free of the fear. He’d been scared all his life and he was tired of it. He’d been scared to leave home in the morning and spent his time at school imagining what might be happening while he was away. Then again, he was also scared of going back home at the end of the day; he didn’t want to find out what have happened in his absence. He worried that the men had come knocking again and this time taken his mother away.
This was part of the reason he’d married Nell. Not really to be with her, but to be nearer to her mother and father. Their home was calm. In the evenings, the couple would sit by the fire watching television. They rarely spoke, but then it seemed to Alistair that they didn’t need to. Each knew what the other was thinking. Every time he visited, Alistair felt the tension drain from his shoulders. He relaxed. Everything was in order here. There would be no sudden terrifying phone calls; the electricity was not going to be cut off. There was a constant undersmell of bleach. This was a secure place to be. It made him want to curl up on their ancient creaking very uncomfortable sofa and sleep.
He shoved the bills, final demands and foul letters back into the drawer and crossed the kitchen to check the money cupboard. May had forgotten to lock it in her earlier distracted state and Alistair saw it was almost empty; just a few forlorn notes scattered at the bottom.
He knew what had
happened. His mother had blown the lot firstly by paying the workmen who renovated her restaurant in cash, and then buying crockery, table linen, cutlery and furnishings. Oh, what a time she’d have had. He pictured her buzzing round the supply warehouse selecting only the best copper pots and Irish linen. How she must have been welcomed with her handbag bulging full of cash. In his imagination his mother became balletic, wafting up and down aisles, picking things up, twirling, laughing and dipping her hand into her bag to pull out fistfuls of notes. God, the woman was a fool.
Well, he wasn’t going to hang about here pondering the foolishness of his mother. He’d walk back to the hospital and pick up his car. Walking helped with the worrying. It was always better to worry when on the move. Doing so when lying in bed staring into the silent dark was likely to drive you insane.
He pulled on his coat, shoved up the collar and stepped out into the night. This was better: fresh air and rain. He thought there was nothing better than a long walk through wet streets when the mind was clogged with gloom. But no matter how fast he walked or how wet he became, he could not dispel the feeling of dread. He had butterflies in his stomach. Horrible things were about to happen.
It was after six in the morning when Alistair finally got back to the flat. Nell was still sleeping but Carol was up; she was in the kitchen preparing breakfast for Katy. She looked at Alistair and pointed out that he was dripping on to the floor. ‘You should have a bath and put on some dry clothes. I’ll make you something to eat.’
Half-an-hour later, warm and wearing jeans and a sweater, he was at the kitchen table eating bacon and eggs. Carol sat across from him as he told her about Johnny.
‘He’ll live,’ Alistair told her. ‘He’ll probably be scarred. My mother thinks his beauty will be ruined and he won’t be able to cope with that.’ He dipped a slice of toast into his egg and sighed.
‘I never thought he was beautiful. Handsome, definitely that. When we first met I saw him as my handsome prince. But beautiful is different; he was never that.’ Watching Alistair eat, she asked, ‘What do you think?’
He sat back and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘It’s all such a mess. Everything’s a mess. My mother’s a fool. She’s spent all the family money. There’s hardly anything left. God knows what’s going to happen there. My father’s in deep shit with the taxman. Johnny’s in hospital with a broken jaw and a broken leg. Nell thinks she’s going to be a manager of a restaurant in town and a glittering career lies ahead of her. She’s imagining herself in a big office with a gleaming desk and a white phone. She’s always been a dreamer; head in the clouds. She’s my wife and I hate to say this, but she’s naïve. I’m surrounded by clowns who don’t see what’s coming. Well, I see it. The shit is about to hit the fan and it scares the hell out of me.’
Carol took a sip of her tea, told him all that was very interesting, ‘But I just wanted to know what you thought of the bacon and eggs.’
She leaned over and put her hand over his. ‘You’ll be fine.’
Chapter Twenty-one
I Saw You
‘I need your help,’ May had said. ‘I’m moving a few bits and pieces from my house to Johnny’s house. Carol’s not living there anymore. And he’ll not be needing it, being in hospital.’
When Nell had asked why May was moving her things into another house, May had said, ‘Making room for a few new things. Might get the decorators in while I’m at it. Don’t want my crystal glasses getting broken.’
They had worked all afternoon packing and had driven round to the empty house a couple of streets away with all the cardboard boxes.
It had unsettled Nell to be here. The place had been eerily empty. Usually when Nell had visited, there had been noise – the radio blaring – and clutter. Instead it had been immaculate, uninviting and totally lifeless.
‘Gave it a good clean up,’ May had told her. ‘Had to, the mess Carol left.’
For the first time, Nell had noticed how truly awful the décor was – the clash of patterns and colours. She would have hated to live in this house.
May had looked around. ‘There’s a nasty feel to this place. There’s no love here. Never has been. Thought it every time I came.’
‘Carol was lonely.’
‘Well, she’d no right to be. She had everything – a good-looking husband, a beautiful daughter and a home to die for. And what did she do? She went out on the town taking up with men in bars.’
‘You know about that?’
‘She was seen. Harry was driving past the Caledonian Hotel and there she was, kissing a man. The girl’s nothing but a hussy.’
‘She was looking for some fun. She’s changed, though. She cleans up the flat. She even cooks for Alistair. I’m always leaving for work when he comes in.’
‘I’d watch that one if I were you.’
Nell had said she had nothing to worry about. ‘Alistair would never do anything to hurt me. Besides, it will all change when I’m managing my own restaurant. I’ll be in town. I’ll see more of him. I can’t wait. I’m already planning my wardrobe. I thought I’d get a hat.’
‘A hat? Is that all you can come up with? I’m looking for a manager that does more than wear a hat. You’ll need to know the catering game inside out. You should be watching and learning, not planning your wardrobe.’ She’d pointed at Nell. ‘You dream too much. Your head’s in the clouds. You need to stop sighing about the future and start to live in the now. You should be enjoying the moment and not looking too far ahead. And, another thing, you’re too trusting.’
Nell had asked what was wrong with trusting people.
‘They’ll let you down. People do that.’
‘You won’t let me down, though. I trust you.’
‘Don’t. Don’t trust anybody. That way you won’t get disappointed. All I’m saying is you should enjoy what you have – a lovely flat and a loving husband. Now let’s get off to work, and on the way we’ll have to stop and shop for vegetables. My supplier’s let me down. You’ll have to pay; I’ve forgot my purse.’
It was the kind of evening Nell loved. The place was busy, but not too busy. She had time to stand behind the bar and observe the goings-on. The room glowed: candles on every table; an intriguing display of bottles behind the bar; a fire roaring in the hearth. It smelled of conviviality: food being prepared; cigars being lit; brandy being sipped; wine being appreciated. Nell sighed; she never imagined that one day she’d be part of such a scene.
She loved to speculate about the diners – their jobs, the décor of their living rooms and their relationships. Some people she imagined were on a first date and about to embark on a passionate romance. Some were having affairs. Some were still in love after years of marriage. And some had been together for so long they’d run out of conversation. Nell thought these last couples tragic and vowed this would not happen to her and Alistair.
She walked slowly past the tables catching snatches of conversations, noting silences, refilling empty glasses from the wine bottle on the table, smiling and asking people if they were enjoying their meal.
She shoved the swing door, stepped into the kitchen and was welcomed by a searing blast of heat, the rattle of pans and a hiss of steam as May added a generous glug of wine to the sauce she was making. Nell loved this. May and Annie were talking loudly – as they always did – about their sex lives.
‘To be honest, I don’t have one right now. I’m just too tired for a cuddle. When I get to bed, all I want to do is sleep. I’m out like a light. Harry is complaining. Also he says I smell of cooking fat.’
‘Cheek,’ said Annie.
‘I know! I mostly use butter.’
‘A man needs sex more than a woman so I just do it,’ Annie said. ‘Doesn’t take long. And he always sleeps well so he’s in a good mood next day. Men need sex and praise and a good supper.’
‘There’s that,’ said May. ‘Mind you, I’m not averse to a spot of you-know-what. It’s good for the complexion.’ Her voice rattled as
she spoke. She was shaking a pan at the time. She turned to Nell. ‘Two Chicken Kievs coming up. Table eight.’
Nell took the plates, hit the swing door with her hip and backed out into the dining room. She put the plates before the diners at table eight, told them to enjoy and slid politely away.
Across the room Harry was sitting alone. He was pale and he wasn’t eating. Nell thought that recently he’d shrunk. He certainly didn’t seem as tall as he’d been a year ago. He was thinner, paler and he certainly wasn’t the hearty chap he’d been when he’d first come into Nell’s life.
Right now, after hearing May’s remarks about Harry complaining about his lack of cuddles, Nell wondered if that was the cause of this shrinkage. She vowed not to let that happen to Alistair. She must always be available to love him in bed. Sex, praise and a good supper, she thought. She wasn’t around to cook supper these days. And, now that she thought about it, she too had been too tired for cuddling when she got to bed. Must put more effort into my sex life, she decided. Then there was praise. Nell couldn’t remember when she’d last paid Alistair a compliment. Better do that tonight as soon as I get home, she promised.
She hadn’t seen much of Alistair recently. He was in bed when she got home. There had been a time when he’d reach out for her saying. ‘At last, can’t sleep without you.’ Now he complained that her way of heftily slumping onto the mattress woke him. ‘Can’t you just slide in gracefully?’ He’d always left for work before she got up. And she was usually on her way out to work when he came home again at six in the evening. Well, tonight when she got home, she’d make sure they had a proper conversation about all this. They’d find a way to be together, to make love, to be the couple they’d once been.
Table six had finished their puddings – a peach melba and a black cherry gateau – and were leaning back waiting to have their dishes removed. Nell obliged, asked if they wanted coffee and on her way to the kitchen told Karen to stop hanging about the window waving to her admirers.