Maggie's Boy

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Oh God!’ she said, staring at it. ‘This is awful.’

  Morgan wasn’t worried. ‘Soon have that fixed,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We all make mistakes in a new car.’

  ‘But I’ve wrecked it,’ she said.

  ‘That’s what bumpers are for. Slower approach next time.’

  ‘You can drive back,’ she said. ‘I’m not driving any more. I’m not cut out for it.’

  His face was suddenly stern. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said crossly. ‘I told you. It’s simply a matter of gettin’ used to it. That’s all. Get back in the car.’

  She was shocked to be treated so harshly. ‘I told you,’ she said. ‘I can’t. Not after this. Rigg was right. He always said I’d be a danger on the roads. I can’t drive.’

  ‘You can,’ he said, opening the driver’s door. ‘And he’s not right. This is a minor accident. Could have happened to anybody. Get in.’

  Because he was being so positive she did as she was told. But sitting in the driving seat, she knew she was still afraid. ‘I can’t do it Morgan,’ she said.

  ‘Switch on the ignition,’ he told her firmly. ‘You’re a good driver and now you’re goin’ to prove it to yourself and damn Rigg’s opinion. You’re goin’ to take us back to Guildford – slowly. I’m here beside you. You won’t make another mistake.’

  She wasn’t reassured, but she switched on the ignition and began to drive – very, very carefully, and watching out for other traffic. By the time she got to Guildford again, a little confidence was beginning to return.

  ‘There you are, see,’ Morgan said as she parked – quite neatly – by the kerb outside the office. ‘Perfect. Now you’re gettin’ the hang of it.’

  She was more herself now that the drive was over. ‘I’m sorry I made a fuss,’ she said.

  ‘Nothin’ to be sorry about,’ he said. ‘You frightened yourself. That’s all. An’ that’s no bad thing. Keeps you on your toes. You’re a good driver, cariad. Just a bit rusty, that’s all.’

  It had been such a disquieting experience, she felt she had to ask, ‘You do still love me?’

  He kissed her to show her how much. ‘That’s one thing you never got to worry about,’ he said. ‘I shall love you for the rest of my life. You’re stuck with me – no matter how you drive. And just think, you can take the kids to all sorts of places in the summer holidays.’

  ‘If I ever get used to it.’

  But like so many things in this new life of hers, it took surprisingly little time to get used to, despite such a bad start. By the time the schools broke up in July, she was driving as if she’d been at the wheel for years.

  In August, because the recession had put Spain beyond most pockets for the time being, the holiday crowds returned to Hampton in larger numbers than usual.

  Gangs of spotty young men, raucous with drink, strutted the promenade, wolfwhistling the girls in their brief bikinis and their new holiday make-up – or ambled around the town, in frayed shorts and T-shirts and flip-flops, arms and backs and shoulders patched flab white and sunburn red. Plump matrons in tight floral dresses ate ice-creams, cockles, chips, and sticks of rocks, while their husbands grew red-faced in the nearest pub. The beaches were full of holiday makers. The adults oiled one another with sun-tan lotion or spread out to bake on their skimpy towels, while their children scratched the sand and leapt into the waves, chirruping and quarrelling like sparrows.

  Elsie said it was quite like old times. But Alison was glad of the car to take her children away from the crowds. Especially as Morgan had to spend a lot of his time working in the North. It was a disappointment to her that, just as the new term started in September, he had another long assignment in Birmingham. But there was plenty to do, she knew he wouldn’t be away for long and she was well used to coping on her own.

  But in the middle of that first school week she had to cope with something that she couldn’t have foreseen.

  On Wednesday morning, when she and Emma came home after taking Jon to school, she was greeted in the hall by a terrible smell. I must have forgotten to pull the chain before we went out, she thought, and went into the bathroom at once to put things right.

  The bowl of the toilet was brimming with sewage. Gagging, she pulled the handle to flush it away. But instead of clearing, the filth spilled over the edge of the toilet and trickled on to the bathroom floor.

  ‘Who’s done a poo on the floor?’ Emma said, following her mother into the room.

  ‘Keep out, there’s a good girl,’ Alison said while thinking. There’s a blockage somewhere. I’d better check the manhole.

  But when she went out into the back garden there was no need to check. The smell was almost as bad out there as it was in the house and when she removed the manhole cover the drain was full to the brim. It was enough to make anyone panic but she kept calm. No matter how dreadful this was, she was going to cope with it.

  She settled Emma in the living room with some crayons and a drawing book, went into the kitchen to look for a suitable tool and found a broom handle. Then she tied a scarf over her nose and mouth and braved the garden, took a deep breath, lifted the cover and began to poke about in the filthy mess below her. Nothing happened except for some obscene bubbling, and even after struggling for nearly half an hour the mess had hardly drained away at all. By then, she was feeling so sick she had to stop.

  It’ll have to be dealt with properly, she thought. It’s no good me poking around, even if I had the time for it – which I haven’t. It needs proper tools and someone who knows what he’s doing. I suppose I shall have to find the money to pay for it, if I’m responsible. But was she? She had a vague recollection of some division of responsibility being mentioned on the contract she’d signed. Interior and exterior or something like that. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  She went back into the house, washed her hands and face very thoroughly and then found the box file where she kept all her papers. The contract was three documents down. Blah, blah, blah … ‘the landlord to be responsible for rendering exterior paintwork, keeping the roof, guttering and drains in good repair…’ It was like finding herself suddenly in possession of a suit of armour in the middle of a war.

  It took a little while and several phone calls to arrange her day to make room for a visit to the agency. But it was done and she still got to work on time, driving through the gates of the holiday camp as her watch said ten thirty. Thank God for the car!

  That afternoon, she and Emma kept their appointment at the agency. It was a sticky interview, just as she’d feared it would be. Welfare families get short shrift from most agencies. It took her twenty minutes to persuade this particular agent that the contract actually meant what it said, and then he claimed he couldn’t contact the owner and couldn’t proceed without his permission.

  ‘This can’t be left,’ Alison said doggedly, holding Emma tightly on her lap. ‘I know you think I’m being a nuisance but there’s no choice. If something isn’t done this afternoon there’ll be shit all over the landlord’s garden.’

  The word made him wince. ‘You see my position,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders and grimacing.

  This world, Alison thought, is full of men shrugging their shoulders and walking off to let the women clear up the mess they’ve made. ‘I’ve tried to unblock it,’ she said, ‘when I didn’t need to, and I’m not doing it again.’

  ‘I don’t know what I can do to help you,’ the agent wriggled.

  She was pushed to fury. How dare he just sit there and say such things. It’s his job to help. He takes a big enough cut. ‘Perhaps if I brought a bucket of the stuff into this office,’ she said, ‘it would give you an idea.’

  ‘There’s no need to take that tone,’ the agent said, but he was clearly rattled.

  ‘It’s urgent,’ she said. ‘I can’t have my children living in a house full of shit. They’ll get ill. If you don’t do something about it, here and now, I’ll go to the council and tell the public health people
, and see what they have to say.’

  That threat worked. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he capitulated. ‘I’ll send someone round this afternoon and see if I can contact the landlord tomorrow. When will you be home?’

  ‘In ten minutes,’ she said. And was.

  I never knew I could be so fierce, she thought to herself, as she looked out into her bubbling garden. For a peace maker, I’ve put up a bloody good fight this afternoon. Being on your own certainly shows you what you’re made of.

  Two men arrived with a van full of equipment just after she’d collected Jon from school. They were very cheerful and competent and knew exactly what the problem was.

  ‘Old pipes,’ the older man explained. ‘Weren’t built to withstand all this water, you see. Neither was the drains. When they went in, there was no baths or washin’ machines. Just a toilet out the back an’ a tap in the sink. This pipe’s cracked in two places. We’ll put a new piece in for you. By rights the whole lot should come out and be relaid proper. That drain’s too shallow, you see. We get blockages up an’ down this road all the time, don’t we, Matt?’

  ‘But you can fix it?’ Alison asked.

  ‘Take the kids out for a walk and we’ll have it done for you by the time you get back.’

  So they went out to enjoy a lungful of sea air.

  When they got back the drain was cleared and cleaned and Brad was in the garden watching the new pipe being fitted.

  ‘You’ve ’ad a fine ol’ game here, aintcher,’ she said.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ Alison said.

  ‘I come over to ask you round to supper,’ Brad said. ‘That Cyril feller’s give me three trout. Whatcher think? Will the kids eat trout?’

  ‘No, but I will. They’ll have fish fingers. I’ll bring some.’

  ‘Great,’ Brad said. ‘That’s settled then.’

  ‘You couldn’t have come at a better time,’ Alison told her.

  ‘Your phone’s ringing,’ the younger man said.

  Alison took the kids and went into the house to answer it. For the first time that day she felt relaxed and happy. She half expected it to be Morgan ringing from Birmingham. Wouldn’t he be impressed to hear how she had handled everything? But it was Katy and her voice sounded odd.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Alison asked.

  ‘I’m at Meriel’s,’ Katy said, and now there was no doubt that she was crying. ‘Can you come over?’

  ‘Katy dear! What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Merry’s cat. She’s been run over.’

  ‘Oh Katy!’

  ‘She’s not dead,’ Katy sobbed. ‘But she must be horribly injured. It threw her in the air.’

  ‘Where is she now?’

  ‘She ran into the bush in the middle of the flats. She’s just lying there swearing and she won’t let us near and we don’t know what to do. She could be dying. I’ve rung home but there’s no answer. Merry’s mum and dad are in Chichester somewhere and her brother’s gone out on his bike. Oh Ali, we don’t know what to do.’

  ‘I’ll come straight over,’ Alison said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Brad said, coming into the hall.

  Alison explained, playing the incident down as much as she could for fear of alarming the kids.

  ‘We’ll have to take her to the vet, won’t we kids?’ Brad said.

  ‘We?’

  ‘I’ll come with you. You’ll never get four kids and an injured cat in your car.’

  The cat was still under the bush when they arrived at the flats. Brad parked her car as near to it as she could, backing up very slowly and quietly. Then she and Alison knelt down beside the bush and tried to see what state the poor thing was in.

  ‘She’s just under there,’ Meriel said, tearfully. ‘She’s a tabby cat. Do you see her?’

  She was panting and dishevelled but there was no sign of blood.

  ‘Get a cushion,’ Brad instructed. ‘I’ll see if I can inch her on to it without hurting her too much. Then we can carry her without upsetting her.’

  The cushion was brought and the cat was edged on to it, very delicately, and carried very, very gently to Brad’s car.

  ‘You get in the passenger seat, sunshine,’ Brad said to Meriel, ‘and I’ll lower her on to your lap. Don’t touch her. Just talk to her quietly.’

  ‘Are we going to the vet’s?’ Jon asked, looking in at the car window.

  ‘We are. You go back and get in the car with Mummy.’

  ‘He’ll mend her for you,’ Jon said earnestly to Meriel. ‘He’s ever so nice. He did our hedgehog.’

  ‘You’re not going to Martin’s, are you?’ Alison asked in surprise.

  ‘Why not?’ Brad said easily. ‘He’s the best.’

  ‘But not when … I mean, don’t you think…?’

  ‘This is a life we’re talking about here,’ Brad said. ‘Good God, if I had to avoid all my lovers I’d never get out of the house. I took the trout from old Cyril.’

  ‘He was different.’

  ‘Right. He’s just a moron who works on a trout farm. Martin’s the best vet in town, so that’s where we’re going.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Since the end of his affair with Brad, Martin Smith had been struggling against depression. During the day his concern for the animals kept it more or less under control. But at night he sat cooped up in his flat – in rooms that seemed to have shrunk – too miserable to go out. His trouble was that he was impossibly shy. Always had been. At school, there’d been whole days when he hadn’t dared to open his mouth. Even now, as a veterinary surgeon with an excellent reputation, he was gauche in company. With Brad he had begun to feel at ease for the first time in his life.

  Scrubbing up in the surgery after his last patient, he remembered her miserably. Dear Brad, with her mad hair and her untidiness and her rough voice. He could hear it now, as if she were in the next room.

  ‘Mr Smith. He’s the feller we want to see. Mr Martin Smith.’

  Good God! He could hear her. She was in the next room. He stuffed the towel down at once and went through to the waiting room.

  The sight of Brad’s bald head gave him such a shock he felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach. Oh Christ! he thought, she’s got cancer and she hasn’t told me.

  She was smiling at him brightly – too brightly – and urging him to look at a cat. The waiting room was crowded with people. He registered that Alison was one of them, that she’d got her kids with her, and that they were all looking anxious.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, becoming professional. ‘Bring her into the surgery, please. Just you and the little girl, if you don’t mind.’ He turned to Meriel as he opened the surgery door. ‘She’s your cat, is she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, let’s have a look at her.’

  He examined the cat very carefully, asking Brad to hold her steady when she swore, and murmuring reassurance to the girl from time to time. It didn’t take him long to discover that the poor thing was badly injured and required an immediate operation.

  ‘No bones broken,’ he said, ‘and that’s one good thing. But I’m afraid there are some internal injuries and she’s in shock of course. We shall have to operate on her.’

  ‘Will she be all right?’ Meriel asked.

  ‘I hope so,’ he said, but added honestly, ‘It all depends on how bad her injuries turn out to be.’

  ‘When will you operate?’ Brad asked.

  ‘As soon as we’ve prepared her,’ Martin said. ‘I’ll phone you, shall I? Let you know what’s happened.’

  Meriel was crying again.

  ‘Try not to worry,’ he said to her. ‘I’ll do the very best I can.’

  Brad was already on her way out of the door. There wasn’t time for him to ask her how she was or to suggest a meeting or anything. ‘I’ll phone you,’ he said to her.

  ‘Ta,’ she said. And was gone.

  Alison a
nd the others were still in the waiting room.

  ‘She’s in good hands,’ Alison tried to comfort.

  ‘The best,’ Brad said fiercely. ‘He’s going to ring us.’

  They took the two girls home, staying at both houses to talk over what had happened, and they were late back to Brad’s flat to cook their special meal. It was well past the kids’ bedtime before they began to fry the almonds. And just as they were browning nicely, someone rang at the door.

  ‘Oh bugger that!’ Brad said. ‘Tell ’em to go away.’

  It was Martin. ‘I’m ever so sorry,’ he said. ‘The cat didn’t make it. I thought I ought to come and tell you myself, seeing as…’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Alison said, standing aside to let him in. ‘Poor little thing.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘We didn’t really have a lot of hope,’ Alison said. ‘We could see she was bad.’

  ‘Her spleen was ruptured,’ Martin explained. ‘She – um – it happened on the operating table.’

  ‘Oh Christ!’ Brad said. ‘I hate it when anything dies.’ Her eyes were full of tears. ‘Look after the almonds, Ali, while I phone that poor kid. Oh, that poor little cat. It’s not fair. Bloody drivers! They want locking up.’

  ‘We tried really hard,’ Martin explained to Alison while Brad dialled. ‘It was the shock as much as anything else. There wasn’t anything we could do.’

  ‘Is the cat dead?’ Jon asked.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ Martin said.

  Jon gave it thought. To Alison’s surprise he didn’t seem disturbed by the news. He was simply curious. ‘What happens to cats when they’re dead?’ he asked. ‘Do they go to heaven?’

  Martin was nonplussed by the question but he answered it honestly. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘People go to heaven, don’t they?’

  ‘If they’re good,’ Alison said, giving the standard reply.

  ‘Aunty Brad’ll go to heaven,’ Jon said. ‘She’s ever so good. When she dies, she’ll go straight to heaven, won’t she, Martin?’