Maggie's Boy

by Beryl Kingston

  When she dies, Martin thought, so it is …

  ‘Well that’s that,’ Brad said, returning to the kitchen. ‘She was ever so upset, poor kid. If I had a gun I’d see to that bloody driver myself. You had any supper, Martin?’

  ‘Well no, as it happens.’

  ‘You can share ours if you like,’ Brad said. ‘We got three trout, but these daft kids won’t eat it. They’re on fish fingers, aintcher kids.’

  ‘Yeh!’ Emma said happily.

  Martin stayed to supper. How could he refuse her anything when she was so ill and she was being so brave about it?

  It was an extraordinary meal after an extraordinary day. ‘I feel as if I’ve been awake for a week,’ Alison said, when she’d told them both about her visit to the letting agency and how she’d bullied the agent.

  ‘Bullying, bad drains and then that poor cat,’ she said. ‘I don’t want another day like this in a very long time. Let me cut that up for you, Emma.’

  ‘No,’ Emma said. ‘Do it mesself.’

  Alison slumped in her chair. ‘I haven’t got the energy to argue.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ Brad advised. ‘Waste a’ time arguing with that kid. Never waste time, eh Martin.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, yearning to ask about her illness.

  ‘Too precious, time is,’ Brad said. ‘What I always say is you’re a long time dead.’

  He winced. But both women pretended not to have seen his expression, assuming that he was remembering the cat.

  When the meal was finally over, the children were exhausted too. Brad and Alison had to carry them down to the car. By the time Brad came back into the flat, Martin was up to his wrists in soap bubbles, washing the supper things.

  ‘Ain’t that just typical,’ she teased. ‘Leave you alone for five minutes and you put on a pinny.’

  He waved his bubbly hands before him as if he was warding off evil spirits. ‘Don’t joke!’ he begged. ‘Not now. Tell me quickly. Are you very ill?’

  ‘Ill?’ she said, grimacing at him. What was he talking about? Then she realised that he was looking at her naked scalp. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘You think I’ve got cancer. You think this is chemotherapy.’

  His knees suddenly felt weak. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No. Course not. It’s me new hair style. You went, I looked at me barnet and I thought, that’s your lot, you’re off an’ all. An’ that was it.’

  He was choked with relief, rushing across the room to hold her in his arms. ‘Oh thank God. Thank God,’ he said into her neck. ‘I’ve been worried sick ever since I saw you.’

  ‘Hey!’ she said, lifting his head so that he was forced to look at her. ‘Martin, you dear old thing. Do I mean that much to you?’

  ‘You know you do,’ he said passionately.

  She gave him a hard, quick kiss, holding his face between her hands, her fingers in his beard. ‘I’m flattered,’ she said. ‘Really. Look, I’m sorry I flew off the handle that time.’

  He kissed her back, feeling like a man who’d come home after a long journey. ‘I deserved it,’ he said. ‘I spoke out of turn.’

  ‘No you never,’ she argued. ‘You were right. I could see that after. I am a bully.’

  ‘Well … maybe you need to be.’

  ‘You said I scared you.’

  He tried to deny it. ‘No. I’m sure I didn’t. I wouldn’t have…’

  ‘Yes, you did. You said you wanted to marry me and settle down and have kids but you was scared to ask me. Right?’

  ‘Well, in a way.’

  ‘Never mind in a way. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes. You are.’

  ‘You can see why I’m a bully,’ she said in mock exasperation. ‘I can’t get any sense out a’ you unless I bully.’

  ‘I don’t mind being bullied,’ he said, kissing her again. ‘You can bully me any time you like.’

  ‘Right then. Into the bedroom, you!’

  That made him groan. ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘If I say it, I mean it. You know me.’

  He was picking up the most delectable signals. ‘Have you missed me?’ he asked with hopeful curiosity.

  ‘Catch me telling you that,’ she teased. ‘You would get big-headed.’

  *

  Alison couldn’t wait for Morgan to get down to see them that Saturday evening. When she heard his car she ran to the door to greet him. Both children were in bed and asleep so she could take as long as she liked to tell him what had been happening.

  He was carrying a bunch of freesias, their sweet scent preceding him into the house. It surprised her because he’d never brought her flowers before.

  ‘Happy birthday, cariad? he said, kissing her.

  She held the flowers to her face, enjoying their perfume. She’d forgotten all about her birthday. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I asked your mother. You can have your card on the proper day, on Tuesday, but I thought you’d like these now.’

  They walked into the kitchen arm in arm. ‘I’ve given up having birthdays,’ she said, putting the flowers in a vase. ‘You don’t have time for birthdays when you’ve got kids.’

  ‘You do now you’ve got me,’ he said. ‘Now you can start again. I got you a little present too.’

  It was a gold bracelet with a single charm attached to it – a little Welsh harp, strings, pedals and all.

  ‘Oh Morgan,’ she said. ‘You darling. I’ve always wanted one of these.’

  He was beaming. ‘So your Mum said. Come in the living room cariad. I got some news for you.’

  ‘You wait till you hear what I’ve got to tell you,’ she said. And the whole story of her day tumbled out: how well she’d managed the drains and the man at the agency; how awful it was that Meriel’s cat had died; and how Brad and Martin had been brought back together.

  He listened and praised and told her she’d ‘done marvellous.’ But when she finally paused for breath, he had the oddest expression on his face.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Morgan darling?’

  ‘I had some news for you? he said. ‘I thought it was good. I’m not so sure about it now.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  He wasn’t even sure he wanted to do that. But she insisted. ‘You’ve got to now,’ she said. ‘You can’t say you’ve got some news and then not tell me what it is.’

  So he told her.

  Mr Alexander Jones had announced that he was going to retire and had offered Morgan and Barbara Kirkby first refusal on the business. The two of them had been working out the possibilities at odd moments during his stint in Birmingham. Now that he was back it was time to make a decision.

  ‘Go for it,’ Alison said at once. ‘I think it’s a great idea. You ought to be your own boss.’

  ‘No, hang on. There’s more to it than that. I’d have to sink all my savings in it. I been savin’ that money for a house.’

  ‘For us?’

  ‘Right. It’s high time you had somewhere decent to live. I can’t bear you bein’ on the social. I want to look after you properly. Especially now, after those drains an’ everythin.’ I think I ought to use the money for a house – now.’

  ‘Well, I don’t. Look. I coped with the drains, didn’t I. After that, I can cope with anything.’

  ‘It would take too long to save up again,’ he said. ‘It would mean waiting.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Months probably. Depends on how big a salary I take and when I sell the flat.’

  ‘I can handle months,’ she said easily. ‘I’m getting used to it.’

  That made him fierce. ‘You shouldn’t be used to it,’ he said. ‘You deserve better than this. I want to marry you cariad, an’ settle down in a house of our own.’

  Talk of marriage was something she parried almost automatically these days. ‘It’s going to take a long time to get my divorce,’ she pointed out. ‘I don’t even know where he is. Take the job. I’m sure it’s the right thing to do.’

 
Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Rigby Toan and his great friend, Francis, were at Charlie Crayford’s house in Dorking at a black and white party.

  It was nearly two in the morning and most of the guests had reached a state of maudlin exhaustion. Lust-sated couples drifted back downstairs to rejoin the groups still upright round the billiard table or still drinking by the pool. Some of the more dishevelled sprawled on chairs and sofas or lay on the floor, blear-eyed and incoherent. The catering staff had left at midnight but the wining and dining had continued unabated, so there were dirty glasses and plates of half-eaten food on every available surface, including the stairs and the grand piano. Someone had been sick in the jardinière and somebody else had painted ‘LUV YER’ in fuchsia lipstick across the Victorian looking glass in the drawing room.

  ‘Decadence!’ Charlie Crayford said, surveying the scene from his vantage point on the leather Chesterfield. ‘I love it.’ The bosomy blonde slumped against his shoulder opened her eyes and tickled him under the chin. ‘You can’t beat it.’

  Rigg was propped up against the bar, talking to Francis.

  ‘No, come on Francis. Be a pal,’ he said thickly. ‘Don’t muck about. I can stay ’nother night, can’t I?’

  ‘Can’t be done, old fruit,’ Francis said. He was drunk and earnest in equal proportions. ‘Mater won’t have it. Can’t stand your socks, she says.’

  ‘No, come on. Don’t muck about.’

  Francis tried to focus his eyes, failed, snarled and suddenly changed moods, switching in one instant from giggling tolerance to spite.

  ‘You’re such a fart, Rigby,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you piss off an’ leave me alone. Go an’ scrounge a bed with somebody else.’

  ‘There isn’t anybody else,’ Rigg said with drunken candour. ‘They’ve all dis – retted me. De – reted me. Dis – erted me. All the lot. I’ve got no friends. Nowhere to go. Nobody loves me.’ His face was creased with scotch and self-pity.

  ‘Serve you right,’ Francis said, picking up his drink and gathering his strength to walk across the room with it. ‘Shouldn’t be such a fart’

  Rigg made one last soulful appeal. ‘Oh come on, Francis. Be a pal!’

  ‘Why don’t you go home and sort out that wife of yours?’ Francis said, standing upright with an effort.

  ‘What d’you mean? Sort out that wife a’ yours?’

  ‘Sort her out. That’s what I mean. She’s got herself another man.’

  Rigg was enraged. ‘She has,’ Francis said, continuing his progress across the room. ‘Saw her myself, ol’ fruit. Got another man.’

  Red discs danced before Rigg’s eyes. ‘She can’t do this to me!’ he roared. He felt violated by the news. ‘The slag! I’ll kill her. She can’t do this.’

  Guests gravitated towards the uproar, avid for a spectacle, and Rigg found himself surrounded by questioning faces. ‘What’s up?’ ‘What’s he done?’ ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I shall kill her,’ he announced.

  His audience were delighted with that and followed him into the great tiled entrance hall. Someone found his coat and he was pushed into it. Someone else dug his car keys out of his pocket. ‘You tell her,’ they encouraged. ‘Don’t you let her get away with it.’ ‘Who is it?’ ‘What’s going on?’

  They trooped out of the house to where the cars were parked in neat ranks against the orchard wall; they cheered as he fumbled into the driving seat; they applauded as he zig-zagged down the drive, scraped the ornamental gates and, still in second gear, roared slowly off towards the open road.

  It was hideously dark. Rigg could barely see the road and the hedges on either side of it were black obstructions, looming towards him. He tried blinking, he rubbed his eyes first with one fist and then with the other, but the darkness remained impenetrable. It wasn’t until a lorry passed him going the other way and flashed its headlamps at him that he realised he hadn’t switched his lights on.

  Not that it did any good. The road was illuminated now and the hedges were grey in the headlamps, but he didn’t know where he was. Apparently, the road led to a dual carriageway ahead but, even when he managed to read the signposts, they made no sense. He knew he ought to be heading south, but which way was south. Why don’t they bloody tell you on their stupid signposts? Eventually, hoping for better things, he turned left into a narrow country lane, and left again. And found himself in a field.

  He was lost, befuddled and desperate for a pee. What the hell! he thought, as he turned off the ignition. I shall stay here. She can bloody well wait for me. He struggled out of the car and crunched through the stubble to the nearest tree to empty his bladder. She’s nothing but a slut, he told himself, as he fell into the back seat. He was asleep before his head hit the rip in the plastic.

  When he woke it was bold, bright daylight and two faces were peering through the rear window at him. He felt absolutely awful. Just sitting up made his skull sting.

  ‘Party,’ he explained, winding down the window.

  ‘Told yer,’ the older head said to the younger.

  ‘I need some coffee,’ he said thickly. His mouth tasted like a drain.

  They gave him directions to the nearest transport café, where he had three cups of coffee, managed to clean himself up a bit in a cracked wash-basin in the gents, shaved and changed his crumpled evening dress for a jersey and jeans. His white tuxedo was in a disgusting state but at least he didn’t have to go on wearing it. That was one good thing about living out of a suitcase: you always had a change of clothes handy.

  Then he set off on his journey.

  As he drove and his head began to clear he remembered why he’d been so upset the night before. That bloody Francis, not letting him stay the night. Bloody cruel, when you think of all the money he’s got. Stinking rich. Absolutely loaded. And he can’t spare a single stinking bed for one single stinking night. You soon find out who your friends are when you’re down and out. No one’ll offer me a bed now. They’re all the same, fair-weather friends the lot of them. When I had the money to stand them all drinks and take them off for jaunts in the BMW it was ‘Stay the night. Pleased to have you. No problem.’ Now they won’t give me the time of day. Or buy me a drink. Francis had locked the drinks cabinet the last time. Charming! Lack of cash is an absolute pig. Especially when you can’t do anything about it. He’d sold off the last of the jewellery yonks ago. And now that whore’s playing around with another man. Won’t let me into the house. Oh no! But she’ll make room for someone else. Well, I’ll soon sort that out. I’ll report her to the social for a start. He needn’t think he’s going to live off my wife, bloody parasite.

  He was rattling down the approach road to the town.

  And that’s, another thing, he thought. This bloody car’s had it. The tax disc was long out of date and he couldn’t get another one without an MOT certificate. And he couldn’t get that because there was so much work that needed to be done on the damn thing and they’d taken all his cash cards when he went into voluntary arrangement. Life was bloody unfair. It really was. Now where was this house? Barnaby Green. That’s the place.

  There were several dirty toddlers playing on the green but none of them looked familiar. He sat in the car watching them and pondering what to do next. Of course she could be at work. He’d forgotten she worked.

  While he watched, a strange woman came out of Alison’s door and yelled at the kids. ‘Melvin! Come on in will yer.’

  The child began to amble towards the house, trailing a stick across the scrubby grass as he went. The woman had gone back into the house. Rigg got out of the car and stood on the front lawn, blocking the child’s way.

  ‘Do you live here, sonny?’ he asked.

  The urchin was instantly aggressive. ‘What’s it to you mister?’

  Rigg seized the kid’s ear and twisted it. ‘I asked you a question.’

  ‘Leggo my ear!’ the boy said, trying to pull away from him.

  ‘Answer my question. Do you live here?’ />
  ‘All right. All right. Yes. Me and my Mum.’

  Rigg let go of the ear and gave the child his most charming smile. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

  Now what? He had to find her. But how? He certainly wasn’t going to crawl cap in hand to any of the awful women who lived round this green. The sight of their ghastly children was quite enough to deter him from that. They ought to be at school. Why weren’t they?

  School! Of course. Brilliant. She’ll have to go to school to meet Jonathan. I can wait for her there. If I can find out where it is. The nearest one to Shore Street probably. He’d have started school while she was still there. It’ll be on the road map. Bound to be.

  He found the school just in time to watch the kids come back after their lunch. But there was no sign of Ali.

  ‘What time do they let them out in the afternoon?’ he asked a returning mum and discovered that it was ten past three.

  He was back at quarter past, having fallen asleep in the car while it was parked on the sea front. The side road leading to the school gate was seething with people. There were children everywhere, swarming all over the pavements, hopping across the road in front of the lollipop lady, hanging onto arms and pram handles and one another, all chit-chit-chattering and all in the same hideous uniform. Pillar-box red, for Chrissakes! It made his eyes hurt to look at them. How was he supposed to find his own sprog in a wriggling mass like that?

  The question was no sooner in his head than there. Jon was, solemnly holding Emma’s hand and walking down the side road with Alison.

  Despite his bad temper, Rigg couldn’t help noticing what a good-looking little boy his son was, with all that fair hair and that handsome face and those broad shoulders. Good cheek bones, too. Like his father.

  Then he remembered what he’d come to do and walked quickly back to where he’d parked the car. If she knew he was watching out for her, she might not go home. She was cunning enough to pull a trick like that. What’s she doing now? He checked as he eased into the car. Standing on the corner talking to a girl in a pink jersey. She’d better put on a bit of speed if I’m going to follow or I shall be done for kerb-crawling. He was gob-smacked when she got into a four-year-old Metro and drove it away.