by Ellis Major
“And it wasn’t. I owe you big time, Lance.”
“Charlie,” Lance told him quietly. “After what you’ve done for me you don’t owe me jack shit. Besides, you could always turn this to your advantage if you want, screw her the way…”
Charlie shook his head sadly. “I suppose I could but I’d be living on my nerves and I’m not like Roddy, Lance. I can control my urges, and you know I don’t need notches on my bedpost.”
“It was just a thought. Best never to go near her again I agree.”
“Shall we send her the CD and I could scribble a little note saying that an anonymous friend sent it to me?”
“Mr Smith left another CD without his report at the start. The man was thinking ahead as usual. You could send that and, yeah, a note suggesting that Mr Stith should be able to keep the bitch company between her ‘lingerie shoots’.”
“Have you ever heard of this Stith?”
“Me, no. I’m a soldier, Charlie.”
“Me neither. Sounds pretty odd, but who cares. She’ll no doubt find another way to support him, another mug without a lucky friend.”
“Yeah, I suppose it was lucky, or maybe there’s a God up there.”
Charlie half laughed. “Ah well, plenty more fish in the sea I suppose, as the Sproate sweet merchant told me.”
Lance nodded. “I tell you what, Charlie. Interesting comparison between her and the girl in Norfolk.”
“It had crossed my mind, Lance.” Charlie finished his drink and stood up. He did his best to smile. “I’ll just go to my room and have a cry.”
“Charlie,” Lance told him, fully in focus for a longer interval than normal. “She’ll need more help. I can feel it in my water. We have to make sure we don’t muff it when she does. If nothing else, you can mend a fence or two with her.”
“Do you think so? Given my luck with women, rather than call me she’ll prefer to kill her father then herself. Then Mary will kill me.”
Lance squeezed Charlie’s shoulder. “No, Charlie, she’s a sensitive woman. She’ll leave the killing to Georgina.”
PART 3 - A Very Bumpy Road
Chapter 1 – Unrequited Misery (Year 1 – October)
There are families where the children are emotionally distant from their wealthy parents, albeit the bonds of blood are not irrevocably severed. The children wait greedily and expectantly, but passively, for the day that their parents die. There are families where the children may actually pray to some evil God to draw their parents to his bosom in order that they may enjoy their inheritance sooner. And there are even some families where the children may take the pillow into their own hands and hasten the process along.
Some days, Rowena wondered whether she wasn’t falling into the second category and was wishing her father into his grave, not because she stood to inherit any money, but because she might be able to think about her own life and finding something gainful to do with it.
In one of those curious unknown coincidences that litter human history, Rowena and Charlie had actually shed some simultaneous tears the night before. It was not a habit for Charlie, but it was fast becoming a very regular one for Rowena. This morning she sat at the kitchen table and wondered whether today could be any worse than yesterday.
She examined her nails. They weren’t too bad but how long were they going to last in the vegetable beds now that she’d had to throw away her last remaining pair of gardening gloves. Most of the fingers on those gloves were still intact but she had to go and push those that did have holes straight into the load of cat shit as she was weeding! Her fingers were still pink from the ferocious scrubbing she’d given them. The gloves went in the bin. She wondered if she could scrounge a pair from somewhere but she hated doing it.
She hated admitting that she was sinking slowly and inexorably under the oppressive weight of an invisible burden – the absence of money. The electricity had been cut off, again, the phone had been cut off some time ago, the television was broken, not that it was much use without electricity anyway, and Freddie’s fees were still overdue. Last night she had felt the first real chill in the air that reminded her winter was on its way.
They weren’t starving. She’d done ok with the vegetables – there were plenty of potatoes, onions and beetroot, all of which should store well. But the slugs and snails were loving the cabbages, whatever she did. She wouldn’t have minded going after the slimy vermin in the dark – there was little else to do once father was finally asleep – but she had no money for batteries and the candles blew out in the slightest breeze, even if she used a jam jar.
For all her efforts in the garden, though, father had a problem with lack of variety in his food. She wanted to scream at him sometimes but what was the use. How did he think she managed to produce anything hot at all with no electricity and no gas? A thick soup kept body and soul together at least. Did he think it was easy keeping a fire going, hunting like a peasant for anything she could burn? She’d tried reasoning with him, but more often than not he picked up the plate and hurled it across the kitchen. He’d smashed one of the panes in the window and she’d had to bodge that up with cardboard that crumbled whenever it rained.
At least the Vicar had arrived one lunch time as father smashed the last of the soup dishes and had tactfully turned up with a few metal enamel bowls a day later. That was nice – all she had to do now was clean up the food it had taken her about two hours to prepare and cook, rather than broken crockery too. The only other chore was then to work out how to get her father clean, as he usually managed to splash half of the soup over himself when he picked up the bowl to hurl it.
There was only one good thing in her life - the rota of volunteers that the Vicar, bless him, had taken it upon himself to organise. They would come and sit with her father so she could have an hour or two to herself – time she needed to go in search of firewood on the Common or just to get out for a walk.
It was her pride, she told herself. They wouldn’t have been too bad if she wasn’t determined to keep Freddie at his public school. She’d thought she could manage it. On paper it seemed to work, but there were all those stupid little things that seemed to add up - all the extras that a boy at school needs: clothes, some spending money, and the odd skiing trip. Freddie was doing his best not to complain, but she’d detected the beginnings of a whine in his latest letter.
When had she last bought an article of clothing? She couldn’t even afford the prices they charged at jumble sales, never mind charity shops. Even if she had been able to scrape together the bus fare for a trip to the local town all she would be able to do was go window shopping. Window shopping in charity shops – what a life. She stared down at what she was wearing, an old shirt of her father’s, a frayed sweater of Freddie’s, a threadbare denim skirt, a pair of socks that wouldn’t stay up and her last pair of trainers. I’m twenty years old, she thought to herself, and I’m dressed like a bag lady.
Father did seem calmer today, but he’d insisted on going out for a walk in the rain the day before, slipped over because he wouldn’t take her arm, and ended up getting them both covered in mud. She’d barely finished heating the water and doing what she could to wash all the muck out of her clothes than he took her unawares. Without shouting for once, he’d pushed her so hard she banged her head against the edge of a door and ended up with that bruise on her forehead.
So what has to happen not long after that, but the interfering old bag Mrs Harley knocks on the door and comes creeping in just the second Rowena has got father settled for a nap and a damp piece of rag pressed to her forehead to take down the swelling.
“Hello Rowena,” she said. “Have you banged your head?”
“Edge of the door, Mrs Harley. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“Well it is dark in here. I thought I saw a van. Have they been again?”
“Cut us off, yes. It’s a mix up, Mrs Harley. I have to get in touch with them.”
Mrs Harley pursed her lips. “There do seem
to be a lot of mix ups. Connections, disconnections, reconnections. Still I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”
“Life has its ups and downs Mrs Harley.”
“I do worry, Rowena, that your and poor Mr Hepple’s lives seem to have more downs than ups.”
“Poor Mr Hepple’s life might be better if he stopped throwing his food at me,” Rowena muttered. She thought Mrs Harley was a bit deaf.
“Does he dear?” Ok, not as deaf as all that then.
“Now and again. It’s the frustration of forgetting what he’s trying to remember, I think.”
“Yes, they can get like that, especially with those closest to them.” Mrs Harley had smiled sympathetically. Rowena knew she was a gossip although rather braver than most of her ilk. Max Hepple’s language could become extremely unpleasant whenever he saw a woman and he flailed around when he felt like it, regardless of who was present. The violence was usually aimed at his daughter, but one could never be sure.
Rowena had nodded. “Yes, Mrs Harley,” she responded dutifully.
“He needs proper care.” This was a familiar refrain of her neighbour’s. “I know you’re doing your best Rowena, but trained professional help is what he really needs.”
Rowena’s patience had been tested to the limits. Her response was sharper than she intended. “And you think he’ll get that in a Local Authority Home? We can’t afford to pay for care. I couldn’t do it to him. They’re treated like vegetables.”
Mrs Harley sniffed. “At least they have light and warmth and the television, dear.”
“I read to him, I talk to him. I take him out for some exercise. He isn’t slumped in a chair watching daytime TV and drugged up to the eyes.”
Mrs Harley sniffed again. “I’m sure you think you know best but there are those who’re saying it’s a matter of concern that a poor old man is living in such conditions. Not that I am amongst them, of course. There are those who consider that the state of the Rectory makes it an eyesore in what is a very pretty village. They wonder why you don’t sell the property and move to somewhere more appropriate for your needs. I have even heard one or two people wonder whether Social Services shouldn’t become involved.”
Rowena sighed. She needed this sort of rubbish like she needed cat shit in the carrots. “Mrs Harley, human beings existed for thousands of years without electricity and without television. My father is fed, clothed and stimulated. He’s kept warm in the winter. This is our home. It’s familiar to him. We have fireplaces here and I certainly know how to light a fire.”
Rowena was acutely conscious of the fact that she must stink of wood smoke so Mrs Harley had no need to sneer slightly and say ‘I’m sure you do’ in quite such a condescending tone.
Her neighbour rose. “A pretty thing like you shouldn’t be hauling those huge branches back from the Common. I’m surprised you can even lift them.”
“I’m stronger than I may look, Mrs Harley.”
“Of course you are my dear. You’ll need to be. The long range forecast is for a very cold winter. Had you seen? Oh, probably not, with no TV.”
“I’d read it. The Vicar lets me have his old newspapers for lighting the fire. I try to keep up with the world that way.”
“How very resourceful. See you soon, my dear. That is a nasty bruise.”
So, Rowena asked herself, what can I think of to cheer myself up today? Then she remembered that her period was due next week. She had none of what she needed to deal with that regular event. Her head sank into her hands. Another great start to another great day!
“Morning gorgeous. One letter.” Jim, the postman pushed the door open and smiled at her. “Cheer up,” he told her. “At least it’s not a bill.”
“You’ve made my day, Jim.”
God almighty, she thought to herself. The highlight of my life is when a fifty year old postman smiles at me.
Rowena didn’t recognise the writing but that was explained by the covering note with the enclosed envelope. Rowena immediately recognised Mary’s handwriting on this. She quickly scanned the note from a Mrs Dale, who spent two pages explaining that she’d been asked to forward the letter on her return to the UK but had overlooked it owing to her husband having been taken ill with deep vein thrombosis immediately after their return from the holiday, to which they had treated themselves in celebration of their ruby wedding, the holiday that was rather than the DVT.
“Ok, I get the picture. What a relief her husband recovered or she’d probably have buried the letter in his coffin or something. Must be what that clown Charlie was talking about.”
Rowena tore open the envelope. The letter was dated, as far as she could judge from memory, a couple of weeks after Mary’s flight from the UK.
Dear Rowena,
My mother may have told you already but I’m now a fugitive from Justice, hence the strange method by which I’m sending my letter. I hope it should also be more reliable than trusting to the post from our exotic location.
I am in love, completely and blissfully in love and it came like a bolt out of the blue, when I was on holiday with Charlie and that friend of his, Lance. Georgina is, literally, the girl of my dreams, although she is a convicted sex offender! It was a minor (!) thing with a fifteen year old, so she’s hardly a paedophile. I have my lawyers working on doing what they can to quash the conviction or appeal the sentence but we may have to stay away for some time.
I’m worried about you, of course, and the one regret I have is charging off and leaving you with even less support than you had before. However, I do have a substitute in Charlie. He has promised to do whatever you need in the way of help and, Rowena, do not give a moment’s thought to asking him.’
Rowena stopped reading, sighed and shook her head. ‘Yeah, right. Brilliant choice’, she muttered before continuing.
He and Lance made our escape possible. Without them, we could not have done it, my dear, so we owe them a huge debt. Georgina wants to say hi so she’ll add her piece at the end. She tells me you’ll think I’m biased.
I always thought of Charlie as a bit of a lightweight, nice guy, good company but not that much use when it mattered. I was wrong. He egged Lance along and they came up with a plan that worked like a dream – and we’re living it now, Rowena!
I know you think he’s ok as well, so do not go all prickly and proud and think you can do everything without any help from anyone. If you start to struggle call him. I know money is going to be the problem and when it is, let him lend you some or give you some. It really won’t come with strings because he isn’t like that. I don’t say this very often but I really think he is a good man.
Trust me Rowena and trust him and do not be silly about the money.
I’ve put in a photo but I expect the weather there is not quite as good as it is here, so don’t get jealous.
I’ll be in touch but I’ve got a lot of other letters to write and wanted to get the important message across as soon as I could.
Below, Georgina had added a few lines.
Hi, Rowena. It’s strange to be writing to someone I’ve never met but Mary’s known Charlie for ages and, like she said, she might be biased. I only met him for a few days and I feel guilty as shit for being so nasty to him almost all the time just because he was a man. I wasn’t so rude to Lance so I don’t feel so bad about him and he, being gay, could probably better understand what I was going through. The more I think about it, the more I like Charlie. He couldn’t care less what I said because he was helping his friend Mary and, of course, me, the grumpy, miserable dyke. So, as Mary said, go to him for help. If I find you haven’t I’ll break your neck and then top myself, because it’ll be all my fault that Mary’s not around to help you!!
G. xx
Rowena unclipped the photo from the back of the letter, There was Mary, very, very happy indeed, arms around an extremely striking young lady – who wasn’t exactly sad either. So that was Georgina. Rowena folded up the letters, replaced them in the envelopes and tuc
ked the package away in a drawer. She was crying again.
“It’s all I seem to do,” she mumbled, wiping her nose. “Shit, shit, shit. I can’t take money from him, whatever they say. It wouldn’t be right. I have to make my own way. And he said they’d send a helicopter. There must be a lot of money in it, a lot of money.”
She settled herself at the table and stared at the makeshift cardboard patch in the window.
“Freddie, you don’t have a mother,” she whispered. “She’s gone. She couldn’t take it. But someone has to look out for you and I’m all you’ve got. And I suppose mothers have to make sacrifices, so if they do, I suppose I can. What is it after all, if there’s no love in it? A lot of sweat, panting - and mess. Freddie, I hope you never find out, or if you do you’ll understand.”
Chapter 2 – Unrequited Misery? (Year 1 – October)
Charlie took the call. “Rowena, hello, I’m….Ok, I understand. You’re at the Vicar’s. Yes, how could I forget? I’m still ashamed. Really; but why? Well we need to talk about that. It’s... When? Yes, I think so, Lance isn’t working today. We’ll come down as soon as we can. What, yes, we can bring a hamper, I’m sure.”
Lance had appeared as if by magic.
“Was that Rowena?” he asked.
Charlie nodded. “She sounded pretty down.”
”Wants to talk?”
“Yes, about the club, of all things.”
“Ok, Charlie. I have an idea.”
“We need to take food.”
“Yeah, fine, that too but one thing at a time. Phone call, Kali, food.”
~~~
“Jesus bleedin’ wept, Charlie; is that ‘er?”
Rowena was standing by the front wall of the Rectory. Charlie didn’t need to answer.