by AB Morgan
‘Here we are then. The merry widows’ tea party.’ Brenda had regained her usual cheerfulness as she set the tray down on a table by the window, but Anna couldn’t find a smile.
6
The Mask Slips
The churchyard was full of the dead and empty of the living, apart from Anna. At the graveside she paced up and down talking aloud, every now and then wheeling round to face the grey granite headstone that marked Damien Chamberlain’s grave. She didn’t notice the vicar watching her from the church doorway.
‘Your fucking mother is doing my head in. I see her every week and every week it’s the same thing. Why? Well, out of some misguided sense of duty I suppose. Yes, you’re right, she thinks she owns me. Stupid cow.’ Anna flung her hands up towards the bright blue skies overhead. ‘It was bad enough before you went and died on me, but lately this thing about grandchildren is driving me mad. It’s as if I’ve deprived her of her right to be a grandmother. I know, I’m such a horrible bitch to her. I don’t want to be, Damien, but you know how she is. She just infuriates me so much that I could throttle her.’ There was a pause of several minutes, during which Anna crouched down to pull at a few determined weeds that had appeared on her husband’s grave since the previous week. She nodded twice.
‘You’re right. I’ll see her less often. Perhaps a phone call every other week or something, then I could see her once a month instead. Short of that I’ll have to hire a hit man. Work is fine, thanks for asking. I’ve got almost enough evidence to take to the police now. The last pieces of irrefutable proof will be in the bag in the next couple of weeks, I would think. You’d be proud of me. You always said I could do it. Oh, and I’ve had my bike lessons confirmed by email with Ride-Right, so there’s no backing out now. CBT first, then module one followed by module two, if I get that far. The theory test was the easy bit. You were right about that too.’
Anna chatted away to Damien’s grave with the ease of an everyday two-way conversation. She stopped when she saw movement to her far right and waved to the vicar as he watched her from beneath the stone archway of the church. He often saw her at her husband’s grave, but never had he seen her sobbing or kneeling in despair - because she didn’t.
‘The vicar’s caught me again. I’m sure he thinks I’m stark raving bonkers talking to myself out here for hours. Still, sod him. What does he know? This has always been the only place quiet enough for me to hear you properly, so he’ll just have to think what he likes, won’t he?’
The vicar approached nervously. He wrung his hands and coughed politely before he ventured to ask Anna how she was doing.
‘I’m doing fine thank you, Reverend.’
‘How long is it now since Damien passed away?’
Anna shuddered. She hated that expression. Passed away, sadly departed, went to meet his maker, left us; these were all ways of avoiding the truth.
Death.
Dead and gone.
‘He was shot and killed four years ago last Thursday, Reverend. There are still troops in Afghanistan, so I expect my little black dress will be seeing the light of day again in the very near future.’ Anna was staring at the vicar, barely blinking and clasping her hands together tightly. ‘Why do you ask me that every time we meet?’ she asked, finally ignoring her manners.
The thin wisps of grey hair on the vicar’s head wafted in the breeze as he fidgeted and shuffled his feet, uncomfortable at Anna’s directness. ‘I suppose I’m always surprised at how much you still talk to him.’
Anna laughed, making the vicar take a step back in surprise. ‘Well, at least I know where he is now he’s dead. The army life was less predictable and most of our chats were snatched phone calls or emails, but now he can’t run off, can he?’ She began to doubt whether the vicar had a sense of humour. The elderly man looked worried.
‘Does Damien talk back to you?’
‘Well who else am I replying to?’ As soon as those words left her lips Anna regretted saying them. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not in need of another trip to the funny farm. I spent far too long in that dreadful place and I don’t intend to return there in a hurry. Talking to Damien is my way of coping, nothing more.’
‘Brenda seems to think you’re behaving out of character recently and— ’
Anna interrupted him, abrupt in her manner. ‘Brenda? Has she sent you to see if I’ve lost it again? The interfering old bag.’
‘You tell him, love.’
‘Don’t worry, I will,’ Anna snapped.
‘You will what?’ the vicar asked, taking another pace backwards and catching his foot on the mound of the next grave. He stumbled, but regained his balance just managing to prevent a fall by reaching out to hold the top of the gravestone to his left.
‘Sorry Vicar, I wasn’t talking to you … bloody Brenda. I told Damien she was getting worse. You can tell her, that from now on, I’ll phone her, but she has to stay away from me for a while. She’s doing my head in.’
‘Mother wants you back on the meds, so you can act normally, get a man and give her the grandchildren she wants.’
‘Oh, and before you ask on Brenda’s behalf, I’m not taking any medication because I don’t need any. Just because I hear my dead husband talking to me does not mean that I’m psychotic. Got it?’
The vicar’s expression told Anna everything she needed to know.
‘The silly old duffer’s scared of you, Fruitcake. You should calm down a bit. He’s only trying to help.’
Anna took a pace forward, reached out and gently took one of the vicar’s hands in hers. ‘I don’t need help. Really. I’m fine, Reverend. It’s perfectly normal for people to grieve in this way and it helps me to talk to Damien. I know he’s dead. I’m not hallucinating. So, please ask Brenda not to fuss.’
The Reverend Fairbrother patted Anna’s forearm. ‘Even I know that in the last month you’ve come here more than usual to talk to your dead husband. That’s not normal grief after four years.’
‘Tell him to piss off. I can’t hang around with no one to talk to.’
Anna withdrew her hand, folded her arms and shook her head. ‘You will never understand. None of you. Now please, if you’ve nothing useful to say, let me be alone and left in peace to have a conversation with my husband in the same way that other wives do. Cheerio.’ She turned her back on the vicar who let out a series of long huffing breaths as he shambled back towards the church.
7
The Following Week
Rory wheeled out the second of the Yamaha 125s. He and his fellow instructor Steve Holcroft were expecting three students that day, one a complete novice, one learning as part of a midlife crisis, and Brian who had already passed his CBT. All were aiming to complete the direct access scheme designed for those over twenty-four to gain their full motorcycle licence.
Checking for the likelihood of rain, Rory looked up at the sky shaking his fist towards the threatening dark grey clouds that had parked themselves overhead. The weather forecast had said “sunny intervals” and it was warm enough for late August, yet there was no sign of blue up above. He hoped that by the time the initial theory components had been completed that morning, the weather would have brightened up enough for the two new students to make their first nervous acquaintance with a motorbike in the dry.
He checked his watch as a familiar-looking blue car drew up and parked in one of the five designated bays next to the training site, followed shortly by a young man on a pushbike, who coasted to a halt outside the grey Ride-Right Portacabin. Then he heard Steve; a leather-clad figure riding a black motorbike, with formidable exhaust noise, roared into view and manoeuvred with ease to park next to Rory’s bike, Donna. Swinging his leg over the back of the seat, Steve let out a short grunt. He removed his helmet and, flicking his head to free his shoulder-length greying hair, greeted his fellow instructor as they walked through the door.
‘Morning Rory, bro. Sorry I’m late, had a bit of a ’mare. Got stuck behind a fuckin’ shit wagon. He was headin’
for the fields to spread some ripe old slurry. Made my eyes water. Bloody stunk it did, eh.’ The inflection in his voice gave away his antipodean origins.
‘No, you’re fine. I was early. Still a good ten minutes before kick-off. You’ve got these two for CBT,’ Rory said as he gestured towards the white board on the wall where two names were written. ‘Ann Chambers and Grant Milton, both on DAS, so it should be a good day.’
‘That’s a stroke of luck. No brainless idiot teenagers for once. Thanks for that. You’re with Brian for his mod one, aren’t you? He’ll be sweet as, so long as he doesn’t fuck-up the U-turn like he did last week, eh? What time’s his test?’
‘Not ’til three, so I’ll stay down the bottom end out of your way. Shout if you need me though. Coffee?’
‘Awesome. Yes please, bro.’
Their first arrival arched her head slowly around the door. She smiled as she entered the room to introduce herself. ‘I’m Anna, I’m here for my first lesson and I’m a bit nervous.’ Both instructors welcomed her, despite Rory having his back turned as he poured boiling water from the kettle. Steve motioned for Anna to take a seat.
‘Make yourself at home, your fellow student is just on his way across the car park and this chap strolling in is Brian. Brian meet Anna, she’s just beginning her biking career with us. Brian is taking his module one test, later. Ready for the big day, Brian, eh?’
Rory passed Steve a steaming coffee in an oversized insulated mug and he grinned briefly, nodding a welcome at Anna before shaking hands with Brian.
‘Grab a vest, Brian, get the rest of your gear on and we’ll head out for some more practice, shall we? U-turns and what else?’
‘The figure of eights please, Rory. I’m really wobbly on them and I can’t work out why,’ Brian replied as he took a high-visibility waistcoat from the pegs at the side of the door. The words “Ride-Right” and “Student” were emblazoned in black on the back of the acid-green vest. Rory squeaked as he walked in his leathers towards the door. The back of his vest identified him as “Instructor”.
‘Cheerio Anna, have a good morning with Steve here. You’re in good hands. Just don’t ask if he’s Australian. He hates that.’ When she smiled back, Rory had the distinct feeling that he had met Anna somewhere before, but he couldn’t immediately place her. He knew she was the woman he’d seen in the blue Mondeo recently, but he had a nagging feeling he’d seen her before that.
‘Hello there, you must be Grant,’ he said to the man who had appeared in the doorway. Rory let him pass. ‘I’m Rory and I’m going to leave you in the capable hands of my colleague Steve Holcroft. Have a good morning and see you all later.’
As he gathered the cones to lay out on the tarmac, ready for Brian to refine his slow riding skills for the slalom and figure of eights, he could hear his fellow instructor beginning the introductions between the new students. ‘Anna this is Grant…’ and he cringed as it continued, ‘Excellent, guys. Now if you listen hard and pay attention to what we teach, you’ll have no fuckin’ trouble passing your practical tests.’
Rory strolled away shaking his head as he heard Steve’s sage advice to Anna and Grant about simple bike maintenance and safety. ‘Try to remember, don’t just take a guess – R T F M. Read the fucking manual.’ He heard Anna’s delighted chortle overlaid by Grant’s deeper laugh and sighed with relief. Although Rory was no stranger to the use of an expletive, his friend and colleague used such poetic oath emphasis that it was hard to miss. He loved Steve’s way with words and easy manner, but one or two customers were not so laid back and there had already been complaints about colourful language, despite Steve’s efforts to speak using more acceptable British turns of phrase.
Brian started up the engine on a Yamaha XJ6 and the remaining conversation was drowned out.
It was a couple of hours later that Steve approached Rory with a cup of coffee and they sat on a bench next to the fencing that surrounded the tarmac practice area. Brian was taking a break in the cabin with the other two students.
‘Well? Is he getting the hang of it yet?’
‘Yeah. He’s ready. He wasn’t too bad anyway, he just needed a few more revs and to keep his foot on the back brake to give more control. As long as the old nerves don’t kick in he’ll be fine.’
Steve took a long slow sniff at his coffee. ‘That’s better. I love a good coffee, eh.’
Rory asked after the other two trainee riders. ‘Any problems so far?’
‘No, they’re bright enough. We’re just about to find out if Anna can suss out clutch control for the very first time. She seems a bit distracted, but I think it’s nerves. She’ll be right once we get her going. Grant has ridden before but he’s a couple of decades rusty. He’ll be easy enough though, I reckon.’ Steve took a long drag from a vape pipe and rested his back against the chain-link fence, stroking his beard.
Rory stared across to where the vehicles were parked.
‘I’m sure I know that girl from somewhere. I’ve definitely seen her car recently, but she’s familiar. Do you recognise her?’
Steve shook his head. ‘Nah. Pretty thing though, isn’t she? Before I forget to mention it, I’ve amended our records. Her name was recorded wrong. She’s Anna Chamberlain, not Ann Chambers. Admin must have cocked up. Her paperwork was all in order so no probs.’ Steve gave a wistful sigh. ‘Bloody young to be a widow. Apparently, her old man was in the army, a major in the Royal something-or-others. Carked it out in Afghanistan four years ago.’
Unwittingly, Steve had given Rory all the information necessary for him to identify where he had seen Anna before. His breath seemed to stick in his throat. He knew it was always a possibility that he would bump into her again, but by moving so far away from his past life he thought the chances would be slim to nil.
Not the case, it would seem.
‘You okay?’ Steve asked. ‘You’ve gone a bit whey-faced and pasty.’
‘Have I? Lack of breakfast probably.’
‘That’s why you’re such a skinny runt. You need to pay attention to your diet and get a good feed down ya. A strong wind and you’ll blow over. Here, have my packet of crisps. It’ll keep you going, they’re good and salty.’
After the short break, Rory surreptitiously studied Anna from a distance, while pretending to keep a watchful eye on Brian performing a run-through of the manoeuvres for his test later that day. It was difficult to be certain. He wasn’t convinced it was definitely her. She looked so different to what he could remember. With full biker gear on she moved and acted like any other anxious rider attempting to understand that her left foot had to do on a bike what her left hand would normally do in a car. Change gear. Her left hand was now required to control the clutch.
‘My brain is hurting with the concentration,’ he heard her say as she looked for sympathy regarding her inability to move off without stalling.
‘Give a few more revs. No, roll your knuckles towards you. Drop your wrist. That’s roll on. To reduce the revs, roll off by moving the hand away, raising the wrist like a proper limp-wristed camp bloke. “Hello honky-tonk how are you?” Do you remember that? No, you’re too fuckin’ young for Dick Emery, I think.’
Grant produced a magnificent belly laugh in reaction to the comedy.
‘You see, Grant’s as old as me, so he gets it. “Ooo you are awful, but I like you!”’ Steve added, making Grant giggle even more.
‘That sounds bloody ridiculous in an Aussie accent,’ Grant sniggered.
‘Who are you calling a fuckin’ Aussie? I’m a Kiwi, mate. Can’t you lot tell the difference?’ The bearded instructor was still smiling as he mercilessly berated Grant for his mistake.
‘I have absolutely no idea what you two find so funny, but I think I’m getting the hang of this clutch thing now,’ Anna said. With feet planted either side of the bike, she increased the revs and, looking down at her left hand, she slowly let out the clutch as she had been shown.
‘Find the biting point just like you di
d when you learnt to drive a car. Awesome. Good girl. Now look up. Look where you want to go. That’s it, Anna. Well done! Let the clutch out more. Now pick your feet up.’
Rory could see her grin as she moved the bike in a wide arc before braking and stalling once more.
‘Well done, Anna. Now try it again and remember to pull the clutch back in when you brake and stop. The roll off was lovely though, eh?’
Anna hit herself on the helmet with an open hand in annoyance as Grant gently rode past and completed several circuits before smoothly coming to a halt in front of a beaming Steve, as requested.
‘Fuckin’ Smart Alec …’
* * *
During the lunch break Rory had trouble keeping his eyes away from Anna. Every now and then she would catch him, forcing him to act as if he was rubbing his forehead trying to alleviate the beginnings of a headache as he stared at the laptop screen in front of him. Within a short space of time, his memory had matched her name and the information about her husband to that of her face. The recollections about her were not pleasant ones. He knew her all right. But it seemed she was oblivious to this as she chatted amicably with the four men about her first efforts to ride a motorbike and what she was expecting to learn next.
‘So, Brian, tell me again what the mod one entails.’