Evil Relations (43 page)

‘I didn’t actually like kids,’ Mary explains, with a laugh. ‘But the three boys were so young and such fun. I loved being with them. They were always a bit quiet when they first arrived but that soon went. We were kids together, in a way. We’d rough and tumble and go outside with a ball or down to the park. I was always happy to see them.’ She knew about their past, and who their father was, remembering that morning six years ago when, as a schoolgirl, she had stood watching David and Maureen arrive in Hyde at the committal proceedings: ‘It was strange, to think back to that. I knew about the case, even though I was so young, because it changed our lives. Freedom on the streets just went. Kids were picked up from school by their parents instead of walking home alone and weren’t allowed to play out until late any more. Even a visit to the park was out of the question unless a trusted adult accompanied you. And all the kids at school told gory stories about the case, as if it wasn’t bad enough. But my dad was never one of those who suspected Dave of being “the third Moors Murderer”. He was quite the opposite, in fact, and used to say, “If it hadn’t been for David Smith calling the police that day, I might not have had you for much longer. Because there was no way the police were going to catch Brady and Hindley. If it hadn’t been for Dave, you might not be here now, and neither might other children.” That was very much his attitude.’

Within days of meeting Mary, David found himself thinking about her constantly.

* * *

Mary busies herself about the house, folding, washing, straightening and tidying. I purposely catch her eye and smile when she comes into the living room, but she doesn’t respond, and I listen as she chides Big Martin about his drinking, then organises the weekend shopping list. I persevere with the inedible sandwich and leave an empty plate, thanking Mary and adding that it was very nice. She smiles at me at last.

When Dad and Big Martin are ready to leave for the pub, Mary sees the three of us to the door. I look back and she’s standing there, watching us. I retrace my steps, telling Mary that I’ve forgotten my guitar but don’t want to take it to the pub and would she look after it for me until I can pick it up? She looks at me curiously for a moment, then smiles and agrees. I hesitate:
see you around, then
.

The next few days are very strange. It comes in a rush with no warning: whether I’m walking down the street or having a wash, I find myself thinking about Mary. A girl with cropped, feathered hair, checked Ben Sherman shirt, leather-patched Wrangler’s, high-laced Doc Martens and a big smile. She floats in and out of my mind minute by minute.

When the weekend arrives, I spend time making myself look presentable.
She’s nice
, I keep thinking,
in fact, she’s very nice. No, more than that: she’s very, very, very nice.

Oh, shut up
, I tell myself impatiently.

Dad is in good form, looking forward to a trip away from Manchester with Big Martin. I feel even brighter than he does, but for a very different reason.

When we arrive in Hyde, Big Martin welcomes us warmly as always and we sit down to wait for him to ready himself. I notice my guitar standing in a corner, but there is no sign of Mary and, worse still, I daren’t enquire. I ask for another mug of tea, playing for time. I get told with a grin to make it my bloody self. I do so gladly, making the world’s slowest brew.

Road Runner
is on the telly and I sit enthralled, tea in hand, pretending to find it hilarious. Dad and Big Martin must think I’m losing my mind. But then the door opens and finally she’s there, a heavy bag of shopping in each hand. She gives Martin a hurried account of her expedition, a rundown of the costs and hands over his change. When she notices me at last, I’m rewarded with a big smile and a cheery hello before she heads into the kitchen with the groceries.

Casually, I tell Dad I’m going to finish watching the cartoon and then might take a walk before joining them at the pub. And just for a second Big Martin passes me one of his gentle but knowing looks, rooting me to the floor and wrapping me up in his trust.

The two men leave for the pub and I call to Mary, asking if she needs help putting the shopping away; I’m too nervous to just walk in. To my delight, she shouts back
yes, please,
and I’m in the kitchen faster than Road Runner himself. I worry immediately that I’m standing too close to her and move away, then do my best impression of knowing where everything should go.

Afterwards, we sit together on the settee, watching the rest of
Road Runner
, beep-bloody-be-beep, until Mary gets up to make tea. I’m longing to talk to her properly but can’t find my voice. I listen to her without hearing what’s being said and look at her too long for comfort while she prepares Big Martin’s dinner and cleans up quickly but efficiently. I tell her that I don’t much fancy the pub today and would she like to go for a walk? She nods and puts on a Crombie-style coat with a gold silk handkerchief in the breast pocket. In my leather jacket, I feel like a rock ’n’ roll dinosaur.

We walk together without purpose and reach the bridge across the canal. Down the crumbling steps and along the bank we go, walking a couple of miles before settling down on the grass in the sunshine. The conversation between us is light and easy, even playful. We discuss the obvious thing – music – and she tells me she loves Tamla Motown, which I can’t stand and counter with Eddie Cochran. She hasn’t even heard of him, but we find mutual ground in Otis Redding. Then we talk about our dads; she knows mine very well and I remember Big Martin from years ago. We laugh often and I can’t take my eyes away from her. After a couple of hours, I begin to feel as if I want to confide in her – as if I
have
to confide in her – and I tell Mary there are a few things I’d like her to know.

I explain that I’m married with three sons and not long out of prison. I tell her that something very bad happened a few years ago. Then I stumble over my words and she sits silently, waiting for me to finish. Instead I light up two cigarettes and hand one to her, then take a deep drag on mine, feeling my mood turn dark and sad despite the company and the warmth of the sun over the water.

I put my head down. Mary is like no one else I’ve ever met. There’s something about her that makes me want to go to the deepest parts of myself and reveal everything. I wait nervously to learn if she has anything to say, but she doesn’t seem to be thinking, just allowing the moment to pass between us. Quietly, she picks a few flowers and plaits a small daisy chain. Then she looks at me with a smile, passing me the daisy chain. I stare down at the small, silly ring of flowers in the palm of my hand and think,
I just want to be somebody. That’s all. I just want to be somebody.

Then she speaks, her voice knowing and confident, telling me of that time, years before, when as a child she stood with her friends in the school yard, watching as the car that took me and Maureen to the court hearings crawled through the press cordon and screaming public mob. She talks about the dark glasses we were wearing, the flashing camera bulbs, the chaos and the commotion. Then she explains how she became Dad’s confidante while I was in prison, listening while he prattled into the early hours about his plans to rebuild my future and his, and that of the boys. She knows about the bad time already – the murders and their aftermath, what people have said and are still saying about me. She tells me how, when I was in prison, she would take Paul, David and John to the park and play with them for hours until Dad came to take them back to the care home.

I sit and listen, stunned. Then a piercing feeling sweeps over me; we’re not strangers, Mary and me. We never have been.

Later, as we walk back along the canal bank in the afternoon sunlight, Mary gives me a playful nudge and tells me that I’ve lied to her. I stop instantly, panicked, and then smile: ‘You mean pretending to forget about my guitar?’

‘No,’ she laughs. ‘You lied about the sandwich. You said it was nice and I know it was horrible. The only thing I had in that day to give you was a slice off the Sunday roast and it had only been in the oven for 20 minutes.’ Her smile widens. ‘So you lied . . . but it was a nice lie.’

I look at her and laugh.

The walk along the canal becomes a habit. It gives us time together, a place to be where we can be alone to confide in each other – even a place to make a few meaningless daisy chains. Mary visits the boys with me in the Acorns; I carry my guitar and Mary always brings them a bag of succulent peaches. I couldn’t be more comfortable with her, but I sometimes find it strange to be in her company because I’m not used to friendships. I don’t trust them – they hurt. But Mary is different: she is security and trust, a warm feeling of comfort. I worry at night that I might lose or hurt her in some way. During the day it’s easier to believe that things might go well for once, and that this hot, miraculous summer could last for ever. The songs we listen to become the soundtrack to our first weeks together: when I hear ‘Maggie May’ or ‘Stand By Me’, I think immediately of Mary, and when the Beatles sing ‘Something’, I find myself crying along inside.

Just when things seem as if they can’t get any better, I’m informed by the Welfare Department that the boys are allowed to come home. I’m given a grant to buy beds, blankets and clothes – we’ve already managed to stretch our limited finances to a telly, dining table and double bed for me – and the pleasure of shopping for it all makes me delirious. Everything is brand new and boxed up; no auction house rubbish, no hand-me-downs. The boys are coming home!

That night I catch the bus into Hyde, wanting to share my news with Mary. We’ve shared so much already, but this is special and I’m walking on air as I head down the street, past a gang of youngsters on the corner – skinheads mostly, in Wrangler’s and Doc Martens, sitting astride Vespas. The girls in the gang tease and flirt, while the boys talk loudly. I smile at the young pretenders, realising that my trusty leather jacket and what it signifies is becoming a little faded.

At Mary Street, I turn, amused as always to think that only Mary could live in a street named after her. Georgina, a friend of Mary’s, opens the door. I’m bursting with my news and walk quickly into the sitting room, which smells of freshly sprayed perfume. But Mary isn’t there. I stand with a smile frozen to my face, staring at the other girl in front of me, while Georgina watches us both curiously.

‘Hi, I didn’t expect to see you today. Is everything all right?’ The girl’s voice reveals that she is, in fact, my Mary. But I’ve never seen her wearing make-up and a skirt before, and I’m lost for words. She looks stunning, nothing like the tomboy I’ve grown to care so deeply about; this is a young woman ready to hit the town and my elation vanishes in a pool of embarrassment. I feel a fool, an intruder, aware suddenly that Mary has a life of her own apart from me, with friends I’ve never met.

I need to be out of here. I need to be alone. I feel wrong and out of place, old and finished, grasping that the young pretenders on the corner are waiting for her. But with an understanding far beyond her years, Mary senses my humiliation and shock. As I apologise non-stop, with infinite tact she guides Georgina through to the kitchen and talks to her quietly. I hear her promising to catch up later, and when the two of them emerge, Georgina throws me an unfriendly, meaningful look.

A slow trickle of relief warms my veins. I’m still here and I’m with Mary – a very different-looking Mary, but it’s still her. Doing the right thing, I offer, ‘I should go and let you see your friends.’

She responds as I’d hoped: ‘No, let’s go for a walk. It doesn’t matter about my friends – I can see them another time. Let’s go.’

A smile breaks across my face.

Together we walk through Hyde and I tell her my news. She’s overjoyed and suggests coming to the red house, as we call it, to help me set up the beds and get the place ready for the boys. They won’t be home for a couple of weeks, but that’s OK; we’ll use the time to prepare everything. Deep in discussion, we end up on a bench at the bus station, where the last bus to Manchester is due to pull out in a few minutes. As we talk, I become increasingly aware of everything about this gorgeous new Mary; my friendship with the tomboy is fading fast and I’m already battling with something else, its heat and strength pulsating through me.

The bus revs its engine while the last of the passengers board. When the driver leans out of his window to shout ‘Last bus!’, I look silently at Mary, and when the bus growls away from the station, its headlights fading along the dark road, I edge a little closer to her.

At two o’clock in the morning, we’re still sitting on the bench and Mary tells me I’ll have to stay the night at her house; she’ll sort it with Big Martin. I’m only too happy to go along with her suggestion. When we get home, I wait downstairs while she goes up to speak to her father in bed, feeling glad beyond reason to be there with her.

Mary fetches bedding, telling me with a grin that Big Martin’s only concern is that I get a good breakfast in the morning. She makes up a bed on the settee. Now that she’s removed her coat, I’m more conscious of her than ever and try not to stare at her short skirt. She doesn’t seem to notice, teasing me that I’m too big to be tucked in and she’ll see me in the morning – she’s off to bed.

I don’t sleep. Mary has built up the fire and I spend the hours waiting for dawn staring into the flames. In my head I hear ‘Maggie May’ on a perpetual loop. I look fondly but regretfully at my leather jacket over the back of a chair and think it’s time we parted at last. The world is changing and I want to be part of it. But inside me is the sadness of recognising that my future is here, and that there is no more Maureen or Joyce, no more bad times, only Mary. I’m letting go. I’m about to be the somebody I always wanted to be: myself.

Mary is always in my thoughts over the next few days. I’m happy visiting the boys, bringing along the peaches from her. At the red house, I’m quiet, with this feeling growing inside me; Dad is suspicious but doesn’t ask any questions. At night I can’t sleep, beginning to worry about something new: how to protect my friendship with Mary from what’s going on within me. I write to her, asking if she’ll meet me at the bandstand in the park. I add that everything is fine, but I need to speak to her. I’m sure she sees me as nothing more than a close friend, which is what I want most – or what I tell myself while I’m busy thinking of her as much more than that.