Evil Relations (44 page)

When the day arrives for our meeting, she isn’t there. I wait on the empty bandstand below the fancy ironwork of the round roof, not knowing what I’m going to say. There’s been no hint of romance, nothing to show that our friendship might lead to something more. We haven’t even held hands. I walk in circles, asking myself what the hell I’m doing, what I’m going to tell her . . . Then I spot her in the familiar Crombie, running towards me across the grass. She’s flustered and breathless, that big smile on her face. The tomboy is back – she has a shawl over her head that frames her smile – but I no longer think of her as a tomboy at all.

My sleepless nights and worries disappear. I lie that there’s no problem, I just wanted to see her. She tells me it’s her birthday at the weekend and it would be nice if I could come down and have a drink with her. I nod and smile, puzzled about the shawl. When I tease her about it, she blushes and laughs, explaining that she was at the hairdresser’s when she suddenly remembered our meeting. Her haircut is only half-finished and she slowly removes the shawl to reveal half of a new Mary. My mouth falls open in surprise: part of her head is shaved to the skin, while the other half – straight down the middle – is still in the familiar feathered cut.

We both begin to laugh and play a game: which Mary do we like best? She struts the bandstand, turning first this way and then that, singing, showing off both sides of herself. Every last worry I’ve ever had is blown away, taking me even closer to where I want to be – with her, always with her.

I dress up for Mary’s birthday, binning my old leather jacket in favour of a new one, a shirt and tie, and polished shoes. When I arrive at her house, I’m glad to find it isn’t a party as such, just me, Mary and her friend Christine, whom I like and call ‘Pilchard’ because she’s so small. We head out to a pub that’s just a short walk from Big Martin’s house, with both girls dressed to the nines. Mary looks more striking than ever with her buzz-cut and perfect make-up. In the pub, I happily get the rounds in, then return to join the girls, listening with interest as they chat about things I’ve never paid attention to before – their friends, who’s going out with who, what happened at the weekend. I’m on cloud nine about everything except their short skirts; when they visit the Ladies, I look at their legs and feel alarmed by the feelings I’d forgotten that are now flooding back through me in a torrent.

Afterwards we walk home together cheerfully. On the way, Mary suddenly puts her arm through mine, a small, innocent gesture that sends my nerve-ends skywards. Her grip is tight and she presses hard against my side. I know then that this is it: I really have to let go of the past if I want something to happen with Mary, something real.

The girls share Mary’s bedroom and I’ve accidentally-on-purpose missed the last bus again. I’m offered the settee for the second time and am more than pleased. When Pilchard goes to bed, Mary arranges my blankets and I make small talk while secretly looking at every inch of her. She comes to kiss me on the cheek and say
see you in the morning
, and I hold back for a moment, then kiss her on the mouth, not hard but enough for it to linger. Her breath enters me, as I look at her and whisper, ‘Happy birthday, Mary.’

She leaves the room silently and I sit alone, staring into the flames of the banked-up fire in a welter of confusion, hoping the door will open and Mary will be there, but it doesn’t and she isn’t.

I shut my eyes and try to sleep.

Mary doesn’t come to me that night, but everything changes afterwards, moving in the right direction. Within days we’re spending a lot of time kissing; Mary controls the temperature on our fledgling relationship and turns down the heat when necessary. I respect the situation, but with typical male difficulty, though Big Martin’s empty chair in the evening serves as a useful reminder to behave myself.

The closeness between us grows. Mary joins me at the red house and together we clean the place from top to bottom, adding proper pots and pans to the kitchen, cleaning the windows and hanging decent curtains. Even the filthy bathroom is brought back to life and we light a big, open coal fire at teatime, eating fish and chips before its cosy glow. Then the biggest day so far arrives: the all-important beds are shuttled up the stairs to the rooms where the boys will sleep and Mary rips off the thin polythene so that we can start assembling them. We’ve bought three bedside tables too, and I leave it to Mary to arrange the final position of everything.

One afternoon I visit a shop to have a duplicate front-door key cut. Dad has one key, I have another and I want Mary to have the third. When I hold it out to her, telling her that if she ever wants to see me she must use the key because it belongs to her, she answers that she doesn’t need it. I persist, picking my words carefully, repeating,
no, please listen, use the key if you really want to see me
. Then she understands and accepts the key, tucking it away in her pocket.

The only blot on the landscape is Dad. He’s started to play mind games again: while Mary is at the red house, he’s considerate and complimentary towards her, but when she’s gone he talks incessantly about Maureen and how I should find her for the boys’ sake, so that we can be a family again. He conveniently forgets the hours he spent with Mary while I was in prison, blubbing on her shoulder, the care she gave his grandsons while he was at the pub, and – most infuriating of all – he forgets how much he and Maureen despised each other.

The day before the boys are due home, Mary tells me she has a job interview at Henrique’s sewing-machine factory. We’re both hopeful that she’ll get it and in high spirits as we walk to the telephone box to call for a taxi into Hyde. We talk nineteen-to-the-dozen while we wait; Mary quietly explains that she intends to stay away for a while to allow me and the boys to settle down together and, although I know it’s the wise thing to do, I can’t help feeling dismayed at the thought of not seeing her. She adds that I need to be very patient in the days to come because it’s been a long and disruptive time for the boys as well. Then she writes down the number of the phone box so that we can speak to each other in a few days.

The taxi arrives too soon. I wish her good luck with the job interview and say goodbye with a long, hard kiss. She gives me a gentle nudge, telling me to return to the house and check the boys’ bedroom. As soon as the taxi rumbles away, I head home and dive upstairs. Standing in the doorway of the bedroom, I can see it immediately: sitting on one of the bedside tables is a basket of fresh peaches with a propped-up card that simply reads: ‘Love from Mary.’

I’ve told the Welfare Officers that I’d like to collect the boys and bring them home from the Acorns myself, and I’ve told Dad the same thing. He grumbles, but it washes over me; this day belongs to no one but my sons and me.

I walk slowly through the Acorns’ private grounds, squinting up at the sunlight filtering through the thick trees. My heart soars: this is the beginning of everything. Inside the building, young children with neatly pressed clothes and hopeful faces run up to me asking, ‘Are you my daddy?’ I pause for breath; although I’m used to the question, having heard it every time I’ve visited the Acorns, it still hurts to hear it, realising that every child’s situation is heart-breaking. The older children sit sullenly at tables or slouch in chairs, their eyes hard and cold.

A chatty member of staff shows me through to where Paul, David and John are waiting. Nurse Josephine is with them. It’s her day off, but she’s grown so close to the boys that I’m not surprised to find her here, dressed in ‘civilian’ clothes, with her long hair loose, looking nothing like the girl in the blue uniform whom I’ve met so often on my visits to the home. The boys are the picture of health and happiness, clean and tidy in new shoes, new coats and each topped off with a fine new haircut. I greet them all together with a mammoth hug, and Nurse Josephine’s eyes begin to water unprofessionally. She hands me three bags of jumpers, socks and underwear that she’s bought for the boys from her own wages. I take them gratefully, my own eyes welling. As we walk to the door, David slips his hand into hers; he was always her favourite. Paul and John leap up and down, shouting excitedly in unison, ‘Have you got our beds, Dad, have you got our beds?’

There are no forms for me to sign, but members of staff and young residents delay our departure, gathering in the hallway to wish us good luck and goodbye. A taxi waits by the main entrance; I ordered one to take us back to the red house and, as we climb in, everyone but Nurse Josephine disappears indoors. She stands on the steps, tears streaming down her kind young face, putting up two thumbs. We do the same to her, smiling.

Then the taxi pulls away and the home is gone for ever.

My first week alone with the boys and Dad at home is a steep learning curve. At first I try to replicate the orderly routine of the Acorns, and Nurse Josephine hovers in my head as an example of calm and gentle discipline. I do my best to keep the house spotless, and find that part relatively easy; I’m very domesticated from those years of living in Gorton with Dad and being on my own so often. But being a stay-at-home father is a different ball game altogether.

No matter how early I rouse myself from bed, I’m forever chasing jobs that need to be done. Somehow I manage to clean the house, cook regular meals and ensure that the boys are fine, but I’m useless at remembering to put the bins out and always arrive at the laundry five minutes after it’s closed. I don’t bother putting on the Image any more in the morning – there’s no time for vanities. I pull on whatever is to hand, usually yesterday’s jumper, jeans and a pair of odd socks. My hair sticks up in weird peaks because I forget to run a comb through it. If I caught sight of myself in the window of Sivori’s now, I wouldn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

My biggest irritant by far is Dad. I had no idea that he was such a slob. Although there are ashtrays in the house, he never uses one, preferring instead to sit in his chair flick-flick-flicking the ash onto the floor. His half-empty cup of cold tea and crumb-crusted plate are left unwashed next to the sink and he never makes his bed. Collecting his clothes from the bedroom floor is a chore I could do without and as for his constant farting and rowdy belching . . . I’m not even sure he realises he’s doing it half the time. All I know is that his filthy habits are magnified by the fact that I’m the one who has to deal with the mess and stink he leaves behind.

Apart from Dad’s unsavoury behaviour, I’m a happy, if very tired, man. I miss Mary, but we talk on the phone every night after she arrives home from work; she got the job at Henrique’s. I make an effort to maintain the standards she sets in her own home and think I’m succeeding pretty well, especially when I sit down to a meal I’ve cooked myself with the boys. That’s our special time; I make sure there’s plenty of food left for Dad when he comes in later, but I revel in having the boys to myself. The meals become like markers as the week progresses, and before I know it the weekend is here and Mary and I are making arrangements for me to visit her in Hyde with the boys. She suggests a picnic and I know at once where we should go: my old cave, the Tom Sawyer hideaway in Alderley Edge. I haven’t been there since I was a kid and am excited about going back with my own children and Mary.

I rise early on Saturday morning and head straight out to the shops, returning with a cooked chicken, breadsticks, cheese, biscuits and the two biggest watermelons I can find. After I’ve packed everything away I indulge myself in a long bath, then shave and dress. I feel the business again, from head to toe. I get the boys ready and the feeling of going on an adventure steals over us all. They’re looking forward to seeing Mary again, too.

In the room next door I can hear Dad blowing off as he gets up. He’s maddened that I’m taking the boys out with Mary, not because he wants to be with us – his day is already plotted and involves beer and gambling, as usual – but because he’s still banging on about a reconciliation with Maureen. I ignore him and shuffle the boys downstairs and out onto the sun-flecked street, so happy I could fly.

Being with Mary and the boys is a dream come true. The train journey passes quickly; I sit as close to Mary as I can, holding her hand and frequently kissing her. The boys are wide-eyed at the scenery rushing by and when it’s time to disembark we pile out in a noisy, laughing bundle.

The cave is just as I remember it, and the field and the trees lusher than memory. I sit at peace with Mary, eating chicken and melon and watching the boys scamper about. The past feels unreal now. I lean in for another kiss from Mary and the sun is hot on my back. We discuss her new job; she loves it, partly because it’s new to her. I look at her in interest, asking if she has done any machine work before, and her answer takes my breath away.

‘No,’ she tells me evenly. ‘I was a schoolgirl.’

I stare at her. It’s never occurred to me to ask before how old Mary is – not even on her birthday. But now I do and her reply takes the wind from my sails for a second time.

‘That night we celebrated my birthday with Christine down the pub – that was my 15th birthday.’ She speaks so matter-of-factly, and our history together is already so ingrained and precious, that I feel my shock beginning to subside. I remember the knowing look in Big Martin’s eyes and his empty chair. There are nine years between us, but the gap will soon narrow; it feels smaller with every second that passes. I kiss her gently but with more feeling than ever. I don’t see the girl or the tomboy. I just see Mary, my Mary.

Things change between us after our picnic with the boys. I don’t think about the age difference any more than I did before I became aware of it. We’re together and no one is going to come between us. But the need to be with each other is too strong to ignore. Mary tells Big Martin exactly how things are and he puts his trust in us. I don’t do the same with Dad – there’s no point and, as far as I’m concerned, it’s nothing to do with him anyway. But I am glad to know that Mary’s father believes in me.