The Old House on the Corner (12 page)

‘Husband,’ he said quickly, as she’d guessed he would. He was terribly old-fashioned. He probably still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that people lived together quite openly these days.

‘I love you,’ she said, kissing his nose. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she yelped and dodged out of his way when he made a grab for her. If they made love again, she’d never get out of the house.

Kathleen still had her hand on the knocker of Clematis Cottage when the door opened, so suddenly, that she was taken by surprise. A tall, extremely fit-looking, white-haired man smiled at her.

‘I’m just fixing a bell,’ he explained. ‘I was right behind the door. It plays
The Minute Waltz
by Chopin. Me wife picked it out.’

‘It’s one of my favourites,’ Kathleen said.

‘Who’s there?’ a sweet voice called. ‘Whoever it is, come in. Ernie’s sulking. He wanted
The Red Flag
, but I talked him out of it.’

‘You bullied me out of it, Anna,’ Ernie said. ‘And I’m not sulking. I’m doing as I’m told like I always do. Go on in, luv. Anna’s in the parlour.’

The geography was exactly the same as their own bungalow: the living room and main bedroom at the front, kitchen and second bedroom to the rear with a
small bathroom and toilet squeezed between. She went into the room that Steve – and the white-haired man – referred to as ‘the parlour’. It was hard to believe that people had only recently moved in. The furniture looked as if it had been there for years: a china cabinet full of dishes and ornaments, a sideboard, statues on the mantelpiece, Impressionist prints on the walls. Carpet with an intense whirly design had been laid on the wood-laminated floor. A petite, silver-haired woman was sitting in a straight-back, padded chair, her feet on a footstool. She wore a yellow cotton sweatshirt and white trousers. Oversized gypsy earrings dangled from her tiny ears. She seemed delighted to have a visitor.

‘I’m Kathleen Cartwright from next door.’ She extended her hand and the woman seized it, although her grip was surprisingly limp. Kathleen knew immediately she had something wrong with her. ‘How do you do?’

‘I’m very well, dear. I’m Anna Burrows and my sourpuss of a husband is called Ernie.’

‘He seemed very charming to me.’

Anna’s blue eyes danced with mischief. ‘He’s just putting it on. He’s a monster when there’s no one else around to protect me.’

‘I’m sure that isn’t true,’ Kathleen protested.

‘Of course it isn’t true. He’s an old darling. I adore him, but I didn’t think
The Red Flag
was right for a doorbell. I don’t want all and sundry knowing our politics.’

‘You should be proud of your beliefs,’ Ernie shouted from the hall.

‘Now you’re eavesdropping, Ernie. Make Kathleen and I some tea, there’s a dear. Or would you prefer
coffee, Kathleen? And we’ve got sherry: medium, I think it is.’

‘Tea would be fine, thanks.’ She must be ill. She wasn’t the sort of woman who would ask her husband to do things if she was able to do them herself.

‘You’re not from Liverpool, are you, dear? I can detect a trace of an accent, but not from round here. I’d say Yorkshire. Am I right?’

Kathleen gasped. ‘You’re quite remarkable. I didn’t think I had any sort of accent, but I was born in Yorkshire and lived there all my life, until now, that is.’

‘I’m good at accents.’ She looked very pleased with herself. ‘I was on the stage when I was young. I even made a film once,’ she said proudly, ‘but I’ve never met anyone who’s seen it.’

‘What was it called?’ Kathleen had belonged to a film society in Huddersfield where obscure films were sometimes shown.

‘
The Fatal Hour
, but it’s not the one with Boris Karloff. Mine was made in Hungary before the war. I was only eighteen. I’m not sure if it was ever released. Ernie’s tried to track it down, but no luck, I’m afraid.’

‘I’d love to see it,’ Kathleen said sincerely. She found Anna Burrows quite delightful. Then Ernie came in with the tea, and she saw the way he glanced at his sparkling wife, the way she looked back at him, her blue eyes full of love. He put the thin, china cup in her hands. ‘Can you manage it, luv?’ he said gruffly.

Is this what Steve and I will be like when we’re this old? she wondered. If Anna had made a film before the war, she must be in her eighties.

‘Now, Kathleen,’ Anna said firmly when Ernie had returned to fixing the doorbell. ‘All I’ve done since you
came is talk about myself. Tell me, dear, what do you do? I wouldn’t be surprised if you told me you were a film star or a model. You’re beautiful enough.’

It was almost an hour later when Kathleen returned home. Steve was coming out of the bathroom, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

‘I thought you’d left
me
,’ he grumbled. ‘What took you so long?’

‘I just met this marvellous couple,’ she enthused. ‘Anna’s had multiple sclerosis for years, but it doesn’t get her down, not a bit. And Ernie’s wonderful. He waits on her hand and foot and it’s obvious they love each other very much.’ She paused for breath. ‘Anyway, you’ll be pleased to know we’re taking them to lunch.’

Steve didn’t look even faintly pleased. ‘Are they posh?’ he asked.

‘Anna is, Ernie isn’t. He was very impressed when I said you’d been a miner. Anna asked us to lunch first, but we decided we couldn’t all fit in their little car. The boot isn’t big enough for her wheelchair and it usually goes on the back seat, so I said I’d take them in ours.’ The Mercedes was actually hers, but she wanted Steve to think of it as belonging to them both.

‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,’ he sighed. ‘I just want you to meself, that’s all.’

‘I know, darling. But you’ll like Anna and Ernie, I promise. Oh, and I told them we’d only just got married, that we were both divorced. Anna wanted to know my life history – later, she’ll probably want to know yours. I couldn’t very well pretend Michael and Jean had never existed.’ She glanced at the phone and wondered if he’d rung Brenda while she’d been out.

*

Marie had asked Sarah and her children to lunch. ‘It’ll give you a wee break. It’s only salad with trifle for afters.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah said apologetically, ‘but the children won’t eat salad. All they like is beans or spaghetti rings on toast.’

‘Ah, so did my lads when they were little. I was forgetting how finicky little children are. I can do beans on toast no problem. Have you tried them with fish fingers?’

Liam said he was glad she’d made a friend, but when Patrick and Danny arrived, they were more than a bit put out to discover they’d be sharing the meal with strangers. ‘Oh, Ma, you shouldn’t have asked them,’ Danny complained, although when Sarah and the children arrived, Marie noticed Patrick couldn’t keep his eyes off Sarah’s bare, brown midriff, and Tiffany formed an instant crush on Danny. Danny pretended not to care, but Marie could tell he was flattered.

From the window, Rachel had seen Sarah and the children come trooping out of number one and go next door to the Jordans’. As far as she knew, they were still there. They must be having lunch. Sarah must have done something to make Mrs Jordan feel sorry for her. What she didn’t realize was, given half a chance, Sarah would put on her ‘helpless little me’ act, and make off with her husband.

‘It can’t go on like this,’ Rachel had sternly told a blurry-eyed Sarah that morning when she’d taken the children home and found their mother fast asleep in bed. ‘You must get new locks on the doors, the sort that can be locked inside as well as out and hide the key in a place where the children can’t find it. Jack was about to wander into the road until Gareth Moran captured him.’
It had genuinely frightened Rachel, who knew to her cost what could happen to small children when they were out on their own.

‘I’m sorry,’ Sarah had replied in a voice as blurry as her eyes. ‘It’s just that I’m so tired.’

‘I’ve gone through the same sort of thing, being kept awake all night by a crying baby. You’ll just have to learn to cope, as other mothers do.’

Sarah had looked at her oddly, as if she was wondering why the woman who had been so obliging the day before, had even offered to babysit, had so quickly changed. It was all Frank’s fault. He shouldn’t have started flirting with the girl. She’d wanted to be Sarah’s friend, but he’d spoilt it.

Frank had taken James for a drink. Neither had thought to invite her. Perhaps they’d only gone to get away from her, the inadequate wife, the useless mother.

Rachel went into the kitchen to get the dinner ready. It would have to be something that could easily be warmed up later when her husband and son came home and that could be any time. She was peeling potatoes, wondering what to have with them, when she heard laughter outside, and immediately went to see who it was. Victoria was having a friend round for a meal, Carrie. Perhaps she was bringing Carrie to meet her, she thought hopefully. She felt badly in need of company.

Instead, the laughter was coming from Anna and Ernie Burrows and the people from next door, the Cart-wrights, who were all slowly making their way towards the garages. Anna was leaning on Mrs Cartwright’s arm. Rachel had only glimpsed her once and she really was quite lovely. She wore a scarlet dress with no sleeves that fitted her slim figure perfectly. And that hair – so thick and smooth and shiny, it looked like silk, the way it fell
forward when she bent to speak to Anna. Rachel fingered her own lifeless brown hair, lying flat against her head, and felt deeply envious.

She wondered how the couples had become friendly enough to go out together – almost certainly to lunch. Mr Cartwright, who reminded her of a younger Sean Connery, rolled up the garage door, revealing a gleaming black Mercedes. He backed the car out, everyone got in, Anna with some difficulty and a great amount of giggling. Ernie Burrows transferred a wheelchair from his own car into the boot of the other, and they drove away.

Tears pricked Rachel’s eyes. Four of the families in the square were lunching with each other and no one had thought to ask
her
, yet she’d tried her hardest to be friendly, arranging a barbecue so everyone could get to know each other. Perhaps she’d tried too hard and it had put them off.

She felt even worse when a crowd of people arrived and made for Hamilton Lodge, and she realized she was the only one in Victoria Square who was in the house by herself.

Gareth was becoming paranoid. Was this going to be a regular event, having the Hamiltons for Sunday dinner, the whole tribe of them – the widow Joyce (Debbie’s mother), Kelly and Tracy (Debbie’s elder sisters), Grant and Luke (Debbie’s younger brothers), and Keith and Ivor (Debbie’s elder sisters’ boyfriends)? It hadn’t happened when they’d lived in the flat in Woolton, because there hadn’t been the room or the chairs for them to sit on or a table big enough for them to sit around. In those days, they’d come surreptitiously in their twos and threes.

When they’d moved, he’d argued with Debbie when
she’d insisted on buying a table that, when opened, could seat twelve, little realizing that the Hamiltons were about to descend upon them every Sunday
en masse
, and no doubt at Christmas and on Bank Holidays too.

The girls helped cook the meal, while the men sat in the front room drinking beer, can after can. To Gareth’s horror, he began to count them, working out how much they’d cost. He reckoned, between them, they’d drunk about twenty quid’s worth before everyone sat down to the joint of beef that had set him back … He tried not to think how much the meat had cost, or the wine, or the massive cream and peach gateau for afters, or whether Debbie had bought one or two.

As well as paranoid, he was beginning to feel like a milch cow kept soley to provide milk. He was now a milch man, kept to provide food for his wife’s family, plus various hangers-on.

‘You’re awfully quiet, Gar,’ Debbie said. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘No,’ he muttered. ‘I’m thinking.’ He glanced at her and his heart melted. She looked good enough to eat herself, her dark hair in plaits, and wearing a shell pink top he’d never seen before and pale blue matador pants he’d never seen before either. The blue sandals with impossibly high heels were strangers to him too. No doubt they’d been in the bags she’d been surrounded by in Bluecoat Chambers the day before. The make-up on her small, elf-like face was a work of art, which wasn’t surprising, seeing as she was a beautician.

Kelly’s frilly blue top, he recognized. He’d actually been with Debbie when she’d bought it a few weeks ago, wincing at the price. He’d only seen it on her a few times and it would seem she’d passed it on to her sister. Kelly couldn’t have afforded the top out of a shop
assistant’s wages. Not only were they feeding the Hamiltons, but it would appear they were clothing them too.

It was midnight in Victoria Square. Ernest was in bed, listening to Anna’s quiet breathing and saying his nine times table under his breath – he’d always found it the most difficult. He felt triumphant when he reached nine times twelve without a pause. Maybe his mind wasn’t going, after all. He counted down from a hundred, just to make sure, and managed it successfully.

Before going to bed, while Steve was still in the bathroom, Kathleen picked up the phone and found there was a message on voicemail. She felt slightly sick when she pressed seven and the message began to play.

‘It’s Brenda,’ announced a hard, brittle voice. ‘Just thought you’d like to know, Dad, that Mam’s not stopped crying all day and it’s all your fault. How could you do this to her? How could you be so cruel? If she carries on much longer, she’s going to be really ill and you’ll have
that
on your conscience for the rest of your days – and that tart of a doctor you’ve taken up with …’

Kathleen wasn’t prepared to listen to any more. She pressed three for delete, then pulled the plug out of the phone. Tomorrow, while Steve was at his job interview, she’d change the number and ask to go ex-directory.

Victoria was still emptying drawers. Her back ached from bending down. ‘What am I supposed to do with all this lot, Gran?’ she asked when she opened the drawer in her grandmother’s wardrobe and found it full of bedding. Normal bedding, she could have left for whoever rented the place, but nowadays people would turn up their
noses at flannelette sheets full of darns, no matter how sparklingly white they were or how neat the darns. There were also loads of blankets, the hard, thick sort that itched your skin if they happened to touch you during the night.