The Old House on the Corner (47 page)

‘Corned beef. Did he have an Irish accent?’

‘Yeah, I think he did.’ His eyes widened. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?’

‘No, Danny, it’s just that I’ve changed my mind about the computer. I’m letting Sarah have it. You’re right, I shouldn’t have thought of selling it when we’re getting one for free.’ She cursed herself for being so greedy.

‘You’d better go to the shop and ask for the card back.’

‘I’ll go later.’ Except she couldn’t, not when Brigid O’Connor ne´e Kelly, sister of Enda, Mickey’s friend, would be behind the counter, insisting Marie had been at her wedding – which Marie had. She hadn’t mentioned the card to Liam when he’d come home last night, very late. He’d gone out again this morning without saying when he’d be back, and would think her very foolish: they were supposed to be keeping their heads down, not advertising things for sale. If he heard about the telephone call, he might decide they should move when Marie liked living in Victoria Square and surely Patrick was in no danger after all this time from the men who’d murdered her dear Mickey in cold blood?

‘You’ve been hours,’ Victoria cried when she threw open the door to Gareth’s special knock – he had to use a special knock so she would know it was him and not Danny or Tiffany who’d be very much in the way. ‘I thought you were only going to be five minutes. Where’s Tabitha?’

‘I forgot to bring him.’ His face was very grave.

‘What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve lost a pound and found a sixpence. Gran always used to say that,’ she explained.

‘My mum ses it too.’ Gareth came in and closed the door.

Victoria said, ‘You know I promised to think about you coming to New York, well I’ve decided …’ To her astonishment, Gareth pressed his hand hard against her lips, ‘Don’t say it,’ he whispered urgently. ‘Please don’t say what you’ve decided, I’d sooner not know.’

‘But Gareth,’ she managed to splutter through the fingers that smelled of orange-flavoured soap.

‘Debbie’s expecting a baby.’ He removed his hand and
they stood looking at each other for a very long time, neither speaking.

Eventually, she asked, ‘How did you find out? Is she home?’

‘She left a note on the fridge. There hasn’t been the opportunity to tell me face to face. We’ve hardly seen each other all week and whenever we did we had a fight.’

‘You can’t possibly leave now,’ she said dully.

Gareth sighed. ‘I know.’

During the time he’d been away, Victoria had come to a decision. ‘All’s fair in love and war,’ was another thing that Gran used to say. She would never love another man the way she loved Gareth and took it for granted he felt the same about her: God had made him for her and she for him. It was selfish, yet seemed only right that they should spend the rest of their lives together. Debbie would suffer in the process, but she couldn’t love Gareth all that much or she wouldn’t make him so unhappy. One day, she felt sure that Debbie would find someone else.

But now Debbie was having a baby and it was all over.

‘I’ll always love you,’ Gareth murmured.

‘And me you.’ Victoria stood there, arms hanging limply by her side, feeling as if her heart was breaking to pieces in her breast.

‘Can we go upstairs?’ he asked in quivery voice.

‘I’d sooner not.’ Victoria numbly shook her head. ‘It’s one thing,
thinking
it might be the last time, but
knowing
would be too sad for words. I couldn’t stand it.’ She’d probably cry the whole way through. ‘I’ll make us some coffee.’

After she’d made it, they sat staring into the cups, not at each other, until the drink went cold and Victoria had
to heat it up in the microwave. They began to talk then, about last night’s adventure, the square, her house …

‘Have you been in touch with a decorator yet about having the place done up?’

‘I keep forgetting,’ Victoria confessed.

‘That’s good, because I was thinking … I was thinking …’ Gareth slammed the mug on the table. ‘Oh, Victoria!
Please
can we go upstairs?’

So they did, and they made love, but as Victoria had expected, she couldn’t stop crying the whole way through.

Judy had bought two bottles of wine: one red, one white. She put the white in the fridge for when Joe, Donna, and the children came and began to set the table. It was a good thing that Sam’s table folded into such a narrow strip because anything larger wouldn’t have fitted into the room. Extended, it took up almost half the floor space and she had to push the settee out of the way. It was a bit like putting a jigsaw together: it would take a while getting used to such a small house after Heathfield Road.

She fetched five chairs from the second bedroom and went to get the place mats and cutlery from the drawers in the kitchen where she’d put them earlier. On her way back, she opened the front door an inch to save her visitors from knocking – Donna had insisted on returning the key.

Sam’s cutlery was just a pile of odds and ends: some knives with highly decorative handles, although none were the same and the rest were wooden. The occasional knife matched the occasional fork and the spoons didn’t match anything, not even each other. Still, she wouldn’t have changed them for the world. She was laying them
on the table when she heard the door open and a voice called, ‘Are you there?’

‘Come in, Joe. I’m in the living room.’

A spoon dropped with a clatter on the table when, instead of her son and his family, her husband entered the room. ‘Harry!’ she gasped. ‘You’re the last person I expected. What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Just came to see how you were settling in, Jude,’ he said in a friendly voice.

She’d never known him dress so casually: jeans, a grey sweatshirt, trainers, and had forgotten how handsome he was: an older version of the man she’d met in the Cavern over forty years ago. She responded gladly to his friendly tone, having expected when they met again for the atmosphere to be strained. ‘I’ve hardly had time to settle in. It’s lovely to see you. Are you happy living in Thornton Hough?’

‘Extremely. It’s very quiet, no distractions. I read a lot, watch TV, think. I’ve started writing a book on photography.’ He seemed very content, clearly enjoying life on his own. ‘That’s a pretty frock,’ he said approvingly, ‘it suits you.’

Judy had discarded her skirt and top for a flowery chiffon dress with a cape collar and fluted hem. ‘It makes me feel young,’ she declared. In the past, during the bad years, he’d sometimes criticized her choice of clothes.

He glanced at the table. ‘Are you expecting company?’

‘Just Joe and Donna and the kids. They’re bringing a take away.’

‘I’d better not keep you.’

‘Why don’t you stay?’ she offered impulsively, hoping Joe and Donna wouldn’t mind. ‘There’s bound to be too much food. Would you like some wine while we wait?’

‘Yes, please.’ He smiled, and it was the smile of old,
his Alan Ladd smile. Perhaps they should have separated a long time ago.

She showed him around the house. Inevitably, he remarked on the furniture and she told him Josh had painted it. He was silent for a while, then said, ‘How is Sam taking things?’ It was the first time he’d spoken Sam’s name in a normal tone since his son had left home.

‘Pretty well. He’s gone abroad.’

‘I’ll never accept it you know, Jude.’ He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘Sam really let me down. I won’t forgive him for that.’

It was his attitude to Sam that had driven them apart. There’d been a time when his words would have driven her cold with rage, but now they meant nothing. She said, ‘Let’s not talk about it. You have your views and I have mine. Now that we’re not living together, it doesn’t matter what the other thinks.’

‘True, but we can still be friends, can’t we? See each other occasionally, have dinner?’ He looked at her keenly. ‘You’ve been the most important person in my life for over forty years, Judy. I’d hate it if we never saw each other again.’

She didn’t remind him that Sam had also been part of his life, but he’d managed to shut him out completely. There’d be no more scoring points.

They sat on the back step in the late afternoon sun, sipping wine and discussing what best to do with the garden, completely at ease. Judy felt as if she’d climbed a mountain and come safely down the other side.

Rachel lay flat on her back in the garden listening to the muted voices on the other side of the fence. She could just about make sense of what was being said. Judy Moon
and her visitor sounded as if they were good friends. Were they lovers? she wondered.

A bee buzzed angrily close to her ear and the parched grass prickled her arms and the back of her neck and wasn’t terribly comfortable, but she couldn’t be bothered going all the way to the garage for a garden chair – they’d have to find somewhere more convenient to keep them. Frank had started complaining about the lack of space to store things. ‘We shouldn’t have bought this bloody place,’ he’d grumbled that morning.

‘I love it here,’ Kirsty had argued. ‘Could we have a conservatory built, Mum? We could keep stuff there.’

Frank had thrown his daughter a thunderous look. He hated being reminded that it was his wife who had the money for things like conservatories.

‘I’ll look into it,’ Rachel had promised, although she hadn’t. It meant searching through the Yellow Pages for a builder, picking up the phone, tapping in the number, speaking to a stranger, and she no longer had the confidence, or the willpower, even the strength, to carry out such a daunting task. Instead, after going next door to introduce herself to Judy Moon, seeing the wary look in the woman’s eyes – she quite obviously considered her mad and hadn’t invited her in, muttering something about having to meet someone in town in a short while – Rachel had returned home to lie on the grass where she’d been all day thinking about Alice: her first steps, her first words, her first day at playgroup, at school, the clothes she had been bought, the presents, the pictures she had drawn, the stories she had loved, her attempt to knit a scarf for her favourite doll. She remembered every single little thing that Alice had done before her life had been so cruelly cut short.

Kathleen had come round a few times, banging on the
door, calling her name, but hadn’t thought to look in the garden. Rachel had ignored her, not because she didn’t want to see Kathleen, but couldn’t be bothered shouting back or rising from her bed of prickly grass.

It was well past the time she should have started on the tea, but felt too scared to go into the kitchen. ‘I don’t know how you can live with yourself,’ Frank had said again that morning. Was he going to say that to her every day for the rest of her life until she decided she
couldn’t
live with herself and ended it? Was it just her imagination that he’d looked from her to the cooker, than back again, as if suggesting a way out? By then, James had left for work and Kirsty had gone over to the Jordans to call for Patrick. Shortly afterwards, Frank had gone himself without saying goodbye. The dream he’d had about Alice seemed to have brought back the horror of their loss and his grief was as raw as it had ever been. As usual, he was taking it out on his wife.

Rachel’s mother had had an electric cooker when they’d lived in the countryside and had never ceased to complain about it. Rachel had preferred gas ever since. They’d been asked for their preference before moving into the square. ‘Gas,’ Rachel had said emphatically.

She’d read somewhere that gas was the least unpleasant way of killing yourself. All you had to do was turn it on, put your head in the oven, and fall peacefully asleep. It was quite painless and much more efficient than lying on a railway line, swallowing tablets, or hanging – she’d only make a mess of the knot.

Tiffany had come to play outside. ‘Here we go round the mulberry bush,’ she sang in a clear, childish voice, ‘the mulberry bush, the mulberry bush. Here we go round the mulberry bush on a cold and frosty morning.’
She was probably dancing around the willow tree with Oliver.

Alice had used to sing the same song as she’d danced around the little apple tree in the garden in Lydiate holding James and Kirsty’s hands. Rachel had used to watch from the kitchen window, smiling, thinking what a beautiful sight it made. Sometimes, she’d join in.

‘Here we go round the mulberry bush …’

Rachel got to her feet with enormous difficulty. Her arms and legs felt as if they’d turned to concrete during her hours on the grass. The house was calling to her, inviting her inside, telling her it would be painless and afterwards her mind would be at peace. She walked stiffly, like a robot into the kitchen, turned the gas full on and opened the oven door. She removed the two top shelves, forced her concrete legs to bend so she was sitting on the floor and, with a deep sigh, rested her head on the remaining shelf. It was the only way out, the only thing left to do.

Ernest was watering the clematis in the pots by the front door. ‘I think they’ve grown at least an inch,’ he called to Anna.

‘Are there any signs of flowers?’

He examined the plants carefully and was forced to admit there wasn’t the faintest sign. ‘We’ve only had them a fortnight, luv.’ She got too impatient with plants, expecting them to become full-grown overnight. One of these days, he’d fix a strip of lattice each side of the front door for the flowers to climb up and wondered if he’d still be alive by the time they met at the top.

The little girl from across the square, Tiffany, was dancing around the willow tree with the teddy bear she was so fond of and singing a nursery rhyme. All of a
sudden, she made for Three Farthings and danced through the back door. A few minutes later, she danced back. ‘Excuse me,’ she said politely to Ernest, ‘but can you spare a glass of milk? Jack emptied ours into the paddling pool and Mummy’s gone to buy more. She’s very cross. Rachel wouldn’t answer when I asked her.’

‘Why, is Rachel cross too?’ Ernest had had no experience of talking to children and always felt very awkward with them.

‘No. She’s baking her head or something. She left the back door wide open.’

‘That’s a funny thing to do,’ he said in an attempt at joviality.