A Fatal Attachment (7 page)

Especially when coupled with another one: that Jamie, belatedly and astonishingly, had been brought to normality and maturity by another woman. That a social-worker-cum-postmistress—a woman she would doubtless be kind to and despise in her heart—had done what she had never been able to do: had found things in Jamie which could be nurtured and strengthened, and by that loving care he had been saved. Was it that that gave Jamie that look when he gazed at her, that look of . . . amused tolerance?

Draining her glass she was suddenly seized by rage. She picked up the cushions on the sofa and flung them one by one at the wall, sending pictures askew, breaking a small ornament that fell from the sideboard. Then she seized those from the chairs and sent them flying at the windows, kicked the desk chair viciously and then took up her glass again and sent it to shatter against the solid oak door.

Then she ran sobbing with rage and frustration to her bedroom.

• • •

“Well, you did have a night last night,” said Molly Kegan, Lydia's cleaning woman, when she saw the room the next morning. The two women smiled at each other. Lydia had not bothered to clean up. The two understood each other too well for that sort of subterfuge.

“A little release of tension,” Lydia said.

“Book not going well?”

“Molly, when have you known me get worked up like that over a book?”

“Always a first time.”

“I had a visit from my ex-husband last night.”

The cleaning woman smiled and nodded.

“Oh well, there you are. Ex-husbands produce that kind of feeling. Husbands too, for that matter.” Mrs Kegan was a divorced woman herself—unqualified,
but much too intelligent for the charring work she was forced to undertake for her living. She had given herself to marriage and children, and now only the children remained. “What did he want—money?”

“Oh no—there was no question of my giving him money.”

“Well, he surely didn't come just to talk over old times, did he?”

“No, he came to tell me that he has moved back to the area. He has a farm over near Kedgely. Organic, naturally: Jamie always was one for fads.”

“And you don't want him anywhere near you?”

“Not in the least. Of all the farms in England he could have brought to bankruptcy, he has to choose one five miles from me!”

“Why did he, do you think? Spite? To harass you in some way or other?”

“I don't know. . . . There's a woman involved, but I don't know which came first, the woman or the farm.”

“Ah well,” said Molly Kegan, beginning to pick up the cushions. “What can't be cured must be endured.”

“What a
spineless
proverb!” said Lydia. “I bet if your husband came to live around here you'd do something.”

“Apply for a court order,” said Molly Kegan promptly. “There was physical violence, as you know. And there was mistreatment of the children. But you had nothing to complain of in that way, did you, Lydia?”

“Good Lord, no. All I had to complain of was that he was totally spineless and ineffectual. The original nowhere man.”

“There you are. Nothing to complain of at all.”

“S
TOP
yer bawling!” yelled Kelly Hoddle to the baby in the back seat. “We're going to Yorkshire whether you like it or not . . . And whether I like it or not.”

The addition was said without rancour—a mere conversational gambit. Maurice Hoddle accepted it as such and grinned down at his wife.

“You know you'll enjoy showing off the baby,” he said. “You'll get on fine when you're there.”

“I always get on fine with people who accept me for what I am.”

It was a matter-of-fact statement that was nothing less than the truth. Her husband looked at her with affection. The glorious not-quite-for-real blonde hair, the cheekily made-up face that gave her the look of a dissolute elf, the fine breasts and glorious legs that Kelly habitually flaunted with tight short skirts. Maurice felt a sudden spurt of lust that was incompatible with driving up the M1. He turned his eyes back to the road.

Kelly had hit the nail on the head as usual: people who could accept her as she was loved her—loved her sexually precocious gamine style, her unashamed Birmingham accent, her frank enjoyment of the physical and her uproarious love of all sorts of bad jokes. He had heard her laughter before he had seen her. It was at a casting session for
Waterloo Terrace,
and the moment he did see her he had known that she was right for the role, and right for him.

The role had been that of Sharon, the relief barmaid at the Dog and Whistle. So popular had been her cheekiness and the blatancy of her sexual aggression that the original three months' contract had been extended to two years. By then they were married, Kelly was pregnant, and was pronouncing the part “boring.” She was always wanting to go on to something else—that was part of her appeal. But the parts, when they had come (and Maurice was in a position to make sure that they did come) had mostly been variations on
Sharon the barmaid. Everyone had assumed that, like most actors in soaps, Kelly had taken a part that was not too far from her own personality. But though that was true of what might be called the basic Kelly, Maurice knew that she had many different sides to her personality, that she played from minute to minute many different roles. Though he would have admitted that she was never going to play Cordelia or any of the three sisters he knew better than anyone that as yet she had not been fully stretched.

“I suppose you'll be going up to see that old cow,” she said now, Maurice laughed, but his hands tightened on the steering-wheel and his voice, though it was chaffing in tone, did not hold real amusement.

“Now who could you mean by that? Lydia, conceivably? Yes—I'll go up and see her for old times' sake. My thick skin can take all the comments, spoken and unspoken, on the undignified and shoddy world of television.”

“I'll be more interested to hear the comments on the common and sluttish nature of your wife. Because don't think I'll be going with you.”

“On the whole it might be better if you didn't.”

“Snooty old cow. Thinks her farts don't smell.”

“You did rather overdo your act, the one time you met.”

“Of course I did. Terribly well-bred people always give me the gips. . . . What part of my ‘act' are you referring to, incidentally?”

“The ‘born on the wrong side of the tracks' part.”

Kelly gave a throaty laugh.

“That's no act.”

“I've never actually heard your parents use a four-letter word. Nor do they keep their coal in the bath-tub, or live off National Assistance.”

Kelly winked delightedly.

“I'll be overdoing my act again if she's unfortunate enough to encounter me in Bly. But I doubt if she will. She'll stick to her cottage—cottage! I'll bet it's no cottage!—the whole weekend. The spider at the centre of her web. Or that thing that devours her males. . . . I should hate her by rights.”

Maurice's body was still tense, but he tried a careless laugh.

“Nonsense. I was never devoured.”

“Of course you were. You had to . . . recreate yourself. I've talked to people who knew you when you started at Midlands Television. They say you were uncertain who you were, what you were doing, and had a gigantic inferiority complex about your brother.”

Maurice's mouth crinkled with displeasure. Clearly this was news to him.

“Is that what they say about me? Lovely friends I have down there!”

“Good friends will tell the truth.”

“If that's what they think about me, perhaps it is time I made a move.”

“A move?”

She looked at him sharply. He drove on, more relaxed now they had got off the subject of his aunt.

“There have been some . . . feelers out, from Yorkshire Television.”

“You've kept bloody quiet about them.”

“I'm telling you now. . . . What do you think?”

“You haven't told me what the job is yet.”

“Head of drama.”

Kelly let out a whistle, then looked at him suspiciously.

“Head
of drama? All drama? Not just the soaps?
Emmerdale
bleeding
Farm
and that sort of thing?”

“Head of drama. All drama . . . we could live in Leeds. We wouldn't necessarily want to live anywhere near Bly.”

“Too bloody right we'll live in Leeds. I wouldn't want that woman to get her talons into you again.”

“Don't get neurotic about Lydia. She's a figure in my past. From one point of view she's really rather pathetic.”

Kelly, unusually, kept her counsel and occupied herself with putting the baby to rights in his carry-cot strapped to the back seat. But after a few minutes she did say:

“Or into Matthew either, when the time comes.”

• • •

Two days earlier, on the Wednesday, the Bellingham boys had managed to get their mother along to the doctor's. Later, at tea time, they told Lydia about it.

“The doctor thinks she might have M.E.,” said Ted. Lydia furrowed her brow.

“M.E.? I think I've heard of it. I get confused by all these abbreviations . . .”

“Myalgic encephalomyelitis. It means you get sort of listless and exhausted. Can't summon up the energy to do anything.”

“You'd understand,” said Coin, “if you'd seen us trying to get her to the doctor's this morning.”

“Didn't she want to go?”

“I think she wanted to go,” said Ted seriously. “I mean, she
really
wanted to see him. She just didn't want to
go.
Didn't want to make the journey. And surgery's only the other end of High Street. I thought I could get her there on my own, but in the end Colin had to stay away from school too.”

“Pushing and shoving and half-carrying,” said Colin, demonstrating. “And Mum weeping and saying we were cruel.”

“It was awful,” said Ted. “Everyone was watching. You know what Bly is like. But I thought if I just went along and asked the doctor to call they wouldn't believe it was as serious as it is. I
knew
she was just sort of giving up.”

“And is it serious, this M.E.? Will she be ill for long?”

“Yes, she will. Maybe for years. It's very serious. Dr Cornish put her straight into hospital for tests.”

“But how will you manage?”

“Oh, I expect we'll be all right,” said Colin.

“Lots of hamburgers!” agreed Ted. “And pizzas. I love pizzas.”

“But you can't get those in Bly.”

“Dad can pick them up after work. And there's a marvellous fish and chip shop in North Radley. Colin and I can cycle there and pick it up.”

“Don't any of you cook?”

“Dad can just about manage egg and bacon and sausage.”

“And we can do hamburgers,” said Colin, “Though it's easier just to pick them up at a McDonald's.”

“I should hate to think of hamburgers looming as large as
that
in your diet,” said Lydia. She felt she was bursting with happiness, but she suppressed her smile and adopted a businesslike manner. “What you must both do is come up here for a proper meal in the evening.”

“No, it's all right,” said Ted. “We
like
hamburgers and pizzas and things.”

“That's neither here nor there,” said Lydia briskly.

“It would be too much trouble,” said Colin, “It would stop you working on your book.”

“It would do nothing of the kind. I'm always finished work by four or five o'clock. Cooking for three is hardly more work than cooking for one, and it will be a great pleasure, which cooking for one hardly is. Will your father be home from work yet?”

The boys had gone to school in the afternoon and explained the situation to their headmaster. At a quarter to four they had cycled home to an empty house and then come straight up to Lydia. Ted looked at his watch.

“Not yet. About a quarter to six, probably.”

“He knows the situation?”

“Oh yes. The doctor rang him. Mum was just crying and that, and a bit afraid, so the doctor did it. I spoke to him too and said we'd be all right.”

“Well, I'll ring him a bit later on. Now, tonight may be a bit of a scratch affair—”

“No, really Mrs Perceval,” said the boys. “We don't expect you to feed us without notice!”

“Deep freeze. No problem. Call me Lydia, by the way. So much easier. Now, the question is: what do you like
apart
from all that fast food junk?”

“Shepherd's pie!” said Ted. “With lots of tomato sauce!”

“Lasagne,” said Colin.

“All that mince!” protested Lydia. “You must like something that isn't made with mince.”

“Pork,” said Colin, maturely considering. “I think pork's my favourite meat. Roast. Or pork chops.”

“I quite like fish,” said Ted. “And I know it's good for you, but I don't like it boiled or steamed. I like a good batter.”

“And
chips,”
said Colin. “Nice crispy ones, not ones from the packet you just put in the oven.”

“That's when I
knew
Mum was ill,” said Ted. “When she started serving instant chips.”

Lydia felt blessed—somehow favoured. She felt as if some higher power had intervened. She noted down all their preferences in her head, and made mental notes of how she might lead them away from such basic forms of cuisine into something more interesting and inventive. It was going to give a new shape and purpose to her day. And it was going to last such a long time! Later on she rang their father.

“Mr Bellingham? This is Lydia Perceval. The boys are up here, and they've been telling me about their mother. I really am most upset for you all. I hear it's a dreadful condition. . . . Yes, I'd gathered the treatment may take a long while. . . . Look, I've talked this over with Ted and Colin and I want to be responsible for giving them a proper meal each day. That would take a bit of the burden off you, wouldn't it? They can come up here after school—young people really shouldn't go home to an empty house, should they?—and I'll have a good hot meal for them in the evening.”