It's Raining Men (35 page)

‘I don’t mind,’ he replied.

Lara swished the pot around and poured out two cups of hot brown tea.

‘Not be long now until you’re home,’ said Gene eventually, as Lara sipped at her drink and watched him form a fish in the arm rest. ‘Have you decided what you’ll
do?’

Lara felt her cheeks flush, remembering that she had poured out her business to him after falling into his dog’s grave.

‘I’m going to get my things from the house and then stay with May until I sort myself out. I’m not looking forward to it,’ she said, sounding a lot braver than she felt.
‘I won’t let him persuade me to try again, if that is his intention, of course.’

‘Easier said than done.’

‘True. But it’s not just that I found him with someone else, it’s all the other things: the lies, the taking me for granted, the lack of thought for my feelings. I
couldn’t go back. I wouldn’t respect myself if I did. And my mum and dad always told me that if I can’t respect myself, how can I ever expect anyone else to?’

Gene nodded silently and carried on whittling.

‘Did you love him?’ he asked eventually.

‘Yes,’ said Lara. ‘That’s why it hurt when he invited me to share his future and encouraged my dreams and then smashed them all to frigging bits.’
Oh God,
please don’t cry again in front of him.
She felt the hot sharp prick of tears stabbing at the backs of her eyes. ‘Plus, if that was the way he behaved, he didn’t really love
me, did he? Men should think with the brains God gave them instead of . . .’ She shut up quickly, realizing she shouldn’t be saying this to him: a man.

‘Not all of them think with that,’ Gene replied.

Lara flicked her hair back from her face in an unconscious gesture of someone gearing up for a possible fight.

‘All the ones I’ve met do,’ she said, as a collection of strong emotions swirled inside her. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘There. A fish.’ He thrust his arm out to its full length and handed the crutch back to her. ‘You were the one who dragged me kicking and screaming into your emotional
crisis,’ he reminded her, his jaw clearly rigid under his beard.

‘Yes, and I made a big mistake,’ snapped Lara. She felt years of fury banging on the bars and demanding to be released. ‘I’m not saying all men are bastards, but
there’s a lot of them out there who think it’s fine to treat someone like crap and then say, “Sorry, love, didn’t mean to bonk my ex. It just happened. I fell into bed with
her by mistake.” And then they expect the heartbroken woman to be so overjoyed that they’ve said a few apologetic words and bought her a bunch of tulips from Asda that everything will
be A-OK. Until the next time.’

‘You’ve obviously tarred us all with the same brush,’ Gene growled, putting his knife away in his back pocket.

‘Yeah, well, maybe I have. Maybe that’s because what I’ve found is that they all obviously like being black and sticky and smelling like roads.’
What on earth have
you just said?
asked an exasperated voice inside her.

‘And women have the monopoly on being the victim, do they?’ said Gene, not even trying to make sense of that nonsense she’d just spouted about tar. ‘They don’t lie
and manipulate and cheat at all, I suppose? They don’t turn on the tears and think sex will get them out of any trouble they’ve put themselves in? No, they’re all walking around
like self-righteous radical feminists agreeing that all – sorry –
most
men are bastards, especially when they don’t get their own way.’

Lara threw her arms up in the air. ‘The sexist quote of the year.’

‘I’m not a sexist. I’m a realist. Look, I think I’d better go. Take care with your crutch,’ said Gene Hathersage with a sarcastic snarl as he rose to his feet.
‘I’d hate for you to fall again.’

‘Yeah, I bet you would,’ said Lara, slamming the door on him as he went out. It missed his back by millimetres.

May was just coming up the hill with a bottle of milk when she saw Gene’s truck turn into La Mer. He was crunching the gears and he had a sub-zero expression on his
face.. He wasn’t a happy man today and she wondered who had put him in that mood.

She doubted that Frank had the capacity to be as fierce as that. She had just seen him in the village. He was delivering to the butcher. He waved across the road at her and she waved back and
although her legs pulled desperately to cross over so that she could say hello, engage him in conversation, be near him, she resisted. What was the point? She would be leaving Ren Dullem in four
days, never to see him again. It was best to keep away and not let him even peek inside her heart. It was no less than torment, though, walking away from him, knowing that he was as disappointed as
she was that an arc of a hand in the air was all that passed between them today.

She hurried back up to Well Cottage because it was chilly and she wasn’t wearing anything over her short-sleeved shirt. The sky looked as grumpy as Gene Hathersage just had, she thought:
moody and full of unspent rage. She opened the door to the cottage to find Lara wearing the female equivalent of Gene Hathersage’s incensed expression. Her eyes fell on the crutch propped up
at the side of the table and she put two and two together and got a big fat tick for her effort.

‘Oho. Do I sense another incident?’

‘That man,’ growled Lara, venting her fury on the comfrey leaves. ‘He doesn’t like women at all. He thinks we’re all manipulators. But that’s okay, really,
because men are all twats.’

May picked up the crutch. She noticed the detail of the tiny fish, carved with all its scales.

‘Did he make this for you?’

‘Yes,’ hissed Lara.

‘Yep, that’s the action of a man who hates women – making them a crutch to help them walk
and
adding a little personal touch like this.’

Lara stopped grinding. ‘Yes, it was kind of him to do that. Unfortunately he used it as an excuse to say that all women are evil.’

‘Is that what he said or what you heard?’ Taking the time to make this for a complete stranger was not the act of someone who hated easily, thought May.

‘Did you see Clare on your travels?’ asked Lara, changing the subject because she didn’t want to admit that May was right and she was wrong.

‘Nope.’ May gave a small sigh. ‘Didn’t see anyone at all.’

Raine’s house was as shiny as a new pin. Clare’s job was done and she derived such a sense of satisfaction from seeing the surfaces sparkle and the kitchen
gleam.

‘I wish I could come here once a week and keep on top of things for you,’ said Clare. She would miss the funny old lady when she went back to London; it was a thought that dragged
her mood down.

‘Thank you,’ said Raine. ‘You haven’t even stopped for a cup of tea.’

‘I might have one now, if you wouldn’t mind my company for a bit longer,’ replied Clare. ‘Can I get you one, or some more water?’

‘Water would be lovely, thank you.’ Raine smiled. ‘Then you can sit with me and tell me about where you live.’

‘It’s not that interesting,’ Clare called from the kitchen, over the sound of the kettle building to a boil. ‘Have you ever been to London?’

‘No,’ said Raine. ‘City life isn’t for me. Is it exciting living there?’

‘Very,’ said Clare, pouring the water over the tea leaves and stirring them with a spoon to hasten the brewing. ‘Busy, colourful, noisy, mad.’ Clare walked into the
sitting room with her tea and the glass of water. ‘It’s a thrilling whirl.’

Raine noted that whereas Clare’s voice was full of gusto, her enthusiasm was not reflected in her eyes. This was not a happy girl sitting in front of her.

‘You must be looking forward to getting back to it all.’ As she spoke, Raine watched Clare’s reaction closely.

Clare merely nodded slowly. ‘Yes, well, I’ll have plenty to keep me busy: new job, new flash company car, sorting out my new office.’

The girl is less excited about that than she was about scrubbing at my kitchen windows, thought Raine.

‘Maybe you’ll find a nice young man to bring some love into your life,’ said Raine.

‘Maybe,’ replied Clare with a shrug of her shoulders, though she doubted it. She wouldn’t have enough time for anything but work from now on. Blackwoods and Margoyles would own
her every breath.

Abruptly she changed the subject. ‘Raine, did you ever regret moving here to be with Seymour?’

‘Never,’ said Raine. ‘I would have got over him eventually if I had returned home, but my life would not have been as rich. Love – real love – is a privilege, not a
right. I was blessed to have a man like Seymour Acaster loving me.’

Clare nodded. ‘He sounds amazing.’

‘He was just a man. An ordinary decent man with a good kind heart. But we fitted together. Like this,’ and she threaded her fingers together tightly.

Clare tried not to think about Lud. Decent, kind, good-hearted Lud. But she remembered how, as he had said to Clare that she and he fitted together ‘like this’, he had also threaded
his fingers together tightly. She missed him terribly. And he had probably forgotten all about her by now.

‘It doesn’t look too good outside today. I don’t think I’ll be sunbathing when I get back to the cottage,’ said Clare, over-brightly. Or rather cloud-bathing.

‘Will I see you again before you leave?’ asked Raine, hope in her voice.

‘I’d like that, Raine,’ said Clare. ‘I’d like that a lot.’

Clare had barely stepped out of Spice Wood when, with a roar, a motorbike came up behind her. It passed and then braked hard, blocking her path. The leather-clad rider lifted
off his helmet.

‘Well, fancy seeing you here,’ said Val Hathersage. Head to foot in leathers and sitting astride the bike he looked breath-takingly masculine. The padded outfit lent him solid square
shoulders and beefy thighs. Clare felt her heart thudding against the wall of her chest. He pointed to the tin. ‘Where have you been and what have you been doing?’

Clare felt herself colour. To answer that she had been cleaning would hardly sound alluring. ‘Helping someone in need,’ she said. ‘Is that yours?’

‘Borrowed. Want a ride?’ he said. ‘There’s a spare helmet.’

‘I’ve never been on a motorbike before.’

‘A ride for a ride,’ said Val with a slow smile. ‘Come on, live a little. Leave your box of spells behind a tree. No one will nick it.’

Clare wasn’t sure, but Val was unlocking a helmet attached to the back.
Come on, live a little.
‘Okay, then,’ she said, trying her best to appear daring and excited
rather than what she really felt: scared stiff.

She was here at last – at 1928. Another birth: Sarah Smith. And a death: poor old Thomas Hubbard who had only just got married. Then a marriage: Seymour Elias Acaster,
Fisherman, aged nineteen, residing in High Top Cottage, married Raine de la Mer, no age, no address, no occupation.
Gotcha.
R had to be his wife.

‘What an exotic name,’ she said, trying not to sound as giddy as she felt.

At her shoulder, Edwin made a confirming hum but said no more.

Joan swilled the words around in her head hoping they’d make sense when placed together:
Reines de la Mer
. . .
Ren Dullem
. . .
Raine de la Mer
. . .
R.

‘Why doesn’t it say how old she was or where she came from?’

Tension had invaded Edwin’s shoulders; she could see it.

‘Parish records dated so long ago are often incomplete.’

That was a lie because, from what she had seen, the records for Ren Dullem were meticulously kept and 1928 was hardly the Dark Ages. Even in this backwards spot.

‘Why do you think the village was called Reines de la Mer in the first place?’

‘Oh, I don’t really know.’ Edwin shook his head vigorously. ‘People believed that this part of the country was once attached to France, I think, and gave it an exotic
name.’

That’s not really answering the question, Edwin, thought Joan. She prepared to ask the big question.

‘What is a queen of the sea?’

Edwin was clearly uncomfortable with this line of questioning, but out of innate politeness, he answered all the same.

‘A dolphin or similar creature,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘Local sailors often mistook them for sea monsters. They believed that if they named their village after them,
they would be flattered enough to give them safe passage on the sea.’

‘Ah.’ Joan nodded, a voice inside her saying:
That wasn’t so hard, now, was it? So why all the secrecy?
No, there was more he hadn’t told her. She turned over
the page and felt Edwin’s relief that the questions had stopped. More births, more deaths, more marriages followed. They reached the end of 1928 and moved onto subsequent years and Joan
noticed how few girls were born. In fact, for the next ten years, none were born at all. She opened her mouth to ask why that was, but thought Edwin might be frightened into ending their session.
Softly, softly.

Clare was hardly dressed for a ride on a motorbike. Her thin shirt afforded her no protection against the cold wind rushing at her. Val was surprisingly sensible on the road,
she was pleased to find, although she couldn’t say in all honesty that she enjoyed the experience. Not that she admitted to that when they parked on a cliff top by a picnic area.

‘Is there any better feeling?’ Val winked. ‘Apart from sex.’

‘Wow, that was great,’ said Clare, hoping she sounded more convinced than she felt. She was more than happy to have solid ground below her feet again. Her teeth were chattering from
cold and with relief at being off the bike and safe. She was dreading the journey back.

‘Colleen used to love riding with me,’ he said. ‘Her hair used to stream behind her.’

‘Bully for Colleen,’ Clare murmured to herself.

Val sat at the picnic table, his legs on the bench. ‘Come here,’ he said, inviting her to sit between his legs. Clare obeyed, hoping he would wrap his arms around her and warm up her
bones. Instead he took a cigarette out of his pocket and lit up.

‘Want a drag?’