Nest of Sorrows (21 page)

‘Then you’ll have to stay, won’t you? No woman leaves her kids, Kate. No woman worth her salt, anyway. I mean, look at the animal kingdom. Right from bunny rabbits up to tigers, the females guard their young until they’re independent.’

‘And the males stalk off to impregnate some other passing cat. No, this is humanity we’re talking about. We’re the ones who stood on our hind legs, we’re the ones who invented murder and all the other niceties, we’re different, terrifying and powerful. And because we’re different, a man can make just as good a mother as a woman. How do you think widowers carry on? They’ve no choice.’

‘But you have, Kate! I never thought you’d leave your daughter. I always assumed . . .’ Her voice tailed away.

‘Don’t assume, love. Assumption is the greatest form of self-deception. In particular, don’t assume about me.’

‘Where will you go, then?’

‘Don’t know. Not sure at all, not sure of anything.’

Maureen gripped her friend’s hand tightly. ‘You can stand it for another five years, surely? Until she’s eighteen or so?’

‘No, it has to be soon. For long enough I’ve been trapped by a situation just because it existed. Well, I exist too, Mo. I have to go, I must.’

‘Why? There must be a real reason, Kate. No-one just floats away into nothing. What are you going towards?’

The taller woman shrugged, and in the dim light from the farmhouse, Maureen could see that the eyes were wide and moist. ‘I’m going towards something big. Something really wonderful. A new life, a light at the end of a long tunnel.’

‘Good God! You’re not . . . not . . . ?’

Kate laughed. ‘No, I’m not dying. But there’s . . . oh . . . I wish I knew.’

‘It’s all about proving yourself as good as Judith, like when you were kids.’

‘No, it’s my own thing, is this, there’ll be no tar in my hair this time. I suppose I’m going off to find my talent. Or my destiny. Perhaps I’m a misplaced flower-person, someone who ought to put on a back-pack and head for San Francisco.’

‘What a load of compost.’

‘Yes.’

They turned and headed back towards the bridge. Kate tried to look at her watch, but it was too dark to see the dial. Oh, she hoped that Phil and Maureen would not come face to face tonight. If anything could save the marriage, it would involve a separation for a little while.

They reached a street lamp. ‘Will Phil have finished putting the stuff back now, Kate? Can we go home?’

Kate glanced at the time, the safety zone had been reached at last. ‘I think so. Yes, let’s go home.’

Dora Saunders had been dying for as long as anyone could remember. Now in her seventies, she was probably nearer than most to the grim reaper, yet few listened to her recitals. These litanies were endless; complaints about doctors and their inadequacies, moans about the side-effects of the twenty-odd tablets she was forced to take each day ‘just to stay alive’, laments referring to her actual and imaginary illnesses. According to Kate, Dotty Dora had made a career out of two things. The first was being in charge of everything and everybody; the second was being sicker than the next man, even if the next man had terminal carcinoma.

But Dora’s main goal in life had been to make sure that all mortals recognized her dear son’s superiority. Geoffrey had been to Bolton School, Geoffrey was clever. Not only that, he was a gentleman. Never once had he required punishment, never once had he come home from football or cricket in a state. At Imperial College, he had shone forth like some great star, leading the debating team, running the union, planning all rags and functions. Now, at the infantile age of forty-eight, Geoffrey was managing director of a leading American plastics company. And, naturally, Americans only hired the best.

Kate was not good enough for Dora’s Geoffrey. She was a Catholic, which was always a bad thing, of course, especially in ‘better circles’; Dora went on a great deal about better circles. Kate did not have a degree, Kate was only a teacher, and everyone knew how stupid teachers were. Teachers did not move in better circles, and they held back partners who might otherwise have risen to heights too dizzy even for Dora’s colourful language.

Yet what Dora would really have chosen for her darling Geoffrey was a manageable wife like Christine Halls. No qualifications, no ambition, just a ‘jolly good little cook and housekeeper’. Kate was good for next to nothing. She earned too paltry a sum to justify her frequent absences from home, yet was slightly too bright to stay in, knit sweaters and listen to her mother-in-law.

Dora could not handle Kate, so she simply disliked her. After all, Geoffrey had been quite happy at home till he was almost thirty-four. Then along had come madam with all that false and shallow charm. Dora could have told her son – in fact she had tried to warn him – that the girl was odd. But no. For that one and only time, young Geoffrey had not listened to Mother. And now he was reaping the benefits. The house was unhappy, even Dora could sense that. It never occurred to her that the couple might have stood a better chance if she had kept a sensible distance.

Kate sat now at the kitchen table, a pile of arithmetic books by her elbow. Dora wiped an onion-induced tear from her eye and cast a glance in her daughter-in-law’s direction. ‘Where’s Melanie?’

‘Out on her pony.’

‘Hmm. Have you got any nutmeg?’

‘Don’t know.’ Kate waved a vague pencil towards a row of cupboards. ‘In there somewhere, if there is any.’

‘Hmmph. When did you last shop?’

‘Can’t remember. Look, if you’re going to talk, Dora, I’ll take my work into the sitting room.’

‘Pardon me, I’m sure. Just trying to cook a meal for everyone, that’s all . . .’

‘I see.’ Kate slashed a red pen through a page of what looked like ant droppings. ‘This kid can’t see, though. Must make sure he gets an eye test. What a mess.’

Dora clattered a few pans for effect. ‘Good job I’m moving into the flat, then. If your school work takes all night as well as all day, you’ll be needing a housekeeper.’

Kate looked up and fixed a steely stare on Dora Saunders’ plump rear. ‘I won’t be needing a housekeeper at all, Dora. But if you consider yourself needed, then move in by all means.’

The woman turned slowly and caught the malice in Kate’s expression. ‘You’d rather I stayed away altogether, wouldn’t you? You’d rather I lived all alone and . . .’

‘Don’t start all that again. My mother lives alone . . .’

‘She’s only fifty-five! I’m seventy-two in November.’

November. Scorpio. Many mass murderers and rapists were Scorpios. Though this one didn’t keep its sting in its tail; this one was all sting. ‘Dora, whatever you do is no concern of mine.’

The older woman bridled. ‘I see. And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means I don’t care. That dinner would have got cooked by me eventually, but as you seem to derive so much pleasure from the culinary arts . . .’

‘Pleasure?’ This word was shouted. ‘It’s not pleasure, it’s duty. My arthritis doesn’t allow me any pleasure. I just like to see things done right and at the proper time. Geoffrey enjoys his food . . .’

‘And that’s where your pleasure comes in. Now, if you don’t mind, I really must get on.’

Dora, calmer now, decided to go for a truce. She sidled slowly towards the table. ‘Sorry to hear about your bit of trouble,’ she mouthed almost soundlessly. ‘Of course, they can do wonders now, can’t they?’

‘Pardon?’

‘For sugar. I was just saying, they can cure sugar.’

Kate’s jaw fell. ‘Who the hell told you?’

‘Why, Geoffrey did. Of course he did. I have a right to know – after all, there’s your diet to consider . . .’

‘I can look after my own diet, thanks. Stupid man. I told him not to tell anyone.’

Dora smiled triumphantly. It wasn’t often she managed to rile Kate, and this time she’d done it without even trying! ‘Geoffrey is not stupid, far from it. And he is concerned about you, very worried. Never keeps anything from me, dear. You should know that by now. Tell me.’ She licked her lips salaciously. ‘What are your symptoms?’

Kate eyed her adversary for a second or two. ‘Thirst, loss of weight, frisky kidneys and anger with people who ask personal and unnecessary questions while I’m marking . . .’

‘Oh dear.’ Dora, who had chosen to hear just the early part of Kate’s sentence, sank into the opposite chair, a tea towel twisted about her hands. ‘Thirst? You say thirst is a symptom? I’ve got a mouth so dry I couldn’t even begin to describe it. And as for kidneys, well, if I’ve to get out of bed once for the bathroom, that’s a good night. Mostly, it’s six or seven times – can’t remember a full night’s sleep. Do you think I’ve got it?’

‘Probably. You seem to have everything else.’ The irony in Kate’s tone passed unnoticed. ‘And it can come on with obesity in older people. It’s very dangerous, of course. If it’s uncontrolled, it can strip your insides within a fortnight.’

‘Ooh. Ooh, I say! Whatever shall I do?’

‘See the doctor. Take him a urine sample, a very large one, about a pint, I’d say.’ She tried not to grin as she pictured Dora struggling to surgery with a huge bottle. ‘He’ll soon analyse it for you.’

Dora’s face was white. ‘Is it dangerous?’

‘It’s a killer. Heart attacks, strokes, blindness, gangrene, kidney failure . . .’

‘Ooh. Ooh my goodness.’

Kate leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. ‘My life is suspended by a very slender thread, Dora. Positively dangling, it is, hanging on by the skin of its front teeth. I could go just like that.’ She snapped her fingers before the mesmerized face and Dora blinked rapidly. ‘What with hypers and hypos, it’s all very confusing. Just a whiff of a boiled sweet could throw me straight into a coma. Or a drop too much of insulin. I depend totally on my needle, you know. It’s an awful business, sterilizing, tapping the bottle to get rid of air, disinfecting my skin. The tiniest bit of dirt, the smallest air bubble, these things could finish me off quick as lightning. And, of course, I’m like a pincushion. It’s difficult to find a new site every day. And so unpleasant when I hit a vein. Blood everywhere, gallons of it.’

‘Ooh. Ooh my!’

Kate nodded solemnly. ‘An unboiled needle could give me septicaemia, there’s so much worry, isn’t there?’

‘Ooh yes. I think I’ll go and have a lie down. Can you finish the dinner? And have you got a big bottle for my . . . you know . . . for my sample?’

‘There’s a lemonade bottle in Mel’s room. Rinse it well, there’s sugar in pop, you know.’

Dora fled from the room to indulge her latest ‘illness’. Although she had thoroughly enjoyed tormenting her tormentor, Kate remained furious and she continued to mark her books in angry haste. For fourteen years she had tolerated this. For fourteen years Dora had been around, always moaning, always demanding and getting attention. Well, it wouldn’t go on for much longer, Kate intended to make sure of that. She’d been a target for long enough, first for her own father, then for Dora and Geoff. A sickness rose in her gorge and she breathed deeply through her mouth. Dora must not get to her! She should not allow a creature like Dora to upset her like this!

Dr Coakley’s voice echoed in her brain. ‘Have your panic attacks happily, my dear girl. They are a sign of energy and intelligence, a sign that you are truly alive. When the feeling comes, tell yourself it’s just a surge of adrenalin that will soon disperse in your bloodstream, that it will pass in minutes. Your main enemy is tiredness, so never overplay your hand. And take a close look at your life, identify the triggers. You say you don’t know what frightens you, but I can assure you that your subconscious is in touch with these triggers.’

Dora was a trigger. So was Geoff. Even poor Melanie. She threw the red pen across the kitchen. If it were not for Maureen, Kate Saunders would probably be a strait-jacket case, sitting and rocking in some dark hospital corner, nails chewed to hell and back, eyes glazed by sedative drugs. Strange how school never brought on an attack, though. Kate hated her job. Not the children, there was nothing wrong with them. It was the system she disliked. The system, the protocol and other teachers whose bitterness at poor pay and conditions often showed in their faces and in their work. She had used to wonder why they didn’t go for other jobs, better jobs. But she knew better now than to wonder that. Most were fit for nothing else, just as she was fit only to teach.

She would go tonight. But she wouldn’t go to Maureen; poor old Mo had enough on her plate without getting Geoff at the door every five minutes. Where then? And first, she must have a talk with Mel. She grinned in spite of her misgivings. The talk with Melanie was not the source of her amusement; no, she was thinking about Dora’s absolute conviction that Geoff told her everything. He hadn’t told her about the widening rift, had he? Oh no, she would have remarked on that. Nor had he mentioned the abortion. If Dora had known about that, she would have demanded a blow by blow account. Operations were fascinating, after all . . .

Melanie, as if conjured up by her mother’s recent thoughts, burst in at the back door, jodhpurs muddied by yet another fall. The child was a cruel rider, cruel to the animal, hard on herself. Like Geoff, she was ambitious and spoilt, just half an inch away from being a thorough brat. Though of late Kate had noticed the odd sign of improvement in her daughter, as if she were finally making some of her own judgements. Yes, she was getting too big to hide behind Granny Dora’s skirts now. Was there, after all, the promise of a fine young woman here?

Without a word to Kate, Melanie made for the door to the dining room.

‘Hang on, lady. I want a quick word if you can fit me into your incredibly crowded social calendar.’

The girl ground to a halt. ‘Very funny, ha-ha. I need to change, Mum.’

Into what? A human being? ‘Sit.’ Kate waved a hand at the chair where Dora had sat a few minutes previously.

With all the grace of a stranded whale, Melanie flung herself into a sitting position. ‘Well?’ Mum was in an odd mood again, that was plain from the look in her eyes. Melanie had been reared to know that her mother was mentally frail, that she must take any problems to Daddy or to Granny Dora, that Mum must be left to ‘get on with things’.