Nest of Sorrows (24 page)

‘Kate?’

‘What?’

‘Are you really like that, you know, all cold and hard? I know I shouldn’t say this, but sometimes you seem . . . well . . . cruel. Derek thought you were a hard woman. He was terrified of you ever finding out about us not being wanted by our mothers.’

Kate’s head dropped. ‘Chris. I wasn’t wanted either. By my father. All his life he made sure I knew I wasn’t wanted.’

‘Ooh! Ooh, how awful for you. I never guessed, never thought. Perhaps that’s why you seem to have no patience. Derek said you were very . . . what was the word . . . ? judgementical. As if you’re better than everyone else. Poor Kate. Like us, you had something to hide.’

Kate drew a hand across her brow. ‘I’m not nice, Chris. I was just thinking before you came in that I’m not nice. Dora and Geoff both drive me to distraction, but it’s my fault, not theirs. I get very depressed.’

‘I know. Dora said. And I’m sorry.’

‘I have to accept their faults, stop laughing at them and getting angry. But at the same time, I have to understand my own limitations. Being judgemental is part of my character, it’s deep in here.’ She placed a hand against her breast. ‘I must learn to like myself, Chris. The depressions are because I don’t trust me, don’t want to love myself.’

The pine-framed clock ticked. ‘Did you laugh at me and Derek? Did you?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘I don’t mind. Not now. You’re my friend now, aren’t you?’

‘And you’re mine. Hey! This is the first time I’ve seen crumbs on your carpets.’ She inclined her head towards the living room. ‘Crumbs and paper napkins and fagash.’

‘This is the first time I haven’t cared. But with kiddies coming, I’ll have to start caring again, won’t I?’

Kate smiled. ‘That’s right. I’ll put the word out and I’ll place some adverts in the local shops. We’ll have you run off your feet in no time.’

‘That’s what I want, isn’t it? Oh, I shall miss him, though. Daft way to die, wasn’t it? Under a pile of spuds?’

‘It was unusual. But his mates loved him, Chris. That wasn’t just rain on the bikers’ faces. Those were real tears.’

‘I haven’t cried today. Am I getting better? Am I?’

‘Another door will open. Perhaps you’ll find another relationship in time.’

‘No. He’d have to be an orphan. Only an orphan can understand.’

‘I understand.’

Chris gazed at her neighbour thoughtfully. With a perspicacity Kate would never have suspected, the young widow said, ‘Yes. But in your heart, you’re an orphan too, Kate. It’s as if you were brought up like me and Derek, sort of different. I always knew you were different, but lately I’ve realized that you are one of the loneliest people I ever knew. I can’t understand why you’re lonely, not with Geoff and Melanie and Geoff’s mum popping in all the time. But I think you’re . . . iserlated.’

And the tears came for both of them, so they sat and wept, hands gripped together across the pine table. A door had opened for each of them and they stepped into the light of an odd friendship, a friendship that would become odder with the years. But its strength would never be diminished.

Kate wandered along Deansgate in the centre of Bolton, a brown carrier containing Melanie’s new blazer dangling from her left hand. It was a short walk from Henry Barrie’s along to her favourite shop, Preston’s of Bolton, and she lingered in the doorway indulging her passion for diamonds. This was a splendid display, undoubtedly the best for many a mile, thousands of pounds worth of precious gems beautifully displayed on royal blue velvet cushions.

The staff knew her well. Here she had bought her small collection of jewellery, including her engagement and wedding rings, the former being an expensive twist of two large clear whites set in yellow gold. Here they had become used to her over the years, because she would pop in at Christmas and birthdays to buy a charm for Melanie’s gold bracelet, and she would linger every time to study stones and to learn about flaws and deposits and carat values. There was much to know about diamonds, because each had its own character, its very own essential personality. There were blues and yellows, pure clear whites – some even had a hint of pink about them.

She sighed greedily as she studied a small but perfect tear-drop set to dangle free inside a hollow gold heart. On its fine chain, it made a wonderful necklace, and she had coveted this item for weeks. No hope now. No hope of any fripperies once she had fled the nest.

‘Splendid, isn’t it?’

She turned to look at the man by her side. ‘Oh. It’s you. Strange place for you, isn’t it? Or are you looking for something for your floozie?’

Phil Carter grinned sheepishly. ‘How’s Maureen?’

‘Coping. Just about. That interim maintenance buys the catfood, don’t worry. Everyone else in the house has learned to exist on faith, hope and fresh air . . .’

‘Kate!’

‘Don’t “Kate” me! You make me sick. Those poor children are crying themselves to sleep.’ Would Melanie cry? Should she really stay for Melanie’s sake? Oh, what good was she to Melanie? ‘And your wife’s a shadow of her former self.’ Thin, but suddenly having the time of her life, was Maureen. Grief had given way to the undeniable urge to get out and do something useful. So Maureen, when she could get babysitters, attended no less than three evening classes and was becoming proficient in spoken French, modern dance and the art of throwing pots.

‘Come for a drink?’

‘No thanks. I’ve still to get to Woolworth’s for Mel’s hair ribbons. Then I’m going for a quick dash round the market, see if they’ve any decent towels that don’t cost an arm and a leg.’ For my flat, Phil. God, if he only knew!

‘Please?’

She studied him for a moment or two. He had the air of a man Who was carrying the world on his shoulders. ‘OK. We’ll nip into the
Man and Scythe
, that’s the nearest.’

He held her arm as they crossed Bank Street to the opposite corner where stood the oldest pub in Bolton. Inside it was dark, filled with the atmosphere of stale tobacco, fresh ale and long-dead ghosts. He found a table, then went off to buy a half of dry cider for Kate and a pint of bitter for himself. She watched him. He seemed ill at ease, uncomfortable with himself. The usual cloak of self-assurance had slipped, for once. And a hole in his sock showed in the slight gap between trouser and shoe as he lifted his foot against the low bar-rail.

He did not beat about the bush. After taking a swallow that left his glass half-empty, he said quietly, ‘I want to go home. I’ve had enough of this lark to last me a lifteime.’

She fingered a cardboard beer mat. It was probably all to do with undarned socks and badly cooked meals. His complexion was grey; she envisaged him living on a diet of shop-bought chips and meat puddings, all suet and dripping. ‘Why tell me?’ she asked. ‘Just go home.’

‘Things have got out of hand.’ His chin dropped and he was blushing right to the top of his bare scalp. ‘These bloody lawyers have turned the whole thing into a slanging match. Talk to her, Kate.’ He looked so vulnerable and lost, she could have wept on the spot for him.

She laughed grimly, determined to hide her pity. ‘Why me? Why the bloody hell does it always have to be me? I’m the one with bad nerves, remember? What do you think I am? Some kind of winged messenger? They should have built a statue to me up some pole in a London circus. Send her a letter, sack your solicitor . . .’

‘She might knock me back. I want to know where I stand.’ He pushed a hand across his mouth to remove a small moustache of beer foam. ‘I’ve gone through something, Kate. Something I don’t understand. All of a sudden, I was scared of getting old without anything ever happening. I think it’s had a lot to do with fear of death. Death or senility.’

Kate inhaled deeply. She understood; after all, wasn’t she ‘going through something’, too? ‘Male menopause,’ she pronounced. ‘It does exist. Look, lad, there’s nothing wrong with admitting a mistake. Just go and see Mo. It’s not my job to patch things up between you. If I’m not a messenger, I certainly can’t be a puncture kit. Oh, Phil!’ Her tone expressed frustration. ‘My own life’s about as straight as a pan of soggy spaghetti.’

‘She’s . . . going out at nights, isn’t she? Having a whale of a time . . .’

‘Well, she certainly hasn’t taken the veil. But I think you’ll find most of Maureen’s expeditions to be educational. She’s doing pottery and stuff like that. There’s no man.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’d be the first to know.’

He emptied his glass, then sat staring into it as if it were a crystal ball with all the answers contained in its depths. He was a man without hope, an angler who had lost the biggest catch ever without getting it weighed in.

‘OK,’ she mumbled. ‘Got your car? We’ll go now. Come on, hop to it.’

‘Now? Right now?’

‘Strike before the iron cools. Not chicken, are you? Faint heart never won fair lady.’

He hesitated. ‘What about the market and Melanie’s hair ribbons?’

‘Thursday will do. It’s still half-term.’

He blinked rapidly behind the tortoise-shell-framed spectacles. ‘Christ, Kate, I’m scared. Is it the right thing to do?’

She suddenly felt more than sorry for him, because she understood his dilemma perfectly in that instant. Hadn’t she been wondering for weeks about the ‘right thing’ for herself? ‘I don’t know, Phil. But it’s worth a try. Just follow your instincts.’

He hung his head. ‘I still love her, you see. I had to leave to know that.’

‘What about your . . . flatmate?’

‘Bit of a kid. I suppose we were both flattered, she because I was the big boss, I because she was so young and lovely. Too young. Young and boring. We both expected too much. She wanted pearls in her oysters, and I just needed the damned oysters to keep up with her!’

Kate picked up her bags. ‘You know, Phil, I think I like you. Let’s go and face the music, shall we? Don’t look so worried, it may not be Wagner. Just cross your fingers and think of a nice Chopin nocturne.’

After the drive to Edgeford, Phil stayed out in the lane while Kate went in to prepare her friend. She found Maureen seated on the sofa, legs raised at impossible angles while she struggled to paint her toenails. ‘I need a magnifying glass,’ groaned the tiny woman. ‘Can’t even see the littlest one. Here, you do it.’

Kate grabbed the brush and applied lacquer with a hand that was far from steady. ‘Sorry. You’ve a Poppy Red toe now. Perhaps you’ll start a new trend. By the way, Phil’s outside.’

‘What?’ Beautification of the extremities was suddenly forgotten as she ran barefoot towards the front window. ‘Where? Where is he? Do I look all right?’ She straightened her short spine and pushed a hand through her hair. ‘I don’t want him to see me all untidy.’ She bustled about for a few moments, fiddling with makeup and comb, then suddenly the anger arrived, just as Kate had known it would. ‘Hey. Hang on. I’ll ram that last letter down his throat. Ten pounds a week for each child? I’ll show him ten pounds’ worth . . .’

‘Hang on, Mo. Don’t do anything hasty.’

‘Where are my slippers? No, my shoes, I want to look good. Lipstick . . . lipstick . . .’ She painted her mouth quickly. ‘I’m off to Manchester tonight, going to the trad jazz club with a group from the modern dancing class. Is my hair all right? And my solicitor says there’s no way I can be forced to sell the house till Amanda’s eighteen. I’ll show him! I’ll show that bloody so-called husband. Thank God the kids are out . . .’

‘Maureen!’

‘No tights. I can’t go out on the lane without tights. Be a love and run upstairs, will you? Top right-hand drawer of the dressing table . . .’

‘Shut up, Mo.’

‘Eh?’

‘He wants to come back.’

‘Oh.’ There followed a long pause.

‘Isn’t that what you want?’

‘What?’

‘Wake up, woman! I said, isn’t that what you want?’

‘Yes. I mean . . . yes. Of course. But . . .’

‘You’ve had a taste of freedom and poverty, eh? Well, the man’s got his pride, sunshine. He’s not going to ask twice, is he?’

‘No.’

‘Well?’

‘Well, I’m having such a good time, aren’t I? I’ve never had so much fun for years. Through the night classes, I’ve found out there’s a lot more to life than washing and ironing. Will he let me carry on with my pottery and my dancing? Will he?’

Kate sat down on the carpet beside Maureen’s chair. ‘Look, love. You can go out to lessons for years and never learn anything better than what you and Phil had together. He might not object . . .’

‘Perhaps I don’t want what I had before. Perhaps I’ve changed.’

‘So, at fifty, you’ll be alone. No kids, no husband, just a few nice vases decorating your lonely kitchen.’

‘Oh, I never thought of it like that.’

‘And you still love him.’

‘I hate his bloody guts!’

‘Yes, that’s because you still love him. Give him a chance, Mo. Just have a trial run, see how it goes for a month or two.’

‘He flooded my kitchen!’

‘Yes.’

‘And drained my bank account.’

‘I know. Give him a chance, eh?’

‘Do you really think I should?’

Kate raised her arms in a questioning gesture. ‘I think you should do what you want to do. But I also think you might regret not giving him an opportunity to prove himself.’

Maureen sighed her confusion. ‘OK. Wheel him in.’

‘Oh, no. This is where I make my exit, flower. I’ll send him in, but the rest is your business, yours and his.’

‘I’m scared to death!’

‘So is he.’

Kate walked out and summoned Phil to the gate. He locked his car doors, then walked with a degree of reluctance towards the pathway of number 117. ‘How did she take it? Will I live?’

‘I’m not sure, she’s confused.’

‘That makes two of us.’

‘Three.’

‘What? Oh, yes, sorry. Thanks, Kate.’

He took a deep breath, then, with rounded shoulders, followed the pathway up to the front door. Just before he knocked, Kate called out to him, ‘Good luck, lad. Good luck and God bless.’

That night, she discovered a small parcel behind the front door at 50 Beech Gardens. When she tore off the wrapper, she found a necklace in a Preston’s box. It was a gold heart with a diamond teardrop suspended from its centre. With this three hundred pounds’ worth of treasure there was a simple card. ‘Thanks. Good luck and God bless. From both of us’.