Nest of Sorrows (39 page)

She turned and stared at him steadily. ‘I’m not the old one, you are. You’re worn out! You haven’t half Derek’s strength. Take me home.’

‘But . . .’

‘Take me home before I run back and tell Kate you’re spying.’

He took her home.

Santosh Mathur was in deep mourning. His young wife Hamida had died while giving birth to a little son, and this was his first time out since the funeral. He walked like an aged man towards Rachel’s stall, his hands outstretched to clasp her welcoming arms. ‘Oh San,’ she moaned. ‘It’s so good to see you. Did you want something?’

‘Yes.’ His usually coffee-coloured complexion was paler from lack of sleep. ‘Since Mr Carter kindly took me on in his office, I have scarcely been in to do my job. I am in need of your assistance.’

‘Anything, lad. Anything I can manage. See, get round the back of the counter and sit in this here chair. Ernie, take over. I’m in conference with me accountant.’

They sat among boxes and piles of pots, Santosh on a chair, Rachel perching on the edge of a stool. He sighed a deep shuddering breath before beginning, ‘I have no family here. Other people in my community will help me, but I am anxious for Robert to be Roman.’

‘Roman?’

He smiled sadly. ‘A saying of your husband’s. I gave my child an English name because he is born in your country. Also, it is a name of strength, a name I like. I wish for Robert to be fostered on weekdays. I cannot look after his needs myself. There are examinations to pass. Also, I have not much money. Do you know of a house that will take my boy?’

‘Well, I can ask round, like.’

‘I owe you much, Rachel. You are a good woman and your daughter is also good. On her word I was given the position of clerk with Mr Philip Carter. Your daughter got me this through my employer’s wife. To pay back, I must do very well. And I cannot do well if I stay at home to look after my son.’

Rachel thought for a moment. ‘That’s true. But listen, lad. Wouldn’t Robert be better with an Indian family? Traditions and all that?’

‘Tradition I shall teach him. I want him in an English-speaking household. Many of our children do not hear English at home. For his education, I want him to speak English with perfection.’

She sighed and shook her head. ‘Well, there is one woman, like. But I wouldn’t say her English is perfect. She’s good-hearted and has no children of her own, but she does a bit of minding while mothers work.’

‘Then Robert would have company!’

‘Aye, but she’s happen full up. I know she only takes a few at a time.’

‘Ask her,’ he pleaded. ‘You will please ask her?’

That same evening, Chris sat in her empty house and gazed unseeing at her colour television set. Life was awful. She couldn’t go next door when Geoff was about, and even when he wasn’t around things were difficult, because Melanie kept passing cryptic comments about lovers’ tiffs. Chris couldn’t even keep her promise to Kate now, keeping an eye on Melanie was almost out of the question. And, of course, when Kate had phoned in response to Chris’s message, that had been difficult too. She was suddenly ashamed, unable to tell Kate the truth about herself and Geoff, so she’d found herself wittering on about stupid things, things that didn’t really matter.

She’d gone back to church, of course. Father Flynn had been very understanding about the whole matter – all she’d had to do was a novena, and she’d done many of those in her time.

The phone rang. ‘Hello?’ Her voice must have betrayed her misery.

‘What’s up, girl?’

‘Oh, Mrs Bottomley.’ She swallowed hard. Did Mrs Bottomley know she’d been followed? And should Chris confess her part anyway? No. That would only cause more upset, and causing upset was probably some kind of sin. ‘I’m all right,’ she said quietly.

‘I want a favour. For a friend of mine.’ And Rachel told the tragic tale of Santosh and Hamida while Chris wept anew for Derek. ‘Oh, Mrs Bottomley! I know exactly how the poor man must feel.’

‘Will you take the child, though? To live with you five days a week?’

Chris gasped. ‘A baby? A baby living here? Ooh . . . ooh . . . yes! They’re gorgeous, those dark children. I’ve a room ready, and I’ve a cot and a carrycot . . .’

‘Slow down, lass,’ said Rachel. ‘Think what you’re taking on. Babies cry in the night . . .’

‘So do I!’ Especially since Geoff stopped coming . . .

‘They’re hard work, Christine. But I know you’ve done all them classes, so I told Mr Mathur about you.’

‘Send him round to see me.’

‘I’ll fetch him. Me and Arthur will bring him round tomorrow night.’

Chris dried her eyes. ‘And the baby? Will you bring the baby?’

‘I’ll mention that to Santosh, it’s up to him.’

‘I must clean up!’ yelled Chris. ‘I must find a nice frock. I want to make a good impression, don’t I?’

‘Not for Santosh, love. Just be yourself. There’s no side to him and I know he doesn’t like side.’

‘Right.’ Chris slammed home the receiver and dashed to get the Hoover. Whether he liked side or not, Chris was out to make that good impression.

They sat around a coffee table that held all the best china. Chris had served just a few bits and pieces with a good strong pot of Indian tea to make him feel at home. But she was distracted by the baby, so beautiful he was, in his bright shawl and blue Babygro. ‘Can I hold him?’

Santosh smiled sadly. ‘Yes. He is missing a mother’s touch, I fear.’ And this was a real mother, Santosh recognized that. It was not necessary to give birth in order to be a mother.

Chris held the tiny bundle to her chest. ‘Hello, cheeky. Let’s show you round the house, eh? You don’t have to stay if you don’t like it, but I do hope you will decide to stay. I’m lonely without my Derek. Will you keep me company? Will you?’ And she left the room with the infant in her arms.

Arthur cleared his throat. This was heavy stuff for a man who had spent many years as a lonely widower. Rachel certainly brought a lot of problems into his life. Problems, energy and fun.

‘She is a good woman,’ pronounced Santosh. ‘Robert will do well here.’

Rachel leaned forward and patted his hand. ‘There’s just one problem, lad. She’ll not take money. She needs Robert more than he needs her, and she’s been left comfortable . . .’

‘I cannot take this service for no payment.’

‘You’ll have to, son. She’s a widow, so she feels for you.’

Santosh bowed his head. ‘Then my debt will be a moral one. This I cannot consider.’

Arthur coughed again. ‘Compromise,’ he said wisely. ‘Pay her back once you’re on a proper wage. Get her to take a bit each week, threaten to take the kiddy elsewhere if she won’t have a few bob off you. And if she still won’t take it, then pay her in kind. Fetch her a couple of tins of ham and a chicken now and then. She might not take cash, but she’ll likely accept gifts.’

Santosh grinned. ‘You are a clever man, Arthur. That is a good idea.’ He gazed round the room. ‘This is the sort of home I wish for my son. At each weekend, he will return home into poverty . . .’

‘Back to his dad, that’s what’s important.’ Rachel’s tone was firm. ‘You keep in touch with him. He’s an Indian boy who needs a proper Indian parent.’

‘Yes, I do know that.’

Chris stood in the doorway. ‘He says he likes it here,’ she announced determinedly. ‘I shall look after him, Mr Mathur. Though I wish I hadn’t been needed. Everyone should have his own mother. I never had one . . .’

Santosh gulped back his grief, which was still raw. ‘My wife would have liked you, Mrs Halls. Hamida’s soul is in the boy, so he will like you too.’ He rose stiffly to his feet. ‘The equipment is in the car. I shall go now and carry it into your house.’

‘I have everything, Mr Mathur.’

Large brown eyes stared at her sadly. ‘No. You have not a photograph of his mother. She will sit by his bed so that he will know her face. Also, he has his own toys, carved in India, the things I had when I was a child.’

‘Oh, yes. I’m sorry. I won’t let him think I’m his mother, Mr Mathur. He’ll know who his mother was, which is more than I ever did. I agree with you. This little one has to know where he really belongs. Don’t worry, please. I won’t take him over. But I can’t help loving him. I love all babies.’

Santosh gazed at her for an uncomfortably long time. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘You are like Rachel. Your goodness is in your face.’

After everyone had left, Chris sat with the child in her arms and thanked God for sending salvation in such a warm and lovable form. And she knew she was smiling as she sat by her fire. The thing that caused her to smile was an echo in her mind. ‘Your goodness is in your face.’ He was a nice man. A very nice man.

By 1970, nothing had happened to alter Kate’s marital status. She had hit a snag, a rather large one. Although Geoff had apparently made no effort to trace her, and in spite of the fact that both Melanie and Rachel had kept their promises, she was up the creek without a paddle and it was difficult to know whether to float or swim against the tide.

She could not sue for divorce: Michael John, now in the second year of his life, had been registered as Geoff’s son; if she pursued the legal dissolution, then all this would come out in court, because she could not deny Michael’s existence in case somebody decided to cross-refer. She had registered two children to Geoff and there was no getting away from that fact. Also, if she simply sat it out and waited for Geoff to sue – which he inevitably must in the end – then she would still have to confess that she had a son. So her basic dilemma was the fact that she fell between two stools. Should she continue to keep quiet and wait? If only she had entered Michael as ‘father unknown’! No, that would have been selfish. But this was hell at times.

Apart from all that, life was great, better than it had ever been. So successful had Boothroyd become, that Kate was thinking of giving up what she called her day job at school. Three times she had travelled to London for meetings with the
Mercury
’s editor. He had introduced her to the manufacturers who would be using her drawings for greetings cards, posters and items of pottery. Boothroyd had become something of a cult figure, particularly with children, and Kate was currently negotiating a deal for T-shirts, socks and underwear. She now had her own accountant in Southport, and he was advising her to go full-time freelance because most of her teacher’s salary was being wasted in tax.

But she loved her job. It was both challenging and satisfying, so she found herself juggling with time, dividing her out-of-school hours between Michael and Boothroyd. Yes, life was busy and good. Steve was fun to live with and Mrs Melia next door looked after Michael perfectly well while Kate was out at work.

It was a Sunday afternoon in October. Kate sat in the back living room working out programmes for a brain-damaged child in her class. The sun streamed through a large square bay window, and Michael played happily with wooden blocks and some kitchen spoons. Steve popped his head round the door. ‘He’s outside,’ he said tersely.

‘Who is?’

‘Your husband. He sits there quite often on a Sunday, but I thought it was time I told you.’

Her face drained of colour as she pressed a hand to her stomach. This was the sort of shock she could do without, she could almost feel the sugar level reducing to nought in her bloodstream. With difficulty, she took some deep breaths. ‘Good grief! How long has this been going on?’

He shrugged. ‘Months. Don’t go into a coma over it, for God’s sake. I usually take Michael up to my room, haven’t you noticed? But Michael’s getting a bit big to hide now. One of these days, your old man is going to spot him playing in the side garden.’

Kate snapped her jaw shut. ‘Why? Why didn’t you tell me before this?’

‘Because of your health. Because I knew it would put you into a flat spin. The baby was easy to hide but a two-year-old is another matter altogether. Anyway, I think you should tell Geoff. I’ve always thought he should know . . .’

‘Are you sure it’s him?’

‘It’s the man in that photograph you brought with you by accident. New car, same man. Didn’t Mel say on her last visit that he often sneaks off at the weekends? Well, this is where he sneaks to. Where are you going?’ He watched as she dragged on a coat against the October wind. ‘Stay in, Kate. You’ll gain nothing by tackling him.’

She pulled a wry face. ‘Has he ever seen you?’

‘No. I always keep the net curtain across the front window on Sundays. But it can’t go on forever. Sooner or later, we are bound to slip up . . .’

She marched out of the house and across the Northern Road. He sat in a huge red Jaguar, his face almost matching the car for colour as he watched her approach. Kate hauled open the passenger door and stared down at him. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked coldly.

He inhaled sharply. ‘Oh, it’s you. I’d no idea you lived round here. I was . . . just sitting. There are no parking regulations, and I’ve paid my road tax. Whose is the white Ford outside your house, by the way? I suppose that is your house, since you just walked out of it.’

‘The car is mine.’ A lie, but for a good reason.

‘Passed your test, then?’

‘Yes. First time.’ She noticed how his teeth were gritted as he absorbed these three words. He had taken his test twice, and he could not bear to think of her beating him even at this one small thing. For a few moments she studied him, as if she were summing him up. He hadn’t changed much except for a few deeper lines on his forehead. The bearing was still the same, upright to a point, shoulders slightly rounded when he felt cowed. He obviously felt cowed now. She nodded slightly. He was a man of mistakes, and she had been the biggest. He had married a young girl in order to be dominant, in order to keep the place his mother had ordained for him. But the young girl had grown into what he probably considered to be a virago.

‘Working?’ He tapped the steering wheel with a leather-gloved finger.

‘Yes.’

‘Where?’

Her lip curled into what almost became a snarl. ‘I can’t tell you. That was the trouble last time, wasn’t it? You phoning the school in the hope that you’d wear me down or drive me insane. Or that I’d lose my job and come home defeated. But you have never defeated me, Geoff Saunders.’