September Starlings (66 page)

‘What do you think about all the time, Laura?’ The words are spoken softly, gently. ‘You seem to be preoccupied.’

‘I … I miss my husband.’ That’s the truth, the whole truth. Well, nearly. I miss Ben, support Tommo against my better judgement, worry about Gerald’s ethics, Edward’s sensitivity, Jodie’s foolishness.

‘I’m sorry.’ The eyes burn and I know that she really is sad for me.

‘Get yourself cleaned up, Diana. I’ll find something for you in the freezer.’ The idea of mundane tasks is suddenly attractive. ‘I’ll get you a quick meal.’

She leaps up, makes a dive for me, places the thin hands on my shoulders. ‘You’re all right, queen,’ she whispers, laughter lurking in her throat. The tone lifts itself, finds a more audible level. ‘And can I walk that big soft dog and is the cat allowed upstairs and have you got a spare toothbrush? And I’m good with kittens.’ She points to Flakey, who is curled up in a shoe box next to the bread bin. ‘It was my dad, not the landlord. My dad’s a good bloke, but he cracked up when Mam died, took to drink. I’ve run away from him for a bit of a rest. I will go back to him, you know. But I need a break, that’s the truth.’

I think of Confetti’s problem. ‘I’ve another friend in the same position. The drink affects her father’s brain. He started after his wife died, was almost teetotal before.’

She sighs, looks pensive. ‘When we were kids, he was really good to us. But he drank to forget about Mam, then he started going a bit violent and unpredictable.’ She displays a slender, bruised wrist. ‘He doesn’t mean it. He’s just desperate, trying to keep hold of me. And I like kippers.’

She grabs her possessions, runs out of the room, leaves me cold, empty, leaves me lonely. She is singing in the shower, a Beatles song, ‘Whatever Gets You Through the Night’. I cannot afford to attach myself to anyone. Somewhere out there, three products of mine are doing damage, one insider dealing, another moaning, putting on weight, seeking a permanent lover. And the third runs round with criminals and hippies.

I find a pair of frozen kippers, linger near the microwave as I wait for the singing to stop. Tommo tonight. Ruth comes with me, though I need no protection from the feeble man. He sits, watches TV, waits for my visits. The eyes are still powerful, but the strength is diminished.

Tommo was Ben’s only mistake. ‘Go to him,’ he insisted for years. ‘Three heart attacks and chronic angina have diminished him. For your own sake, you must see this man and realize that he is just a broken creature. Then and only then will you be free in spirit.’ After Ben’s constant nagging/encouragement, I went and laid the ghost. But, fool that I am, I supplement Tommo’s state income, look after his welfare. After all, he is a human being. I think.

And last but never least, there’s my Ben. I won’t cry. I won’t stand here crying next to a pair of frozen, headless kippers.

‘Laura?’ God, they’ll hear that scream in Birkenhead.

‘Yes?’

‘Can I have a bath as well as a shower?’

‘Yes.’ I bet she’s dripped all over the landing, all over the bathroom too. Life will be fuller than ever if I let this one linger for too long. Three Confettis. I shudder. There’s the real one, then Jodie, now this apprentice offbeat upstairs.

The phone again. ‘Robert, it’s over.’

‘I’m coming home,’ he says. ‘I’ve had enough of this bloody holiday.’

‘Stay where you are,’ I order.

‘I want to see you.’

‘Don’t blame me for shortening the children’s pleasure. Look, I’ll see you soon.’ I’m not a good liar face to face, but I’m quite feasible on the phone. ‘I promise that we’ll talk if you’ll give those kids another few days.’ Really, I can’t take him on as well! This place is going to be like Wembley Stadium if I’m not careful.

‘Do you still love me?’ Oh the urgency of youth. Though forty is not exactly infantile.

How many people can one woman love? How many kinds of love are there, how many kinds of truth?

‘Laura?’

‘Yes, of course I do.’ Well, that’s one kind of truth, I suppose.

Ruth makes the tea, carries it through to the tiny sitting room. My first husband is staring at me, his eyes seeming to bore into my soul. ‘There you are,’ my friend says to the invalid. ‘And I’ve put the sugar in for you.’

He does not look at her. ‘Thanks.’

I sit back, attempt to relax, wish with all my heart that he would stop watching me. ‘Are you any better?’ I ask.

‘No.’

Ruth picks up the
Echo
, reads, or pretends to read.

‘Do you need anything more?’ I force some shallow brightness into my voice. ‘Some books, a particular kind of food? Is the home help still visiting?’ I ask, wishing that I could settle down and be comfortable in this little cottage. I’ve been coming here for about ten years, ever since Tommo’s third coronary. ‘Face him,’ Ben said to me over and over again. ‘Look at the nightmare, then it will become an everyday thing, it will go away.’ For a long time, Ben came with me, waited in the car. He was a sensitive man, still is, I suppose. Degeneration of the brain cannot possibly make the soul poorer. But Ben can’t come any more, and Ruth insists on being a witness. ‘You never know,’ she often says. ‘He might get strong and turn on you again.’

‘The home help comes,’ he mutters. ‘More of a hindrance than a help. But I’m all right.’ His eyes flicker
for a moment, move towards Ruth. He wants her out, has always wanted me to come alone. But I told him right at the start that I would be accompanied at all times. Tommo disapproves of Ruth, was happier when I arrived with a husband who stayed outside. ‘Is he still away?’ There is emphasis on the ‘he’.

‘Ben’s in the nursing home, yes.’ You were my nightmare, I want to say. Ben made you unimportant, released me from the evil dream. But he finds no solace now from his own torment.

He grins, displaying sickly yellow teeth that do little to enhance his sickly yellow face. ‘You backed two losers, didn’t you?’

Sometimes, I amaze myself. I come here and sit with a man who beat me, raped me, murdered a man I loved, and I still find a sort of pity for this creature who altered the course of my existence. But he’s not a lot worse than my mother, I suppose. And I still visit her. I have hated this man, have hated my mother, continue to harbour negative feelings for both these people who have harmed me. But hatred is not strong enough to make me turn away completely. I’m no saint, no martyr, yet I do these ‘good’ deeds, keep turning up to be stared at by Tommo in his Bootle cottage, continue verbally abused in a certain person’s retirement apartment.

‘The kids haven’t been,’ he grumbles.

‘I know.’ They can’t stand him, even for a few minutes. Neither can I, I decide suddenly. This will be the last time. If he needs money, he can have it. By post.

‘Why won’t they come?’

‘Busy,’ I reply briskly. ‘Lives to lead, things to do.’

‘And the fairy-boy? How’s he getting on? Has he found a boyfriend yet?’ The eyes narrow as he contains the glee. His brother, the man he murdered, fathered a creature who is less than a man. ‘And don’t start telling me he’s not queer. I spotted it a mile off that time when he came with my son.’

‘Edward is fine.’

‘Your mother?’ he enquires sarcastically, as if able to access my thoughts. ‘Still smoking herself to death and refusing to lie down?’

‘Something like that.’ I place an envelope on the table, make the movement as discreet as possible. We never discuss the contents, never refer to the few pounds I leave here each time I come. This awful man is the father of Gerald and Jodie. He is diminished in body and spirit, has fought his last fight. It is impossible for me to allow him to starve. But I receive no thanks, expect none.

Ruth makes much of looking at her watch. ‘Shall we go, Laura? After all, you’re supposed to get your rest.’

He picks up the clear plastic mask, holds it over his mouth and nose while he inhales pure oxygen. I am supposed to worry now, am supposed to stay with him in case he has another attack. That would be taking my charity too far. I am performing a duty, no more than that, am obeying my real husband’s instincts. And Tommo’s a sick animal, just another patient on my rota.

We make our goodbyes, go out to the car. ‘I don’t know how you do this,’ says Ruth. ‘After all, he’s never grateful, hardly even civil. I wonder about you, I really do. Are you trying to win a medal? The way he looks at you makes me shiver.’

‘Shut up.’ I stick out my tongue, climb into my uncomfortable driver’s seat, wait till Ruth is strapped in. ‘He’s harmless.’

‘Only because he’s ill. He’d kill you if he could.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘All right. But don’t come running to me when he breaks both your legs.’ She giggles, presses my hand. ‘Laura, you’re incurable.’

She’s wrong, I’m cured. I’m getting better every day, have come to terms with the reprieve I have been granted. Ben, Tommo, Flakey, Diana, the seagulls, my mother – these characters are not dictating my life. There are choices, so I do as I will. On an impulse, I jump out of Elsie, lean down, speak to Ruth. ‘Stay here.’

‘But—’

‘Stay.’ I return to the house, find Tommo counting my fivers.

‘What do you want?’ he asks, the pale face stained by anger. He isn’t happy, is displeased because I’ve caught him in the act of accepting my charity. ‘I want an answer,’ I say softly.

‘Fire away.’

I lean against the closed outer door. Words. I have to find the words. ‘You wrote to me, said you’d be sending friends to see me. Criminals, I should think.’

He frowns. ‘And?’

I clear my throat, wish I could cough the clutter out of my head. ‘How did Ben manage to keep me safe? How could he be so sure that you wouldn’t interfere? After all, you might still have sent someone.’ I pause, remember the early days of my second marriage. I can hear Ben now, can hear him telling me that it was all over, that Tommo could never hurt me again. ‘How?’ I plead. ‘Tell me.’

He lowers his gaze, stuffs the money down the side of his chair. ‘Are you sure he won’t get better?’

‘Yes, the doctor tells me to expect no improvement.’

Tommo nods. ‘He warned me never to tell you any of this. And he’s not alone. He might not come after me, but one of his mates could do it.’

A ripple of fear rises up my spine, digs its cold fingers into my neck. ‘What is it? Who are these friends of his?’

The yellowed mask of death shows its teeth, but there is no warmth, no humour in the smile. ‘Look, I don’t know the details, but that Ben Starling of yours gave the impression that our crimes were fairy-tale stuff. He was a prison visitor for a reason. We never found out who he was looking for, but mere were rumours. He threatened me, others too, dropped a few names, London people with big money and clean slates. Your so-called husband talked like a crook, acted like a gentleman. I don’t scare easily, but he put me off.’ He pauses, sighs. ‘I stayed away because he threatened me and because he seemed to be
part of something big. He put the frighteners on a few of us, even the old lags were winded by him. Anyway, that’s all I know, so make what you like of it.’

I stand very still, am conscious of my breathing. There is nothing more to be said. Tommo is making all this up, is reaching deep into the recesses of imagination. Ben is a good man, was always a law-abiding citizen. Even if Ben did say those things, they would have been manufactured just to keep me out of Tommo’s reach.

Tommo leans forward, thrusts the poker into the grate, stirs the fire to life. ‘The answer’s in London. And, from the little I learned, in other cities, European cities. Like I said, you married two bad devils. But he’s worse than me, I’m telling you. The notches on his gun—’

I move towards him. ‘He never killed.’

He shrugs, replaces the poker. ‘You may be right. Perhaps it was all rumour.’

His skin has paled again, and I feel sick, revolted, because this man is telling a kind of truth. And Ben travelled a lot, went to Europe on a fairly regular basis. But I decide to keep my counsel.

The drive home is silent. Ruth senses my need for quiet, does not intrude on my thoughts. Truth. How many more kinds are there?

Diana reminds me of Jodie, therefore of myself in younger days. Physically, the two girls are not unalike, both very slim, both fairly pretty. Diana is blond, as I was, but Jodie, my nomadic daughter, has dark brown hair with reddish highlights, though the lustre doesn’t show until she deigns to take a bath or a shower. She used to be clean, was always getting scrubbed up as part of her job. So her ‘industrial action’ has taken the form of greasy hair and grubby clothes, while my own small rebellions against society – against my mother, really – were feeble battles of words followed by a near-silence that lasted for ages.

I’ve done the crossword, am sitting here fiddling with my nails, sawing half-heartedly with an emery board. It’s
time for Adrian to be let loose with his box of tricks, pink for the body of the nail, white for the tip. Diana is in the dining-room with stepladder, brushes and paint. She is pretending that the latter is luminescent green, as she can’t bear magnolia. Flakey has gone missing again, is no doubt up to mischief.

‘Woof.’ Chewbacca eyes me lugubriously, wants a walk. Handel, whose fur has remained remarkably unruffled by the kitten’s arrival, ambles by, jumps into the sink, supervises the dripping tap. He paws the drops, investigates their source, gets a wet nose. Intelligent? He does the same thing every day, finishes up mesmerized by the drip-dripping, falls asleep in the bowl.

Diana peeps round the door. ‘Was this kitten magnolia when you got it?’

‘Black,’ I answer, unperturbed. I’m getting used to her.

‘Right.’ She pauses for a second or two. ‘Is your sideboard worth anything?’

‘Yes, why?’ The sideboard is of solid English oak, darkened by age, ponderous, ugly enough to be beautiful. I bought it out of pity – I used to do that sort of thing.

‘Give us a J-cloth, then, ’cos I’ve splashed a bit.’ She is wearing a lot of Crown vinyl silk, most of it on her face. ‘It’s time for a brew,’ she reminds me.

The kitten staggers in, a few drops of paint decorating her fluff. Flakey is one of those happy cats, the sort of animal that just accepts life’s roses and thorns, treats both the same. She’s feeding herself, is a real little gem. ‘Have you painted before?’ I ask, scraping together a faint interest.