Two Women (53 page)

‘That’s awful.’

Rhianna mimicked her nastily.

‘Yes, it was very awful, Miss Enderby. But it’s life, ain’t it? Me mum thought she was doing the right thing, I suppose.’

She lit a joint and dragged on it deeply.

‘What are you doing?’

Matty opened her arms so Rhianna could see what was on her lap.

‘I was just going through Sue’s things, that’s all. Here, look at this from little Barry.’

She held out the letter to Rhianna who snatched it from her, bellowing, ‘What the fuck you think you’re doing, girl? That is Susan Dalston’s private and personal stuff. You got no right to look through it all.’

Matty stood up and shrugged.

‘Where’s the harm? She doesn’t know, does she?’

Rhianna was fuming.

‘It is the unwritten rule, Matty.’ She poked one long purple talon in her face. ‘You don’t touch nothing you ain’t invited to touch, you should know that.’

She started gathering stuff up.

Matty was annoyed.

‘Oh, get a life, Rhianna, what harm will it do?’

The black woman faced her and Matty was surprised to see tears on her cheeks. She held the drawings and letters to her chest as if they were worth more than gold.

‘You don’t fucking touch nothing, you hear me, girl? You do and I’ll rip your fucking face off. This is all Susan has left of her life outside. Her life, Matty,
hers
, not yours or anyone else’s. Just hers. It’s her private world she can go to when she wants. It’s her memories, it’s where she can hug her kids, talk to them in her mind. Where she can daydream about them and love them without anyone else interfering. And if you can’t see that then you’re more of a selfish bitch than I first thought.’

Matty was quiet. Her eyes were sad as she listened to the other woman.

‘You know nothing about life, absolutely nothing about people or their needs,’ Rhianna said furiously. ‘You swan around here like you’re somebody, like we’re all beneath you and you know you’re better than us. But you ain’t, you ain’t better than any of us. Because we all know the basics of living together and sharing with people what they
want
to share, not what we think we can have or just take. Now where did this stuff come from?’

Matty felt as if she had had her face slapped.

‘All right, Rhianna, keep your hair on.’

She was so angry Matty was frightened for her own safety.

‘You really don’t know anything, do you, Matty? You really can’t see what you’ve done, can you?’

Slamming the stuff into her hands, Rhianna said seriously, ‘Put it all away and keep out of my fucking face tonight. I mean it, Matty. I ain’t in the mood for you.’

 

Susan came round in a hospital bed, her arms restrained by straps. For a while she was not sure where she was. Her mouth was dry, sore. Her tongue felt as if it was ten times too big for her mouth, and her eyes were streaming. She realised she was crying, had been crying in her sleep. Then it all came back to her and she realised why she was strapped down.

They were giving her Rosie away as if she was a piece of cake or an old jumper. They had decided she was better off with the Simpsons, and she probably was. But that did not make it right. Rosie was Susan’s baby, her last. Rosie was the little dote of the household. Even Barry had not been able to resist her.

Susan had carried her, nurtured and loved her since she had come into the world with her peachy face and high-pitched screams.

Out of the corner of her eye Susan saw the stuff from her pockets where they’d stripped her off. Peter’s letter lay on the white Formica cabinet and she felt the sting of tears once more. It had been a lovely day. She should have known she wasn’t allowed nice days or good things.

Her whole life she had blundered from one catastrophe to another. Yet she had always firmly believed that one day she would hit the jackpot. Get what she wanted. Just once. One time.

A face appeared by the bed. It was a little woman, in her sixties, with bad teeth and straggly hair held in place untidily by a head band.

‘Want a bit of something to make you happy, love? Something to take away the blues?’

Susan shook her head. The drug that could cheer her up had yet to be manufactured. After today she did not believe she would ever know another happy moment. She wasn’t sure if she even wanted happiness. It was always taken away again so fast she was beginning to be frightened of it.

Happiness was for other people, people in magazines or on telly. Not for the likes of her and her kids.

She cried again then, a lonely wailing sound, until finally they injected her and she could embrace oblivion.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Mariah Brewster lived just off Wardour Street. Geraldine was surprised when she saw her, having expected the usual prostitute. Instead she saw a middle-aged woman with nice hair, a good figure and a very modest C&A dress and cardigan. Mariah ushered her in as if she was visiting Royalty and once more Geraldine had a shock.

The flat was like a young girl’s bedroom, all chintz and tables covered in ornaments and knick-knacks. On the coffee table she had laid out afternoon tea, including sandwiches and cake, a large pot of tea and some scones.

‘Please sit down, Miss O’Hara. I’m so glad you’re prompt. I hate to be kept waiting and I have a client in just over an hour so I didn’t want to hurry you at all. That’s so rude, don’t you think?’

Geraldine was amazed but took an instant liking to the woman. Five minutes later she had a slice of Battenburg and a cup of tea balanced precariously on her knees.

‘You have lovely hair, dear, but I expect you get told that all the time, don’t you? My eldest daughter has lovely hair too. She’s at university, studying law of all things.’

Geraldine smiled.

Mariah sipped her tea and daintily wiped her coral-painted mouth with a linen napkin.

‘So what can I do for you? I really can’t add to the last statement I made.’

Geraldine nodded.

‘I understand that, but I have to pursue all avenues. I just want you to tell me, in your own words, about Victor Enderby. What he was like? What he wanted from you?’

Mariah sat back in her chair and closed her eyes.

‘He was a nice man, Victor, very polite and kind. I wish I had more like him.’ She sat up and smiled. ‘Would you like a scone?’

Geraldine shook her head.

‘Did he ever want anything out of the ordinary? Sexually, I mean.’

Mariah Brewster laughed then, a tinkling sound that was pleasant to listen to.

‘No! Victor?’ She held up her hands. ‘Straight sex and no kissing was old Victor. In fact, the sex wasn’t very important to him really.’

She frowned, trying to explain herself.

‘It was more like a date. He would bring me wine - good wine, too, not cheap crap. I learned a lot about wine from him, he was a bit of a buff. Wine buff that is.’

She laughed again.

‘He’d open the wine and we’d talk. He first came to me over ten years ago. His mother was alive then, of course. Old witch she was. Led him a merry dance with her illnesses and constant carping. I think I was really a refuge for him, someone he could confide in, be with. Spend a pleasant afternoon or evening with and not worry about being Victor Enderby, barrister. Or, more importantly, Victor Enderby, son.’ She smiled. ‘We had some good times, me and Victor. The sex was a sort of added bonus for him. Over in no time. And with no complications.’

‘He wasn’t into bondage? S&M? No matter how mild - even just holding your arms above your head, that kind of thing?’

Mariah shook her head and laughed again.

‘Victor wouldn’t even do it with the light on! He couldn’t talk about sex at all. I took the lead at all times. When his couple of hours were nearly up I’d take his hand and lead him to bed. Easy as that. He paid me in cash which he put in an envelope and laid by the bed. All in all it was a good arrangement. As I said earlier, I wish I had more like him.’

Geraldine could not imagine for the life of her how anyone could wish for men like that, strangers, people off the street. They could be diseased or anything.

Mariah seemed to read her mind and in her good-natured way she said sadly, ‘Look, love, I understand that my way of life may seem strange to you. But what you have to remember is, I am
not
you. I have brought up three kids, put them into good schools, taken care of their every need with this job. When my husband died I was absolutely penniless. He had gambled away everything we had. The house was mortgaged to the hilt, I was literally out on the street. This has given me back my independence in a way. I wouldn’t have chosen it but it has fulfilled a need.

‘My kids think I’m a civil servant, love, working on important things for the government. And why would they think otherwise? I’m their mother, their mentor, and go to work each day like everyone else. I’m there each night when they come home. I love them. Simple, isn’t it? If I could have a few more Victors I’d be a happy woman, believe me. I’m knocking on and that’s not good in my game. But I feathered me nest while I had the chance and one day I’ll be a granny living in Eastbourne with a little bungalow and some credibility. We all have to live by our own lights, love, do what we can.’

Geraldine was embarrassed by the total honesty of the woman before her.

‘I’m not judging you.’

Mariah smiled.

‘’Course you are. It’s human nature to judge. Well, I never judge anyone, me. Like the Bible says: “Judge not, lest you be judged.” Something like that anyway. I’ve been beaten up. I’ve been robbed. But I have survived thanks to the Victors of this world. The genuinely nice men, the ones who want succour not sex. When he met his wife he was so happy, you know. I was pleased for him.’

‘He told you?’

Mariah nodded.

‘Oh, he was over the moon. She was younger, very attractive, and he really believed she wanted him. Cared for him. He came here and told me he couldn’t be with me any more as it wouldn’t be fair on her. Matilda. He gave me a couple of ton severance pay, actually called it that. He was such a fair man. But he was back within six months of the wedding. I guessed he would be, it all sounded too good to be true.’

Geraldine couldn’t believe her ears.

‘You didn’t mention this before, in your first statement?’

Mariah shrugged.

‘Before, I didn’t really want to be involved. As you can imagine it’s the last thing I need. But after reading what was said about him I think someone should put the record straight. She tortured that man from day one. She ridiculed him: his sexual prowess and his life. The man became a shadow of his former self. He was a brilliant criminal lawyer, you know that. In the courtroom he was supposed to be fantastic. But with women he was like a lost boy. I can still see him, his poor face . . . he was devastated by what she was doing. Couldn’t understand what had gone wrong.

‘She aborted his babies as well. He told me that himself. If you’re trying to get her out, tell her from me she’s a lying little bitch. A child was the culmination of everything that man wanted in life. When she had them taken away he was broken. She set out to break him and she did. But if he hit her, I’m amazed. I refuse to believe he was capable of it.’

‘You really mean what you’re saying, don’t you?’

Mariah pushed one well-manicured hand through her lustrous hair.

‘I do. I knew him for many years. I
knew
him. I might be a tom but I am not the usual type of tom. I pick and choose and I’ve got myself a nice little clientele here. Mostly Victors. Professional men who want a bit of pampering, a bit of care. Nothing more. I used to say to him, “Get yourself a wife, a life, a family.” That was all he needed. And shall I tell you something: I wish he’d wanted to marry me. I’d have jumped at it like a shot. He was a nice, educated, intelligent man. But where that little bitch was concerned, he was like all men. Fucked from the first touch of her tits.’

‘Were you in love with him?’

The words were spoken slowly, in a quiet voice, and Mariah started to laugh again.

‘After fifteen years of whoring you can’t love anyone, darlin’. Not really. But you can like someone, respect them. I would have been grateful to have had him. Had me bills paid and just please him. Just him, not a succession of men, strangers mostly. I would have done whatever he wanted and spent every day of my life looking after him. Can you understand what I’m saying?’

The strange thing for Geraldine was she could understand. Probably better than most people.

‘Thank you for your time, Mariah. I appreciate it.’

The woman shrugged sadly.

‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you what you want to hear, love. I wish I could.’ She smiled then, a wistful smile.

‘People look down on us prostitutes, but shall I tell you something? At least we don’t pretend anything. We ask for money and we supply whatever is wanted. A service, if you like. Women like her, they take from a man all his life and don’t give anything back. She’s the real whore because I believe she went into that marriage for what she could get, and unlike me and my colleagues she couldn’t get rid of him at the end of the day. I can go home, to me real home, and forget about all this. She couldn’t. She had to look at his face morning, noon and night. That was her problem. I think she killed him to get rid of him. Because she’d made a mistake and he irritated her. She had the house, the money and the prestige, but nothing else. Because he loved her so much, he took a lot from her. I know that, and in your heart of hearts, so do you.’

Geraldine listened to the woman before her and knew instinctively that she was telling the truth. Her version of the truth admittedly, and from her point of view. But it had the ring of truth to it.

Worst of all, she was inclined to believe Mariah Brewster.