Two Women (60 page)

‘Don’t you dare tell me to piss off, you useless wanker!’

Debbie was laughing at her now and June wasn’t sure what to do.

‘What are you laughing at, you bloody div?’

Debbie laughed until the tears were running down her face.

‘You are a piece of shit, Mother, do you know that? Poor Susan has had the pain of knowing her kids were with strangers all that time and you didn’t give a shit. What did she offer you, eh? What did she offer her
own mother
to get her to do her a favour? Another lucrative story for the press? Come on, Mum, I’m interested. Tell me.’

June was seething with anger and resentment.

‘You little mare! You really think you’re better than me, don’t you? You, with your fucking terraced house and your mown fucking lawn. Your velvet curtains and Dralon three-piece. Oh, you really think you’re the dog’s bollocks, you do.

‘Well, listen to me, lady. You have nothing, neither chick nor child, no old man and no life. My Susan had a bit of go in her, at least she had that. At least she had the guts to top that bastard for battering her.

‘What guts have you got, eh? He’s got another bird, a family with her, and you haven’t even had the guts to give him his marching orders. Susan understands why I did what I did. She knows the value of a penny she does. Unlike you she’s had to scrimp for everything she’s got. You and him stick at it because of this house, that’s all. Well, let me tell you, a house is just a fucking house. If you ain’t happy in it then it means nothing.’

She waved her arms around.

‘You think that by cleaning and washing all day you’ll be happy? Well, you won’t. I know I’m an arsehole, I’ve been perfecting it for years. What excuse have you got, eh? You are a vindictive, bitter, miserable little mare. Susan has had the guts to tell me what she thinks of me, yet she still knows that whatever I might have done I’m her mother. Even I realise that much now. Well, you’re her sister and you could easily take that baby. Christ knows, you ain’t ever going to have one of your own . . .’

Both women fell silent then as if each realised they had gone too far.

‘Christ, Debs, I never meant it like that.’

‘Get out, Mother. And this time, don’t come back.’

June pulled her long leather coat around herself protectively and said quietly, ‘I won’t come back, Debs. But before I go, listen to me. Susan and you are sisters and I’m your mother, whether you like it or not. Go and see her. Try and help her. Christ knows she would have done it for you and even you know that’s true. If the boot was on the other foot you wouldn’t even have had to ask her, would you?

‘I hate to say this but she’s better than us all put together is Susan. Even made me feel ashamed.’

June let herself out of the house. Debbie silently watched her walk down the path to the gate. Closing the door, she went through to the kitchen and began to tidy up the mess her mother had made.

As she got the bleach out from under the sink and poured it on to the worktop the overpowering smell made her eyes water. Looking down at her hands she saw their redness from all the hot water and detergents. Her gaze went around the kitchen, looking at the perfectly arranged cupboards and the pristine tiled floor, and she wondered what the hell she was doing here.

Jamesie would rather spend his time with a little tart in a one-bedroom council flat with a damp patch and mould as part of the décor. Though she had a feeling that what he really wanted was Carol, his boy and this house.

He wanted Debbie out.

He had not been home properly since his little boy was born.

Who was she trying to kid that she still had a marriage?

 

Carol made Jamesie a sandwich and a cup of tea. Her kitchen was small but well fitted with cupboards. She, though, never bothered to put anything away. The bedroom was full of ironing and the lounge full of toys and games. The kitchen looked like a bomb site. She just swept everything into a pile and made room for herself.

Cleanliness to Carol was more a case of what you could get away with. She never saw the sense in wasting your life cleaning when you could be having a good time.

Jamesie bit into his ham sandwich and laughed at little Jamie’s efforts at building a tower with bricks. As Carol made her own sandwich he called out to her constantly.

‘Come and see him, Cal. Look how he built that. He’s a bright lad him. Look at the size of his shoulders. He’ll be a big one.’

The complimentary remarks were constant and Carol basked in the knowledge that Jamesie was hers. From the moment he had seen the red scrunched up face of his son, he had been hers. She caressed her belly. Now she had another one inside her and knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would give his old woman the big E. Fat Debbie was about to be turfed out of that little palace she loved so much. Carol wasn’t bothered by that. In fact, she thought Debbie had asked for it. Any woman who put anything before their man was a fool.

As Carol sat on the sofa and watched her two men playing together she smiled, a long slow smile like a cat who had caught a particularly big and juicy rat.

Which was, although she didn’t realise it, exactly what she had done.

 

Wendy sat in her room and watched the evening sun disappear behind a row of detached houses nearby. She could see into the gardens and often observed the families there as they relaxed. She saw them doing their gardening, reading books in deckchairs. Saw children playing in paddling pools. She heard the laughter and sometimes the cross words and bickering brought to her courtesy of the evening wind.

She envied the children their safe houses, their nice clothes and their parents. Mostly she envied them their parents.

What she wouldn’t give to have her mother’s arms around her now, her mother’s voice telling her everything would be all right.

She put her head on her arms and closed her eyes.

She was still, perfectly still for a moment. Then she went to the bureau and opened a drawer. Inside was a bottle of Paracetamol tablets. She caressed the glass gently.

She had a desperate urge to take them, one by one. Swallow them all. If she was gone, everything might get better.

She was the cause of everything. If she had not been home that night . . . If she had gone in with one of the younger kids . . . If she had only kept out of his way, none of this would have happened. Rosie would not be with the Simpsons and the other two would be asleep in their own beds.

She had caused so much trouble with her actions, upset so many people’s lives, it really would be better if she was gone. It would be right and just for her to take her life after ruining so many other people’s.

She thought of what Colin had said to her earlier in the day. He knew something wasn’t right and had tried to pry out of her why she was at her gran’s and the kids left in Alana’s charge. A child’s charge.

Wendy had not answered him.

Her mother would sit it out for ever before she let anyone know what had happened to her daughter.

What her daughter had done.

Wendy knew she could never tell even if she wanted to because it would break her mother’s heart.

Opening the bottle she took out the tablets. Then, sitting on the bed, she poured herself a large glass of orange from the jug on her night table. She gripped the bottle hard, feeling the sweat as it poured from her palms and seeped through her fingers.

All she had to do was take these tablets and everything would be better.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘She’s what? And you haven’t mentioned it till now!’

Susan’s voice was incredulous. As she was told about her daughter’s attempted suicide she felt her world collapse around her ears.

The Head PO felt such overwhelming pity for the woman before her she worried she might cry herself.

‘Listen to me, Susan, she’s okay. Honestly. We didn’t get you up in the night because we didn’t see the point in worrying you. I made that decision because I felt it was the right one at the time.’

Susan didn’t answer her; she was looking around the office as if some miraculous escape route would materialise in front of her eyes.

‘My baby, my little girl, was in intensive care and
you didn’t want to worry me
?’

Mrs Carlin shook her head sadly.

‘There was nothing you could have done, Susan. I felt it would be wicked to give you that worry in the night when there was nothing you could do.’

Susan looked into the kindly woman’s face and whispered, ‘I could have prayed, Miss, I could have done that at least.’

Mrs Carlin walked around the desk. Picking up the cup of hot sweet tea she placed it gently in Susan’s hands.

‘Drink up. I’m going to the governor to see if we can get you a visit.’

Sue grasped at the heavy white mug in despair.

‘They ain’t going to let me out, are they?’

Mrs Carlin’s heavily lined face softened as she spoke.

‘Well, Susan, we can but try. We can but try.’

 

Wendy was tired, so very tired.

As she lay in the hospital bed, hearing the noisy movements on the ward, she felt a feeling of utter desperation roll over her.

She couldn’t even kill herself properly.

A nurse, a pretty Irish girl with big blue eyes and shocking red hair, popped her head around the door.

‘A cup of tea, my little love? Or a drink of water perhaps?’

Wendy smiled wanly, her face so sad the nurse felt depressed just looking at her. She came into the room and sat on the bed. She smiled widely and professionally.

‘Come on, give me a bit of chat, I’m mad to talk to someone nearer me own age. Jesus knows but the English are reticent and the ward sister’s a bitch in a dress.’

Wendy did smile now, a sad smile.

‘Will they send me back to the home soon?’

The nurse shrugged.

‘Sure, how would I know? They tell me nothing while I’m training.’

She pushed Wendy’s long thick dark hair from her brow.

‘Would you look at that hair? Jesus, I’d give all me wages for hair like that. It’s gorgeous. I bet it attracts the fellas, eh?’

She realised she’d said the wrong thing by the look of utter contempt on the young girl’s face. Wendy pulled away from her and said heavily, ‘I don’t want to attract fellas, thank you. I just want to be left in peace.’

‘Come away out of that, would you? That’s why we’re all here. You’ll feel differently soon, believe me. Is that what made you . . . you know?’

She was genuinely interested and Wendy saw a young girl like herself, trying to fit into the grown-up world and at a loss as to how to do it. She didn’t answer her and they sat in silence together.

‘We all get experience one day, I suppose. You have to. Have to learn it all.’

The girl’s voice was low, she was trying so hard to be friendly.

‘I know too much already and I don’t want to fit in. Not any more.’

Wendy’s voice was so desolate the young nurse felt saddened to the core.

‘Ah, don’t be letting yourself get depressed again. Life’s a big present from God but what you do with it is up to you. You get one crack at it, it’s not a dress rehearsal as me mother used to say. Six months from now you’ll be wondering what the feck you were so worried about.’

Wendy smiled at her jovial voice. If only she could be like this little person with her starched uniform and sensible shoes.

‘Six months from now all my problems will still be there, and they’ll be worse not better. Believe me, I know.’

Rosie would be gone for ever by then.

Little Rosie, everyone’s pride and joy.

‘You can’t say that for definite. Everything changes. Everything has to change. Sure, that’s what life is all about, isn’t it? Making things happen, making things change.’

Wendy looked into the girl’s pretty freckled face and sighed heavily.

‘I think I will have a cup of tea now.’

The nurse jumped from the bed and grinned.

‘I’m Orla by the way. Orla O’Halloran.’

Wendy smiled. ‘I’m Wendy Dalston.’

Orla laughed loudly.

‘Sure, don’t I already know your name, child? It’s above the bed.’

She skipped merrily from the room and Wendy lay back against the cool pillows and was half sorry and half pleased the exuberant girl had gone.

Happy people, she decided, wore you out.

And she felt worn out inside and out, as if she had lived a hundred years already.

 

Geraldine was in her office going through Susan Dalston’s case file and the reading was heavy. As she looked through the witness statements and police reports she was growing angry. She could see all too clearly that the police had accepted Susan’s story without once questioning it. It was full of contradictions, had enough holes in it to make it practically inadmissible. But she also knew that these men who had visited the woman’s house on numerous occasions, who knew the treatment she had suffered at the victim’s hands, were just out for an easy conviction. Short and sweet. Barry had battered Susan five days before and she had decided to kill him after a night out in a local pub where she had, quote, ‘had a great night’. If she was in such a good mood, why did she decide that night of all nights to hammer her husband’s head until it was gone? Until there was nothing left but bone and brain.

The coroner’s report stated he had been hit viciously and repeatedly. The first few blows had killed him, it decreed in its wisdom. So why did she carry on with the attack which they estimated must have taken at least fifteen minutes?

Now Geraldine knew about the daughter she understood a lot more than they had, obviously. But at the same time it still seemed so extreme. Even knowing what he had done to Wendy, it seemed extreme. It was as if Susan Dalston had wanted to obliterate every trace of Barry Dalston. Wanted to take his face away.