Shameful Secrets on Coronation Close, page 23
‘I’d love to – if it’s no trouble.’
‘None at all, though my hands…’ She held them up. ‘I haven’t got a good bone in my body. You might have to put the kettle on and make the tea yourself.’
The garden gate opened silently on well-oiled hinges. The garden was immaculate, everything in order and growing where it was meant to be.
The house turned out to be the same. Not a thing out of place. The brass fire irons glowing like gold in front of an empty grate, the cushions plump and set squarely in the armchairs and settee, the walls the same dull cream as every other house on the estate bare of pictures. The clock sitting on the mantelpiece above the fireplace was square, the coalscuttle was square. Even the patterns on the cushions, in the hearth-rug and on the curtains, were square, oblong or triangular motifs. There were no circles, no soft edges; everything included angles. Nothing was out of place and the precision with considered placement would have made her shiver if she hadn’t been wearing a coat. The house held little warmth even in mild weather.
‘You have a lovely home,’ Thelma finally said though she was sitting on the edge of her chair, scared to touch anything in case she put it out of place.
The praise that Thelma didn’t feel was met with appreciation.
‘Sam does it all. I can’t, you see…’ She again drew attention to her disfigured hands and fingers.
‘He sounds like a saint.’
‘He’s taken care of everything since I became like this.’
For a moment, she held her hands in front of her face, staring at them as though only now discovering how very disfigured they were.
What had she been like beforehand? Thelma wondered.
‘It came as quite a shock. Altered our lives it did.’
Thelma swallowed the home truths she’d planned. The poor woman didn’t deserve it. Instead she followed her out into the kitchen, which was as pristine and unencumbered by clutter as the living room. A green checked wipe-clean tablecloth matched the curtain hanging beneath the draining board. The curtains hanging at the kitchen window were plain yellow. The two colours should have lifted the atmosphere, but Thelma couldn’t help feeling they were fighting a losing battle. Not that the rooms weren’t bright enough, it was the sombre thought that something about this house and the people in it were quite wrong. No amount of colour could hide the darkness lurking just beneath the surface.
Twisted fingers lost their grip on the kettle. It dropped from her hand, the lid flew out and clattered across the floor.
‘Let me,’ said Thelma, her heart full of pity but being careful not to reveal such a feeling in her voice.
She ably filled the kettle from beneath the tap, set the lid back on and placed it on the gas.
After finding the matches, Thelma did the honours, lit the gas ring and got the kettle boiling.
His wife pointed to where the cups, saucers, milk and sugar rested in pristine order on the lower shelves. Thelma put everything needed onto a tray along with the teapot. Beryl handed her a red and yellow striped tea cosy topped with a knitted robin.
‘That’s pretty.’
Beryl beamed. ‘I made it myself.’
‘It’s pretty.’ Thelma turned it this way and that. ‘Especially the robin. He makes me smile.’
‘Me too.’ Her smile vanished. ‘I can’t knit like that now. Too fiddly for my fingers.’
All the shouting and indignation Thelma had thought would constitute this meeting had been part of a false vision. Beryl hungered for company and for all her desire for revenge, Thelma couldn’t begrudge her moment of happiness. But despite wanting to be kind, her nerves were on edge. Even though she knew he was at work, her heart was beating like a hammer. What if he came home unexpectedly?
‘Do you usually buy your wool in Mrs Rigby’s?’
‘I want to, but it takes me such a long time to get there and besides…’ Fear flashed in her eyes but quickly vanished. ‘The fact is that Sam doesn’t like me going out. He says I should keep out of sight, that people only make fun of me.’ Her eyes glistened with tears.
The anger Thelma had nursed for herself she now shared with someone who was also a victim of the same man. His wife.
‘How about I fetch you a skein or ball of wool? How would that be?’
Clutching a screwed-up handkerchief, crooked fingers swiped at the wetness in her eyes, Beryl’s look visibly brightened. ‘So kind.’
‘Double-, three-ply or four-ply?’
‘I like four-ply, but my fingers cope better with double nowadays.’
‘I’ll get you some. I presume you’d prefer red?’
The strained sorrow became a smile. ‘Oh yes. So kind.’
Gripping the cup with both hands, she sipped at her tea. Thelma observed her over the rim of her cup. How could he treat a woman like this? The anger she’d had for him had doubled. What sort of life did the poor woman have? Caged like an animal, dissuaded from going out or having discourse with any other human being. The man was a monster.
A little more conversation, mostly about knitting and the garden, before Thelma declared her intention to leave.
Beryl looked disappointed. ‘Do you have to go now? Can you stay for another half an hour?’
‘Just a few minutes more. My girls are due home from school. They’ll want their tea.’
Getting home in time for the girls was an acceptable excuse but not the truth. She couldn’t risk running into him. The very thought of it made her shiver from head to toe.
‘I see.’
That sad imploring look again, full of pathos, of deep-rooted despair.
Thelma determinedly buttoned up her coat. Despite being sympathetic to this woman’s plight, she couldn’t risk hanging around too long.
Thinking her host might also be cold, she turned her attention to the coal fire which presently burnt only insipidly. She picked up the poker. ‘I’ll stoke the fire up a bit for you before I go.’
As she did so, her eyes alighted on a shoe hanging by its heel over the brass fender. The coals glowed. Her hands gripped the poker and nausea rose from her stomach. She froze.
Beryl saw her interest in the shoe. ‘That’s my Cinderella slipper,’ she said laughingly. ‘That’s what Sam calls it. He found it lying all alone in the snow and brought it home.’
‘In January. When it snowed?’
‘That’s right. We sat down with warm soup on either side of the fire and he told me a story about how Cinderella had run away from her prince out here on the green.’ She laughed again. ‘Sam’s very good at telling stories. We had a fine time that night. He was in a good mood.’
‘Cinderella’s slipper.’
‘That’s the story he wove around it. He’s always telling me stories to lift my spirits. Better than telling me about what happened at work each day.’
There was joy in her eyes, but inside Thelma there was only a sick feeling. On the one hand, she wanted to grab her missing shoe and run. On the other, it was far past redemption; soaked through, it had dried out and shrunk in front of the fire. Time had taken its softness.
Just as it’s taken mine, thought Thelma, though she knew it wasn’t true. She would go to the wool shop. She would see Beryl again.
She headed for the door. ‘Don’t bother to get up. I can see my own way out.’
‘Wait.’
Thelma paused, hand on the doorknob.
‘You didn’t tell me your name.’
Should she tell the truth? No.
‘Eunice. My name’s Eunice.’
An imploring voice called after her. ‘Call again. Please. With or without the wool.’
Thelma hurried away; her face aflame, though all over she felt as though she’d been doused in ice.
‘Hello. Prince Charming here. Is Cinderella at home?’
Sam bent down and kissed her cheek. Beryl turned her head in the hope that he would also kiss her lips. As usual, it pained her when he didn’t.
‘Have you had a good day?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
The excitement in her voice made him turn his head. ‘You sound happy.’
She’d been unsure as to whether she should tell him. After all, he discouraged her having visitors. He discouraged her going out. She decided that on this occasion it would do no harm.
‘I’ve had a visitor.’
She saw the slight crinkling of a frown, but told herself all would be well.
‘A woman was looking for someone. She was a bit lost, so I invited her in for a cup of tea. We had a lovely chat. Her name was Eunice. See?’ She pointed at the cups still sitting on the tray, not trusting herself to take them out to the kitchen without dropping the tray and smashing the lot.
Sam picked up one of the cups. His frown deepened when he saw the imprint of female lips in a bright red lipstick. The deep red colour was familiar.
‘Who was she looking for?’
His wife looked confused. ‘I don’t know. I forgot to ask.’
‘You let a complete stranger into the house?’ He shook his head. The corners of his mouth curled with contempt. ‘You really are bloody stupid at times.’
‘But she was nice. And I told her about you finding the shoe and telling me that Cinderella had dropped it, and everything…’
He stooped down, snatched the shoe and passed it from one hand to the other. His look darkened, though inside he felt a surge of excitement. He’d not kept the shoe for his wife’s sake but for his own. It aided his memory of that night – the excitement, the soft yielding flesh of a woman and his own aggressive hardness. He’d determined to have her the moment he’d seen her. Given the chance, he would have her again. Unwittingly, his wife had aroused his desire, the need to replay his pleasure all over again. The shoe had done that to some extent, but now…
There was no guarantee that it was the same woman he’d had on the snowy ground who had dared visit his house. He’d recently seen her on the bus for the first time since that blizzard. He’d recognised her instantly, but nonetheless had alighted at his usual stop. Was it coincidence that she had inveigled herself into his house so shortly after that?
‘What else did you notice about this woman you invited into my house? This Eunice? Describe her to me.’
His wife’s smile faltered. He’d designated the house as his – not shared between the two of them. He took that tone on those occasions she’d displeased him – like now.
‘How old was she?’
Beryl trembled. ‘I’m not sure.’
A sharp slap landed on her cheek, jarring the stiffness of her neck so much so that it almost moved.
‘Um… late thirties, forty perhaps.’
‘Eyes?’
‘Dark. I think.’
His face was level with hers, menacing, intense.
‘Hair?’
‘Dark. Glossy. And she was smartly dressed,’ she added, desperate to escape another slap. ‘A green suit and a black coat. She wore black shoes, a bit like the Cinderella shoe.’
‘Do you know where she lives?’
‘No.’
He turned his back on her as he murmured, ‘Only tarts wear bright red lipstick.’
‘But she wasn’t a tart. Not a woman of the night. She has two children.’
‘As if that makes a difference,’ he growled from the hallway as he hung up his hat and coat.
For the rest of that evening, things went on as they normally did. He cooked a meal for both of them, then carried her up to bed whether she wanted to go or not. Before closing the bedroom door, he wished her goodnight. She heard the key turn in the lock.
Back downstairs, he sat nursing a glass of stout as he listened to the radio. He wasn’t giving it his full concentration. Other thoughts dominated his mind, drowning out anything else. Firstly, there was the excitement of that snowy night last January. Secondly, his stupidity on this last occasion he’d seen her. Why go and sit right opposite her? Worse still, he’d spoken to her, perhaps too glibly, too gloating. She hadn’t seen much of his face on their first meeting, but she had heard his voice. Apart from that, he thought she hadn’t a clue as to his identity. But now he recalled the woman sitting next to her, a familiar face he was sure had once been a friend of his wife. I’m a bloody fool, he thought to himself, I should have been more careful.
29
Jenny was dealing with pledges left in the pawnshop that Monday morning, entering them in the accounts book. Some of the items weren’t worth the amount of money lent against them. A Sunday suit, a fox fur long ravaged by time, and a cruet set the owner had assured her had solid silver shakers. The letters EPNS – electroplated nickel silver – said otherwise and some of that had changed colour to a coppery sheen.
The same items came in every Monday, the owner short of cash until their husband’s next pay day. Most of the customers were women, wives of husbands who drank away a good portion of their wages over the weekend.
Robin’s children, Simon and Susan, had arrived that morning before Jenny. Robin had left her to get on with things whilst he went along to Connaught Road School to arrange for them to attend for the rest of the week.
‘Will you be able to manage?’ he asked her before he’d left. ‘A clip around the ear should be enough if they cause trouble.’ He laughed.
She did not foresee any problems, though they were bound to be a little confused to be passed like parcels from one parent to another.
From upstairs came the sound of doors and drawers being opened and closed. She guessed the two of them were nosing around. Perhaps Robin had given them permission to do so or perhaps not. Either way, it was none of her business. Even when she heard the clumping of footsteps down the stairs, she kept her head down – that was until a tousled head of hair appeared through the wire screen in front of her. It looked as though it hadn’t seen a comb for a week. There followed his face, deep-set eyes and an upper lip crusted with dried snot.
‘I’m Simon. Who are you?’ he said, pressing his dirty nose and face against the wire screen.
Jenny slammed the accounts book shut. ‘I’m the woman who’s about to wash your dirty face!’
‘I washed it yesterday.’ His protest was loud and adamant.
‘Well, today is another day.’
‘I don’t want it washed.’
She grabbed him before he could dart away. ‘Whether you do or not, you’re having it washed.’
Keeping a firm grip on his shoulder, she marched him up the stairs to the first-floor bathroom, wetted a face flannel under the tap and rubbed away at his face.
‘That’s cold,’ he shouted.
She kept hold despite him wriggling like a rat in a trap.
‘Tonight you can wash in warm water from the kettle, but for now let’s get the worst of this off.’
‘I ain’t washing me face again tonight. I bloody well ain’t. Ouch,’ he added when she very lightly clipped his ear.
‘No swearing. Your father won’t like it.’
‘Me mum don’t mind. I can swear all I like.’
‘That might be all right with your mother, but your father won’t like it.’
The turn in events had surprised Jenny. Up until now, Doreen had taken a devilish delight in using their children as a weapon. Robin had been devastated by her behaviour and had jumped at the opportunity to have them with him. When he’d told her, Jenny had questioned Doreen’s sudden change of heart.
Robin had shrugged. ‘I never was able to read Doreen’s mind.’ A worried frown had darkened his expression. ‘It’s something to think about though. I never know what she’s up to.’
They’d agreed there must be a reason but had no idea what it was.
‘But I am glad they’re coming here,’ he’d added, happiness dancing in his eyes.
Jenny had felt happy for him. At the same time, she’d agreed to increase her hours from two half-days a week to three. Although Robin was like a dog with two tails since they’d arrived, looking after two children and running a business was hard. He’d appreciated her agreeing to work slightly more hours.
Holding Simon with one hand, Jenny ran her fingers through the boy’s hair and grimaced.
‘I’ll get your father to wash your hair tonight with vinegar. And comb it through with a Derbac comb. You’ve got nits.’
‘Let me go.’
The thin arms flailed at her, fists tightly clenched, legs kicking. Unable to restrain him, she let him go. He flew into the arms of his scowling sister who had appeared in the doorway.
‘You leave my brother alone. I’ll tell my mum. I’ll tell her you hurt him.’
Jenny rolled down the sleeves she’d pulled up to wash Simon’s face. ‘I washed his face. That’s all I did, young lady. I’m astounded your mother didn’t wash him before he came.’
She rinsed off the face flannel, folded it and placed it on the edge of the sink.
‘Don’t matter if ’e ain’t ’ad a wash. None of your business to make ’im wash.’
Jenny sighed. Perhaps she had been a bit impetuous with the clip around the ear, but washing the little tyke was of benefit to him more so than to her.
‘How about you? When was the last time you washed?’
‘None of yer bleedin’ business.’
Jenny had to admit that the girl’s face looked clean enough. All the same, she was taken aback at such appallingly rude behaviour.
‘How about your hair. Have you got nits too?’
Susan’s scowl deepened. ‘No, I ain’t. Me mum would ’ave said so. Mucking us about like that.’
‘I am not mucking you about. Being clean will keep you healthy.’
The girl poked out her tongue. ‘Sod off. Come on,’ she said, tugging at her brother’s shoulder. ‘We ain’t ’anging around where we ain’t wanted.’
Before leaving, she threw Jenny a surly look and a parting threat.
‘I’m gonna tell my mum that you made my brother cry. You just see if I don’t.’
Jenny sighed. Robin’s offspring showed no sign of being grateful for their visit. Did they care for their father at all? She didn’t know.
