Then I got up and walked into his arms and we began to kiss each other hungrily. It was less than twenty-four hours since we’d parted, yet we kissed as if the gap had been much, much longer.
Another bouquet arrived at the office next morning, this time pink and white carnations. I found a vase and put them in the reception area. “Diana’s late.’June remarked.
“I thought she would have called by now.”
When she still hadn’t arrived by midday, George approached me. “Should I ring to see if she’s all right?
I’m still annoyed with her, but I suppose she’s had it rough lately, and it wouldn’t hurt to let her know we’re concerned.”
“Would you like me to do it?”
“I was hoping you’d take the hint.” He looked relieved.
When I dialled Diana’s home there was no reply.
“Perhaps her father’s been taken to hospital again,” I suggested.
George had already lost interest. “Can I buy you lunch?” He jingled the coins in his pocket. “I’m desperately in need of a shoulder to cry on. I had a letter from Bill this morning. He and Annabel will stay with me over Christmas but, reading between the lines, I could tell they’d sooner not. They’re only coming because their mother’s off somewhere exotic with her new husband—his name’s Crispin, would you believe?”
“I’m sorry, George, but I’m lunching with my sister, and I’ve an appointment at the Old Roan with the Naughtons at half past two. Perhaps tonight, after work?”
“You’re on,” George said glumly, as he mooched into his office. “I think I’m about to have a panic attack.”
Trudy had phoned earlier. “Mum said you’d gone to William Square last night, but you weren’t there when I called. That girl draped around the railings, is she what I suspect she is?”
I confirmed that she definitely was.
“Will you be there tonight if I come at the same time? I need to talk to someone and there’s only you.”
“I’m not sure when I’ll get away,” I said quickly. It was selfish, but I didn’t want my sister in Flo’s flat, which I regarded as my own property until the place was ready for another tenant—which seemed further away than ever. “Are you free for lunch?” I enquired. “My treat.”
“I thought you always worked through lunch?”
“I won’t today,” I promised.
We met in Central Precinct under the high domed glass roof, where a “woman was playing old familiar tunes on a white grand piano, her fingers rippling languorously up and down the keys. Trudy was already seated at a wrought-iron table, looking very smart in a dark green jacket, long black skirt and lace-up boots. We made a pretty pair, the Cameron sisters, I thought wryly: elegant, with our nice clothes, discreetly made-up faces, and lovely ash blonde hair. No one glancing at us would have guessed at our wretched childhood, though Trudy’s face was rather pinched and tight, I thought.
“I’ve never been here before,” she said, when I sat down. “I love the pianist.”
“Have you noticed what she’s playing?” The strains of “Moon River” came from the piano. “Mum’s favourite.”
Trudy’s laugh was rather strained as she rubbed the scar above her left eyebrow. “There’s no escape, is there?”
When I returned from the counter with prawn salads and two giant cream cakes, she said, “I’ve just been thinking about the way Mum used to sing it when us kids had been knocked black and blue, and Dad had probably had a go at her.”
“It was her way of coping, I suppose.” I ate several prawns with my fingers—it was my first proper meal since Sunday. “What did you want to talk about, Sis?” I was reluctant to rush her, but I had to meet the Naughtons in an hour’s time.
Trudy was shoving her food around the plate with her fork. “I don’t know where to begin,” she muttered.
“The beginning?”
“That’s too far.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t understand.”
My sister threw her fork on to the plate with a sigh. “It’s Colin,” she said.
A knot of fear formed in my stomach. “What’s he done?”
“Nothing,” Trudy said simply. “He’s a good, decent man. I love him, and he loves me, and he adores Melanie and Jake. He works all the hours God sends for us.”
“Then what’s the problem, Trude?”
“I don’t trust him.” Trudy put her elbows on the table and regarded me with abject misery.
“You mean you think he’s having an affair?”
“Of course not. He wouldn’t dream of it.” Trudy shook her head impatiently. “It’s nothing to do with affairs. It’s to do with the children. Oh, Lord!” She dabbed her eyes with the paper napkin. “I’m going to cry. Have I smudged my mascara?”
“A bit.” I reached out and rubbed under her eyes. A woman at the next table was watching with interest, but turned away when she saw I’d noticed.
“It’s my painting, you see.” Trudy sighed. “There must be two hundred bottles, jars, decanters and demijohns in the shed, all finished. I’ve painted light-bulbs, plates, tumblers, brandy glasses—we get them from car-boot sales. The children think it’s great, looking for glassware for Mum to paint. And I love doing it, Millie. I get quite carried away, thinking up new ideas, new patterns, and I can’t wait to see how they’ll turn out. But what am I supposed to do with the damn things?” she said plaintively.
“Sell them,” I said promptly. I still hadn’t grasped what the problem was. “Didn’t Colin suggest you have a stall and he’ll look after the kids?”
“Yes. But I don’t trust him, Mill. I feel terrible about it, but I don’t trust him with me children for an entire day.
I’m scared he’ll hit them, and if he did I’d have to leave.”
I was beginning to make sense of things. “Has he ever done anything to make you think he would so much as lay a finger on them?” I asked.
“No!”
“In that case, don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid?” I said. “More than a bit, in fact. Over-the-top paranoid, if you ask me.”
“I know I am. But I still can’t bring meself to leave them. Colin’s nagging me soft to start a stall. There’s a church hall in Walton where they have a craft fair every Sunday. He can’t understand why I keep putting it off.”
“Neither can I. Our father wrecked our childhood, and now you’re letting him wreck your marriage. You’ve got to trust Colin, Trude. You’ve got to.” Even as I spoke, I recalled James, his fist raised . . . “I think all of us are capable of violence when the chips are down, but only a very perverted person would hit children the way our father hit us.”
Trudy gnawed her bottom lip. “I must admit I’ve smacked Jake’s bottom once or twice. He can be a little bugger when he’s in the mood.”
“Was Colin there?”
“Yes. He was ever so cross and said I must never do it again.”
“But he didn’t leave!” I cried. “And knowing your history—that children who’ve been abused often abuse their own children—it’s him who should be worried about leaving Melanie and Jake with you’. Think how upset you’d be if you thought he suspected you’d hurt them! He’s always trusted you, and he deserves your trust. Start the stall now in case he guesses why you’re putting it off. He might never forgive you if he does.”
Trudy began to attack her salad. “I’m glad I talked to you, Sis. I never looked at it like that before.” She paused, a forkful of prawns halfway to her mouth. “I wonder if Dad was hit when he was little?”
“That’s something we’ll never know.”
I thought about it later on the way to the Old Roan. The only feelings I’d ever had for my father were fear as a child, and loathing as I grew older. But could there have been a reason for his behaviour? For the first time in my life, I wondered if a badly damaged human being could be lurking inside the monster I’d always known.
The Naughtons found the garden of the property in Old Roan much too big, and I drove back to work irritated by the waste of time.
When I went in, George announced “Diana’s father’s dead. She called earlier. He passed away peacefully in his sleep during the night.”
“How did she sound?”
“As hard as nails,” George said indignantly. “You’d think she was calling to say her car wouldn’t start.”
“She’s putting it on. I reckon she’s devastated.”
“You’re an exceedingly charitable person, Ms Millicent Cameron. Anyway, the funeral’s Friday afternoon.”
He drooped. “I suppose I’d better put in an appearance, represent the firm, as it were.”
“Do you mind if I come with you?”
“Mind? Of course not. I’ve rarely had a more welcome offer.”
Later, I called my mother with the news—she was always ghoulishly interested in hearing about a death.
“How old was he?”
“A good eighty,” I replied. “Diana’s parents were middle-aged when she was born.” I decided to change the subject. “I met our Trudy for lunch.”
“That’s nice, luv,” Mum said. “I like it when you two get together.”
“Perhaps the three of us could have lunch one day, you and me and Trude. You’d love the restaurant, Mum.”
“Oh, I dunno, luv,” she said, flustered. “I’d never get back in time to do your dad’s tea.”
I assured her she’d have bags of time and my father needn’t know anything.
“I’ll think about it,” she promised.
“You’ll have to do more than think, Mum,” I said. “I’m going to badger you rotten till you say yes.”
There was a pause. “You sound happy, Millicent. Has something nice happened? Has James proposed?”
“James is history, Mum. Perhaps I’m happy because I’ve just had lunch with my sister.”
“Whatever it is, luv, I’m glad. You were getting very hard. Not long ago, you wouldn’t have dreamed of asking your mam out to lunch. Now, what’s all this about James being history?”
Apart from George and me, there were only five other mourners at the funeral: Diana, stiff and unemotional, two women neighbours, and two old men who’d been friends of Diana’s father.
It was a bone-chilling November day and a wind flecked with ice blew through the cemetery, whisking in and out of the gravestones, stripping the last few leaves off the trees.
“I didn’t think people got buried any more,” George muttered, through chattering teeth. “I thought they popped ‘em in an oven. At least it’d be warmer for the mourners.’
I watched the coffin being lowered into the grave, then the vicar said a few respectful words, and Diana came over and thanked us for coming. I took her hand as we walked towards the cars, George trailing behind.
“I’m sorry about your father. At least he didn’t suffer much pain.”
“No, and as everyone keeps saying, he had a good innings.” Diana removed her hand. “You get over these things. From now on, I’ll be able to live my life as I please.”
“If you need someone to talk to,” I said gently, “then don’t hesitate to ring. If I’m not there, I’ll be at number one William Square. There’s no phone, so you’ll just have to turn up.”
“Thank you, Millie, but I’m fine. I can’t understand people who go to pieces when somebody dies.”
Church bells pealed, nearby and far away, high-pitched and rippling, deep-toned and sonorous. I opened my eyes: a cold sun shimmered through the white curtains, and Tom O’Mara “was leaning over me. His brown hair was loose, framing his long face. If it hadn’t been for the earrings and the tattoo, he would have resembled one of the saints in the pictures I’d taken down.
“I was just wondering,” he said, “what is it between us two?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I mean, the truth is, you’re an uppity bitch, full of airs and graces, and your accent gets on me wick.”
My lips quivered as I traced the outline of the heart on his chest. “I’ve always steered clear of your sort, and the way you speak sets my teeth on edge.”
He pulled the bedclothes down to my waist and buried his head in my breasts. “So, what is it between us two?” he asked again. His lips fastened on my left breast, and I squealed in delight when his tongue touched the nipple.
“I haven’t a due,” I gasped truthfully. The deep-down feeling of intimacy was frightening, because I couldn’t visualise there ever being an end. The bells were still ringing as we made love, and it wasn’t until it was over that I said, “Why are you still here?” He’d usually gone before sunrise and Flo’s alarm clock showed almost half past nine.
The wife’s taken the girls to see her mam. I thought we’d spend the day together, or at least part of it. I’ve got to be at the club by five.”
I was thrilled at the notion of spending the day in bed with Tom O’Mara, but he had other ideas. “C’mon, let’s have summat to eat and we’ll be oft.”
“Off where?” I sat up and blew the hair out of my eyes.
Tom was getting dressed.
“Southport.”
“Why Southport?”
“I’ll tell you later, after we’ve had some grub.” He pulled on a blue polo-neck sweater, and went over to the mirror, where he combed his hair and scooped it back into a ponytail with an elastic band. I watched, entranced.
It was such a feminine gesture coming from such an overwhelmingly masculine man. The stomach thinks me throat’s been cut,” he said. “I’m starving.”
“There isn’t any ‘grub’, as you call it, except for a few old packets of biscuits.”
He groaned. “In that case, I’ll just have a cup of tea and we’ll get something to eat on the way. The pubs’ll be open by then.”
The sun was as bright as a lemon, and little white clouds were chasing each other across the pale blue sky.
The wind was dry and crisp and very cold. I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my tan overcoat, glad that I was wearing boots—after the funeral yesterday I’d gone home for some warm clothes.
Tom’s car, a silver-blue Mercedes, was parked round the corner, a suede coat on the back seat. I remarked that he was taking a risk, leaving an expensive coat in full view. “Someone might steal it.”
“It would be more than their life was worth.” His lips curled. “Everyone knows whose car this is. They wouldn’t dare touch it.”
“You sound like a Mafia godfather!” The words were meant as an insult, but Tom’s face was impassive as he replied, “No one’s going to rip me off and get away with it, and the same goes for me friends and family. That’s why Flo was always safe in her place. People round here know what’s good for them, and that means not mucking around with anything belonging to Tom O’Mara.”