Family Drama 4 E-Book Bundle (153 page)

And all he brought her were foul-smelling teas made from dried leaves he'd bought from some
quack. They smelled of carbolic and disinfectant all rolled into one, and tasted like piss.

Then came the terrible dreams that tore at her sleep. Sylvia and Dad were waving through half-open doors. When she ran to find them they were gone. Jack's bruised body was rising up to wag a finger at her. She screamed out and Ben came rushing up to hold her through the nightmare. When she lay back exhausted he disappeared downstairs.

‘Hush,' he cried. ‘You're doing really well. It'll pass. All this will pass.'

She screamed as the spiders crawled out of the corners of the room, creeping over her skin, and she tried to cover her body from them. ‘Let me out! Oh, Ben, have pity!'

She took the last of the powders he left and sipped it slowly with a grimace. This was not medicine, it was torture by mouth. He was poisoning her and then he'd hang and she'd be glad.

By the fifth day she slept in and woke to find the winter sun filtering through the makeshift blind. Outside looked bluer and brighter and greener, with snow still hanging back in the crevices. Her tongue felt smoother and for the first time she sensed a little hunger in her belly.

Mirren peered into the wall mirror, not recognising the reflection of sallow-faced harpie, with scraggy hair, sunken cheeks and broken veins on
her nose. Who are you? She blinked as if to make the horror go away but it pulled faces at her. It was real. Then she remembered all that had happened: Sylvia, Jack, her public shame to come.

It was like looking down at another person, not Mirren Gilchrist or Mirren Sowerby but a stranger. She wanted to cry out at this image and fell on the bed sobbing, rocking back and forth, trying to piece together those lost months: Jack's breakdown, the hospital visits, the Golden Lion, the police cell, funeral. How could she ever face the family again?

‘Ben, Ben, let me out, I'm starving!' she cried. There was no one there but she noticed the door was ajar and she climbed down the ladder and went in search of food and fresh air.

Downstairs the fire was lit and crackling, and she recalled that very first visit here as a child, a little girl lost in the snow, saved by this ruin. Now it had done it again, saved her sanity, made her clean, rinsed the mud out of her mind. She was cured. No more whisky ever again.

How long had it taken? Days or weeks. Time had no meaning here but she felt clean inside, fresher. Ben would be pleased. She would look Tom and Florrie in the eye and apologise. It was as if for the first time in months she could see things differently and feel her own thoughts.

How could she have been so daft? How could
she bear to think about poor Jack? He would have understood her torture. He had tried to warn her but it was too late to make it up to him now. The pain of it made her wince.

She must thank Ben for being her big brother again. It couldn't have been easy, and how she'd misjudged him and all the effort he had put into her house. She'd called him every name under the sun, cursed him for imprisoning her here, but he knew World's End was her friend. It had held her and protected her, but she was better now and must get back to the real life down at Cragside, pull her weight as never before.

For the first time in months she tasted the salty bacon she'd cooked and relished the smell with fried bread and fresh eggs. It was a welcome feast. She boiled the kettle until she had a zinc tub full enough to make a bath, stripping herself down for a decent wash, soaking her hair and combing it, rubbing it dry so it smelled of soap and smoke. Mirren felt clean all over, tingling with the chill but alive.

From the window stretched the panoramic view across the valley. She could see for miles and wanted to run outside to embrace the whole hillside. The door was still locked. Ben had not trusted her enough to set her free just yet.

We'll see about that, she smiled to herself, opening the window shutters wider to squeeze her
narrow body through to freedom. Just the knowledge that she could was enough. It was good to sit by the fire and listen to her racing thoughts. Where had she been all these months? The answer was plain enough to guess.

Her drinking had taken her to a faraway place, a wild shameful place, a place her father knew well, but she was not Dad and had broken the spell. She would never touch whisky again. It didn't suit her constitution. It had made her mental, like Jack. Now she could face Cragside and face the fury there. She had paid her due, done her sentence. Everyone must realise she'd never let them down again.

How thoughtful they were in letting her come up here to rest. It was basic but her woman's eye roamed over it. It would suit her well but it needed some pegged rugs and mats, some decent curtains, draught excluders, proper bedding and towels, cushions and a proper chair by the fireside. Given a little attention it could be cosy. Men never saw those details that softened the edges of a room-lace, fabric, pictures, ornaments. It could be her home with all her treasures, her carved box that belonged to her ancestor, the first Miriam Yewell.

When Ben bothered to return he'd get a surprise to see her cooking, clearing up, whistling tunes. She must thank him properly for setting her back on the straight and narrow. Now it was up to her
to mend all the broken bridges and fences she'd crashed into on the way.

First she would invite Ben and Lorna for tea, and make cakes and pastries and try to heal the rift there. She'd go to chapel with Florrie and help with the Brownies and get herself out on the farm, keep herself busy so there was no temptation to pop into The Fleece for a quick nip.

No one would ever say that Mirren was not a reformed character. She'd seen the error of her ways. Now she knew better, thanks to Ben, the rest would be easy.

In the weeks that followed, Ben watched her progress with anxiety at first and then pride and not a little relief that his cure had worked so well. Mirren had done ‘cold turkey' and come out the other side, and now she was more like her old self, or almost. She was cheerful and chipper, hardworking, full of ideas and plans.

He could see that World's End had worked its magic once more but it was one thing being dry in the safety of this moorland retreat. At some time she must face the stresses and strains of the real world; the reality of her now being a widow with little income, the memories of this last year, the strictures of rationing and depression.

They were all aware that it would soon be the anniversary of Sylvia's death and Mirren must get
through that day; a day forever celebrated as VE Day, not a day of mourning and regrets.

He must stick close by her and help her through the worst, and make sure there were no whisky bottles to hand. There was still a bit of him unsure enough to go round checking if he had missed any hidy-holes. One sip and she'd be off again. Doc Murray had explained that there was only so much he could do and that the choice to stay sober was always Mirren's alone, but surely if he kept her safe…He couldn't bear to think of her starting up again.

So far so good. She was sober and going about her farm business with gusto, doing extra shifts to make up for past misdemeanours. The women were heavily into spring cleaning, beating rugs, washing anything that wasn't tied down, turning Cragside upside down. Turning from winter into spring was a serious business and there was no let-up as Florrie, Daisy and Mirren scrubbed, cleared out, beat, hung out, aired and generally got in everyone's way. There was no place to sit down and then they started on the dairy and shippon and outside paintwork. Dieter had never seen such a palaver.

There was tension in the air between Florrie and Mirren, an undercurrent of blame and bitterness not easily healed by spring cleaning. Mirren decided to live alone up at World's End for a while
until she felt stronger. Ben was glad that the two women were apart. She busied herself tearing up old clothes to make yet another rag rug.

If her eyes were a little too bright and her determination a little too brash, Ben felt it was just Mirren's way of getting back to her bolshie old self.

She was brave in facing the embarrassment of her caution at the police station when the inspector tore her off a strip for her unreasonable behaviour. They decided to take into account the tragedy of her past year in mitigation for her conduct. She took it all on the chin, unflinching, and he was proud of her.

It was the first time she had left the farm for weeks. Her trips to market were supervised but she didn't seem interested in socialising.

The anniversary hung over them like a black cloud. How would she get through that day? Then Uncle Tom had a brilliant idea.

‘Let's give ourselves a day out,' he suggested. ‘A proper day out on the train to the seaside or the Lakes–you lot choose. No use hanging around feeling morbid. It don't change any of it but it'll happen pass the time with a change of sky.'

They were all sitting down to Sunday dinner and it was good to see Mirren's cheeks filling out, the dark circles under her eyes barely shadows now.

‘What do you think, Mother? Sea or lakes?' Tom smiled at Florrie.

‘Oh, the sea–Morecambe or Blackpool or Southport. They have some nice shops there. I fancy a bit of Lord Street. A bit of sea air will do us all good, but it's lambing time, Tom,' Florrie said, knowing it was the busiest time of year.

‘We'll see. I might have to stay back with Dieter. You do the first milking and we'll manage the rest, but you three must make a day of it. We can't take Sylvia or Jack but you'll be taking them in yer hearts for all of us.' Tom was not one for making speeches but he'd certainly come up with a solution for 8 May.

‘Are you going to bring that lass of yours, Ben?' asked Florrie. ‘It's about time you and her made it official.'

Ben found his cheeks flushing. ‘Lorna's given me over for Harry Batty from Holly Bank. I think she got a bit fed up the way things were.' He didn't want to cite Mirren as the cause of their recent bust-up. He'd spent so much time keeping an eye on her that he'd stood Lorna up one time too many.

‘I'm sick of kicking my feet, waiting for you to show up on time. This time you're free to chase the black widow, but you'd better watch your step, her with those big blue eyes. She's a wild one. She'll run you ragged, chew you up and spit you
out. Don't make an ass of yourself mooning over her!'

There was nothing much to say after that outburst, for every word of it was true. He had no eyes for Lorna Dinsdale or anyone else as long as Mirren was in this world, sober or drunk. She was all he had ever wanted, but now was not the right time to share his hopes and heart with her. Every day must be a struggle for her.

Tom's little speech was the first time anyone had dared mention Sylvia's name for months; a rare treat in a house that had no reminders of her on show, no snapshots, no toys, nothing to prove she had ever existed.

Tom wasn't sure if that was the right thing to be doing. It was all beyond him. Florrie hinted it was the only way to see Mirren through the next few weeks and stop her from going ‘funny' again.

In the end it was Southport that got their vote. There was almost a direct line by train that they picked up at Hellifield.

Lambing was too far on for Tom to risk coming, and Ben offered to stay back but Tom insisted he escorted the women. His instinct was to go along and chivvy Auntie Florrie into having a break. The two women together might be a strain on both of them. Florrie didn't get out much, and Jack's death had aged her by decades. Her bitterness towards Mirren was tempered by the fact that Jack had
caused them problems and worries and she knew he had not been the best of husbands but he had died with honour. Now it was Mirren's turn to show she was strong.

They stopped at Windebank on the way to the station halt just to lay daffodils at the graveside. Mirren kneeled while Florrie wept. They walked away silent and separate, lost in their own thoughts and grief.

The train drew into Southport station and they waded through traffic on Lord Street to head for the beach. The sands seemed to go on for miles and the sea was not to be seen. There was still evidence of coastal defences and everywhere was shuttered and grim, but some of the big hotels were getting a fresh lick of paint. It was all a bit depressing with no bustle of holidaymakers, just a few elderly gentlemen out for their constitutional. There were flags flying, reminding them of the day.

The pull of the shops was too much for the women and they sauntered back towards the main street and its parades of classy shops. Not Ben's cup of tea at all but he had agreed to come and he was doing his duty.

To passers-by they must have looked like any young couple up from the country with one mother-in-law in tow. If only the truth were so simple, Ben sighed.

Mirren looked frozen and sullen, not enjoying herself much. Her eyes were glazed as if she was miles from the bustle of the shopping arcades.

‘Why don't I leave you to go round the shops?' he suggested, knowing Florrie would like to browse. He would go in search of some rock and novelties for the farm lads. How would he explain seaside rock to Dieter; pink candy-striped sticks with writing all through?

‘We'll meet up by the Scarisbrick Hotel and find a table for our dinner. We deserve a treat,' he smiled, looking up at the red-brick hotel. ‘Then we can just meander until it's time for the train back.'

It was like flogging a dead horse. Mirren nodded glumly and turned away. He couldn't reach her and she was merely going through the motions.

‘We shouldn't have come,' she whispered. ‘I should have stayed with Tom. I can't forget. It's no good. Let's get the train home now,' she pleaded.

‘But we've only just arrived,' snapped Florrie, suddenly catching on. ‘I've a few things to buy while I'm here. It's a shame to waste a good day out.'

‘You and Ben go off shopping then, and I'll sit here by the war memorial on the bench. I'm feeling tired,' Mirren replied in a sharp voice.