Second Chance (2 page)

‘Try not to worry, bach. Your mummy's getting better every day.'

Better? God, it must have been all of five years before she was even moderately sane. I was doing the housework and the cooking before I'd started school. Well, not cooking exactly, but cups of tea and bread and butter and tinned soup and boiled eggs, with no one to worry if I cut my hand or scalded myself. I suppose I'd have been taken into care if it wasn't for Auntie Jane who did our shopping once a week; four large sliced loaves, tea, margarine, sugar, baked beans, vegetable soup, processed cheese and bananas, always the same items, and eggs from the farm; far too many eggs. ‘Now, don't worry, bach. Your mummy's getting better, I notice it every time I come. You look after her nicely, Kate, and see that she gets dressed every day. You tell her, “Mummy, I won't get dressed unless you do.” You're a little champion, you are, there's no one like you in the world. Now, you eat a slice of my fruit cake every day and see that your mummy does too. It's very nourishing, my fruit cake, and it will keep you regular as well.'

It was Auntie Jane who took me to school that first day. The other new children, two girls and a boy, were crying at being left, but I had grown-up worries. Who'd give my mother her dinner? Who'd remind her to eat when I wasn't there?

My teacher is Mrs Evans. She's big and fluffy as a bear and she smells of lavender soap and some darker smell as well, like beds. She's always surprised by my work. ‘I'm astonished,' she says every time she comes round the tables. ‘Absolutely astonished.' She tells the headmaster how astonished she is and he nods his head so hard and long that I'm afraid it will fall off. When the other children have gone out to play, she cuddles me, and I tell her about my daddy leaving and my mummy crying and she says it's very sad. ‘Lucky your mummy's got you,' she says. ‘You're as smart as paint, you are. The cleverest little girl in the school.'

‘I wonder if her mother's getting all the benefits she's entitled to,' she whispers to the headmaster when he comes round for the register. ‘I think I'll call and see her next Saturday.'

‘Mrs Evans is coming up here on Saturday,' I tell my mother the very moment I get home. ‘It's about money, I think. She whispered something to Mr Adams. About helping us, I think.' I'd been uneasy about it all day – my mother was frightened of strangers – but as there's no sort of response from her, I stop worrying.

On Saturday morning, though, she's taken up a position by the window even before I come downstairs, and she's standing there still as a post. ‘Waiting,' she says in a voice which makes me shiver. I make her a cup of tea with two sugars, but she won't have it. She won't sit down either.

It's well into the morning before she sees Mrs Evans' little blue car coming up the track. As soon as she does, she turns and pulls me with her into the cupboard under the stairs and closes the door on us. The cupboard is dark and smells of firewood and wet earth. I know my mother is frightened because her arms round my shoulders are shaking and shaking.

We hear Mrs Evans knocking on the front door and then the back. She isn't going away. ‘We're here, Mrs Evans,' I want to shout. ‘We're in the cwtsh under the stairs,' but I don't, because I know my mother is even more frightened than I am. Mrs Evans knocks again on the back door then goes round to the front and shouts through the letterbox. ‘Mrs Rivers. Mrs Rivers. It's Christine Evans, Katie's teacher. I'd like to talk to you, Mrs Rivers.' We strain to listen, but we don't hear any footsteps; she isn't going away. Suddenly there's a sound like a tap running and something splashes over my feet. It's my mother doing pi-pi. ‘Don't cry,' my mother whispers and she hugs me tight.

At last we shuffle out. My mother smiles for a moment because Mrs Evans has gone away. I haven't seen her smile before. She smells of pi-pi and there's a big dark patch on her grey skirt, but I don't say anything. When Gethyn Owen wet himself in class, Mrs Evans picked him up and carried him off to the cloakroom and when he came back he had different trousers on, but Mrs Evans said no one was to mention it. I think my mother is wet and cold, but I don't mention it and she goes to sit close to the fire and after a while she stops shivering and I make her a big mug of tea and to my surprise she smiles again. Perhaps she is getting better. She smells of pi-pi though, and so does the cupboard under the stairs, but I don't do anything about it. Things sometimes get better if you just leave them alone.

There's a knock on the door. It's an effort to get back to the present.

It's Gwenda Rees, a pretty, dark-haired woman, with a cat in a basket: Arthur. He looks around him but doesn't bother to get out, not at all sure, it seems, whether he intends to stay. I stroke his head and smile at Gwenda Rees. ‘Do sit down. How kind of you to bring him back. No, we've never met before. Hello, Arthur. I wonder if he'd like to come back to London with me. Do you know how old he is?'

‘I don't think your mother knew. He arrived here one day fully grown and determined to stay. But I think she must have had him two or three years. One of my lads used to come up and leave him a bowl of milk out the back when she was away visiting you. Yes, I've got two boys, Gareth and Dafydd. Two villains... You never came home much lately, did you? Well, you were always busy, that was it. Your mother was always telling us how busy you were. Not your fault.'

‘It was easier for her to visit me, Mrs Rees. She liked London. Liked the shops.'

‘Oh, I know. We heard all about it, girl. Harrods' Food Hall. No such place in the world, according to her... And Gwenda I am, by the way. No one round here calls me Mrs Rees. But your mother, now, was always Mrs Rivers, never Miriam. She didn't like anyone being too familiar. Her age, I suppose. When you're older, you gather these shreds of dignity around you. What else have you got? Well, she had London, fair play. Not an easy life, by all accounts, but a daughter doing well and showing her the sights. And buying her smart clothes too. A hundred and sixty pounds that last navy-blue suit was, according to her, all except a penny. You've got nothing to blame yourself for, nothing at all.'

We were both fully aware of how guilty I felt. ‘I had her to stay for a week twice a year, spring and autumn. If I happened to be rehearsing, Mrs Heathfield, my help, used to call and take her to Oxford Street by taxi.'

‘There you are. You did your best. Hamper every Christmas. Bottle of French brandy. I always called for my Christmas drink.'

We fell silent. Arthur yawned delicately. And then, with a minimum of effort, obviously unwilling to show any trace of eagerness, got out of the basket.

‘She didn't even tell me about Arthur. Not a word.'

‘What is there to say about Arthur? Black and white cat, bit of a thief. What else can you say about Arthur?'

‘He's a fine cat.'

‘Oh yes. Handsome enough. Keep him in for a few days to make him settle again. He wouldn't take to London, though. He likes a bit of hunting, does Arthur.'

‘I've got a big garden.'

‘Oh, I know that, girl. Patio. Floodlights. Landscaped garden, 170 feet long. And your friend going out at midnight with a torch to examine the strawberries. Will he be coming to the funeral, say?'

‘I think so. He was away when I got the news, but I'll be talking to him as soon as he gets back.'

‘Will you keep this house, or sell it? There's young folk in the village would be very eager to have it, but I dare say it would make more money as a holiday home.'

‘I haven't thought about it yet. Perhaps I'll keep it for my retirement.'

‘You won't retire for many years yet, girl. You look very young on the telly. Though I know you're older than I am, you were already in the Juniors when I started in the Infants. Gwenda Parry I was then. No, why should you remember the small fry? Only I always tell people, “Kate Rivers? I was in school with her.” Oh, your mother always let us know when you were on.'

There was another silence, both of us concentrating our attention on Arthur who was sitting hunched up on the hearthrug, his body language making it clear that he was there under protest and wouldn't be staying.

‘She never liked it when I was “the other woman”,' I said, making another effort to be sociable. ‘“Where did it come from?” she used to ask me. “All that wickedness?” “Wickedness is easy,” I'd say. “It's goodness I can't get hold of. No experience of that.” Will you have a cup of tea?'

‘No thank you, love, I mustn't stay any longer. And you've got
masses to do, I'm sure. Maggie Davies will be up here after dinner, that's Lorna's mother-in-law. She'll do everything you want, but she'll charge, mind. Five pounds an hour she charges visitors. But you tell her you're not a visitor and four pounds is all you're prepared to pay. Get it straight from the start. I was a friend of your mother's, anyone would tell you that, I always did what I could for her, but Maggie was usually ready to run her down. Well, people aren't perfect, and we wouldn't like them if they were, but it's just as well to know where you stand, isn't it? Maggie likes things her own way, Lorna would tell you the same, and you have to stand up to her. No, don't get up. I'll let myself out. You keep an eye on Arthur... What did you say your manfriend was called? Paul. Oh yes, I remember your poor mother mentioning him. Paul Farringdon. A photographer. Nature programmes on BBC 2 if I remember right.'

I phoned home two or three times that evening, but there was no reply. Paul was due back from Spain sometime during the afternoon; perhaps his flight had been delayed, perhaps he'd gone out for a meal, thinking I'd forgotten him. Of course I should have left him a note. Belatedly, I decided to leave a message on the answerphone. ‘Paul, I'm at my mother's. Please ring as soon as you can.' I fully intended to tell him about her sudden death, but found I couldn't. After putting the phone down, I rehearsed the words several times. ‘My mother's dead. My mother's dead. My mother's dead.' I still couldn't quite believe it. On Sunday morning when I'd last spoken to her, she'd seemed her usual self, talking about her next visit to me, wondering whether she'd get the coach all the way, or take the train from Shrewsbury as she usually did, and wanting me to find out which would be cheaper. Even though I paid her fare, she was always intent on finding bargains.

My mother liked Paul. She thought he was steady and reliable and advocated marriage. ‘He's done that,' I used to tell her, ‘and it didn't suit him too well.'

‘Perhaps he married the wrong woman. Why don't you propose to him? There's no shame in it nowadays.'

She prided herself on her knowledge of modern manners, gleaned from television plays and
The Mail on Sunday
.

At one time I wanted marriage and children, but the right time and the right man never coincided. And now that it seems too late to have children, there doesn't seem much point in it. Paul has two daughters, Selena and Annabel, whom I try to like. They're both at Cambridge, but too wild to get much out of it. When I was at university I worked like a maniac; I had to get a good degree and a grant to go to drama school afterwards. Selena and Annabel don't have to put themselves out in any way; they'll have wonderfully rewarding lives however little they do. Their mother, Francesca Bird, is very rich and owns an art gallery in the West End and their father is a moderately prosperous photographer who adores them.

As for me, I've worked hard and played hard and my life has been fairly successful and fairly happy. I've had many disappointments, some of which still rankle, but I've always done my best not to get into any situation which might end in tragedy. For instance, I've always steered clear of the known heartbreakers, the dangerously attractive men who make you feel sorry for every woman they've ever had dealings with. I've known several of those, but so far I've managed to remain relatively unscathed.

I was introduced to Paul at a party almost exactly ten years ago at a time when he was struggling to get over a divorce. I didn't know why he was looking so dejected and said something completely banal, ‘Cheer up, it may never happen,' at which he turned to me and said, ‘Darling, it already has.'

We found a quiet corner and he told me about the beautiful woman he'd married and cherished, about their twin daughters and about the man who'd stolen her away. It certainly wasn't the usual party chit-chat, perhaps I'd got tired of that, because I found myself strangely moved by what was, after all, a fairly commonplace story. But what made me tell him, on that first meeting, about my childhood, my father's desertion and my mother's breakdown? I'd never mentioned it to anyone before. And I went into the minutest details too, dismayed that I remembered so much that I'd been trying for many years to forget. I was dressed in a tight strapless black dress, I remember, I'd had my hair highlighted with something called Titian Glow, I had scarlet lips and gold eyeshadow and I sat in the roof garden of that Kensington penthouse and sobbed.

When I'd finished patting my eyes and blowing my nose, I caught him giving me a long, cool appraisal. ‘Ah, Kate Rivers,' he seemed to be thinking, ‘doing her probably fairly regular party piece.' I picked up my evening bag and fled.