September Starlings (44 page)

Mother sniffed a lot, rubbed at her nose, played with a slight crack in a rose-tinted thumbnail. She was dressed in lavish black, had no doubt spent a fortune on the new role she was playing. The hat had a veil, a short curtain of
netting that was decorated with black polka dots. I would have expected such a pattern to cause nausea, but she seemed unruffled.

Dad was carried out to the hearse, then we all followed at a sober pace until we reached Heaton Cemetery. My tears came when I cast soil and a rose onto the coffin, when I heard the clatter of earth on the box. I would never see him again, would never hear his voice. It seemed to me in that moment that life was just a series of losses, that the older we grew, the bigger the emptiness became. In our own death, we would finally have nothing, would be nothing. Until our own death, we practised for nothingness by losing everything we cared about. On the day of my father’s burial, I could see no positive reason for staying alive.

Mother appeared anxious to be on her way, was edging towards the path. ‘Come along,’ she chided. ‘Lingering here won’t bring him back.’ She didn’t want him back. I could tell from her jaunty walk that she was looking forward to widowhood.

‘She’s picked up,’ I heard Auntie Maisie say. ‘Last week, she’d a bad stomach, a bad back, pains in her legs. Soon got over it, eh, Freddie?’

‘Shush, Maisie,’ he whispered.

Out of the corner of an eye, I saw a black shape, knew that my good friend Confetti had come to pay her respects to my father. There were no words in me, so I did not bother to greet her. But at the gate there stood a man I knew well, a man whose face, even when just imagined, usually sent shivers the length of my spine. Today, his presence did not signify. As I walked past him, I heard him say, ‘Sorry, Laura,’ but that was of no importance.

He chased after me, grabbed my arm. ‘Give me another chance, Laura,’ he pleaded, though the voice was hard and cold.

‘No.’

He swung me round, held both my forearms. ‘I’ve changed,’ he said. ‘I still love you.’

There was no fear in me, no feeling of any kind. ‘Take your hands off me.’ I waited until he released his hold. ‘Tommo,’ I said softly, ‘Please understand me. Please, please try to listen. I don’t want to see you ever again. You and I were a mistake.’

‘My own brother,’ he spat.

‘He’s a good man,’ I replied. I was tired, weary, too exhausted for this.

‘He’s a cripple,’ said Tommo.

I nodded. ‘Oh yes, he has a terrible leg, but he’s a wonderful person. Forget me. You must do us all a great favour by wiping me out of your thoughts.’

He took a step back. A bright blush stained his cheeks, clashed with the pinkish-blond hair. Frank’s hair was golder, softer, I thought. ‘I’ve learned … things,’ he mumbled.

‘Really? What things?’

He swallowed. ‘How to treat a woman, how to go about living without losing my temper. I’m better now, honest.’ He was almost grovelling, and this was not in his nature. The anger would be enormous once he realized that the ploy had not worked.

I glanced back at my father’s grave where the men with shovels were waiting for us to leave. What would Dad have me say, here and now, while I stood by his open grave? Would he want me to be respectful, or would he rather have me honest? The latter, I supposed. I stared at the man who was still my husband on paper. ‘You’ll never change, not really,’ I told him. ‘Chalk could not become cheese, or vice versa. But if you have managed to find another way of living, be happy away from me.’

‘No,’ he hissed. ‘Never, never.’

As I watched the fury working in his face, I thought about the girl who had fled, that other young woman who was now scarred, possibly for life, by the man who stood just inches away from me. He had used her, had thrown her away when she got broken – just as he’d cast me aside that night when my leg snapped beneath the weight
of his anger. For Bernard Thompson, women were toys, optional accessories that could be picked up, smashed, discarded at will. Though he had no intention of consigning me to the rubbish bin …

He seemed to read the words in my head, appeared to sense my deep hurt and dismay. After staggering back a few more paces, he sagged against a bench at the edge of the path, lowered himself slowly into a sitting position. He shook, trembled like an old man. ‘Bloody bitch,’ he snarled. ‘You won’t even give me a hearing, will you?’

‘No.’ I forced myself to meet his wicked gaze. ‘No, Tommo. It’s over.’

He looked like a man with asthma, was gasping for oxygen. But I knew only too well that his difficulty had arisen out of temper and sheer malevolence. The look in his eyes would have scared me, but I had just lost my father, so I was untouchable just then. I climbed into the big, black car, sat next to the woman who had given me life.

‘He wants you back,’ she said as she breathed out a long plume of smoke.

I wafted away the fug, pressed my lips together, opened the window and stared not at Tommo, but at the diggers who were filling the hole.

‘What will you do now?’ asked Liza McNally.

‘I don’t know.’

She giggled, hid the sound behind a manufactured cough. ‘Well, there’s no daddy to protect you.’

‘I’ve got Frank.’

‘And that’s all you’ll get,’ she said.

The will was almost as old as I was. There was only one codicil, a small addition that had been ordered just a few months earlier. Maisie and Freddie Turnbull were to be given deeds to the house and the shop in Barr Bridge. My father had lent the purchase price of both to Uncle Freddie, but the debt died with the lender.

For me, there was nothing. This very old will of my father’s had been witnessed in 1944 when Dad had owned nothing except a small business and a pair of semi-detached houses. Everything went to Mother. She sat in a tall chair at the end of a long table, the silly polka-dot veil hiding her triumph.

The solicitor asked me to stay behind after the reading. He ushered out Mother, my aunt and uncle, then he perched on the edge of the table and peered at me over the rim of his spectacles. ‘I just wanted to talk to you for a moment, Mrs Thompson. You must be in no two minds about the facts, and the facts are that your father was in the process of drawing up a new will and that he was afraid that your legal husband might get his hands on the business.’ He paused, placed a yellowing hand on mine. ‘We were trying to work out a way of getting you divorced without … without unduly annoying Mr Thompson. Your father’s biggest concern was for your welfare and that of your two children.’

‘I know.’ I pulled back my hand, extracted it from beneath the dry, papery skin of his palm. The man reminded me of sepia parchment, looked as if he had been locked away with old documents and scrolls, possibly the Dead Sea variety. ‘Please don’t worry about me,’ I said.

‘He was just days away from resolving his problem. In a new will, the house and a small annual income would have gone to your mother, then the bulk was to come to you. The one provision was to be your divorce. Even without a divorce, you would have received an annuity for yourself and the children.’

‘My father was a fair man, but a sensible one.’

‘Quite. Of course, when the will I read today was drawn up, you were a child and there was little property to dispose of. Had John died then, while you were in infancy, then your mother would have needed the money to rear you. It is a shame that he died so suddenly. It’s a great pity that the new will was not ready.’

I looked into the cold green eyes. ‘It’s a shame that he died at all, Mr Brownlow.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He did not blush, though the skin on his cheeks was stained now to a colour that approached brown. ‘I trust that you will manage in spite of this unfortunate occurrence. Of course, when your mother dies, you will inherit whatever she leaves.’

‘Will I?’

He put his head on one side, shoved the glasses further along the bridge of his narrow nose. ‘Of course. Why do you doubt that?’

I shrugged. ‘My mother would give to the cats’ home before she’d give to me. And she hates cats.’

He wandered away from me and thrust his hands into the open drawer of a greyish-green cabinet, brought out a slim folder that was tied with navy ribbon. ‘Mrs Thompson, I have letters here, copies of correspondence between myself and your mother’s solicitors. As your father was a Catholic, divorce was out of the question. But he spent many years trying to obtain a legal separation. There was a great deal of acrimony between your parents.’

‘Yes, I know all about that.’ And for some unfathomable reason, I didn’t like this yellow man knowing about my family’s problems. He was a leech, a thing that feasted on the lives of others, yet my father had trusted him, so I
tried, pushed myself to have faith. ‘Where is all this leading, Mr Brownlow?’

‘To a contest. We can fight this will, Mrs Thompson. I have letters here from your father, letters which state clearly that he wanted rid of his wife, that he wished her to have no share in McNally’s Cooling Teas. I can try to remove the business from her. That is not to say that we would win, but—’

‘Whatever, she wins.’

He put down the folder. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ Whether I won or lost, my mother would be the true winner. If I took the business from her, she would enjoy playing the part of a wronged mother. If she held on to the business in spite of the contest, then she would be doubly victorious. ‘I don’t want to fight the will.’

He coughed, and his throat grated dryly. ‘May I ask why?’

‘You may ask, but I am not bound to answer.’

‘Quite.’

‘It’s difficult, Mr Brownlow.’ I began to waver, felt a bit sorry for him. He probably led a normal life in a normal family, might have difficulty in understanding my reasons for accepting the unacceptable.

‘Mrs Thompson, I do have insight into your predicament. The reason why your father employed me was simple. I do not express opinion. I am here simply as a tool for my clients. I am, if you like, an encyclopedia of the law, something to which one might refer for information. This is not to say that I am without feelings. Your father was a likeable man with whom I used to share a whisky and a joke.’ The whisky could have explained his colour, yet I could not stretch my imagination to a point where this man might ever commit a joke. He went on, ‘My concern is for you, because you were John’s chief concern. He is dead, but I am still representing him.’ His eyes were no longer cold. He was pleading with me, begging me to fight for money, for security.

I decided to come clean. ‘I’ve never liked my mother.
She was always unpleasant and she shows no sign of mellowing. But I can’t fight her, Mr Brownlow. I can’t stand up in court and say that my father hated her and—’

‘There would be no need for that. The letters explain it all. The letters are newer than the will, so I would stand a chance of winning, of pleasing John. If we believe in an afterlife, then we must believe in those who have gone on before us. His spirit is asking you to go for a contest. Will you think about it?’

‘No.’ I did not hesitate, even for a second. ‘I can’t.’

Once again, he wore his professional face. ‘Then I shall comply with your wishes. If you ever need help or guidance, contact me. Perhaps we should go ahead with your divorce.’

‘No. Not just now.’

He sat down, looked at his watch. ‘There would be no question of payment. It would be a service for John, who paid me well and promptly throughout our time as client and lawyer.’

I picked up my bag, pulled on the black gloves. ‘It’s not the money. I just have to wait a while.’

‘Until your fear of the man has gone?’

He was a human being after all. How many more times must I tell myself not to judge on appearances? ‘Thank you, Mr Brownlow. I shall bear in mind all you’ve said.’

They were waiting in the porch. Mother had pushed back her veil, was standing in the doorway with a glow on her cheeks and a cigarette in her hand. ‘Well?’ she asked, an eyebrow lifted slightly.

‘Nothing. He knew Dad, just wanted to talk about him.’

‘I see.’ She puffed away to the last quarter-inch, ground paper and tobacco into the polished floor of the vestibule. ‘Then perhaps he ought to have talked to me. After all, I did live with him for a year or two.’

I said nothing. She had occupied the same house as my father for ever, had driven him to an early grave. But she had never lived with him, not really. John McNally was
fifty-five years and four months old when he died. And now, Liza had everything.’

Auntie Maisie touched my arm. ‘What’ll you do now, lass? Are you stopping with us in Barr Bridge?’

The look in my mother’s eyes was like a knife that had been honed to pierce her sister’s heart. ‘She will not be living with you, Maisie. No daughter of mine is going to spend her life above a shop. She will live with me. I am no longer well, no longer able to take care of myself.’

I stared at her. She was fifty-three years old and she looked about thirty, all bright eyes and clear skin, a picture fit enough for
Vogue
. Women who smoked were supposed to go dry-skinned and hollow-faced in middle life, but she was as fresh as a daisy. I would not live with her. If necessary, I would go to the town and beg for corporation living quarters, but I would not stay in the same house as this awful woman.

‘Laura?’ Uncle Freddie, still bent beneath the weight of bereavement, looked tired enough to be another corpse for burying. ‘Are you coming back with us now? In the firm’s van?’ It went without saying that my mother would never travel in a blue van with McNALLY’S printed on its side.

I took his arm, clung to him. He needed support, needed to be helped through the next few months. After working so closely with my father, who had been his best friend, Freddie Turnbull would be lonely during every hour at the factory.

Mother peeped out, searched for the taxi. ‘Time you retired, Freddie,’ she said from a corner of her mouth. ‘After all, you are sixty-eight now. John kept you on out of friendship, I think. I shall be recruiting someone younger.’

I felt his arm stiffen, knew that he had just been given the worst news possible. ‘You can help in the shop – can’t he, Auntie Maisie?’ I asked. ‘We’ll be quite a big family, what with the two of you and the four of us. All hands on deck, eh?’ In spite of Tommo, in spite of Mother (not in order to spite her, surely?) I would stay for a while in Barr
Bridge, would make sure that Uncle Freddie was settled and occupied. ‘We’ll be all right, you’ll see,’ I told him.