September Starlings (61 page)

‘I’ll be all right. We’ll miss you, all of you.’

‘Ditto.’ The eyes shone too brightly. ‘I know, queen, I do understand.’ Her voice was suddenly soft and gentle, not her own at all. ‘But don’t tell nobody where you’re going, love. It’s too serious and dangerous for that. See, he might even be having us watched, me and Jimmy and the kids. He’s found you before and he’s not lost his nastiness, not where he is. There’s no way you can risk them kids. If he comes for Gerald, you’ll never forgive yourself.’ She stood up, angled the pram so that it might get past the furniture. ‘I’ll think about you. Every day, I’ll say a prayer.’

When she had left, it was as if I had already lost her. Just as I’d lost other friends like Ernie and Ida Bowen from Horsa Street, Hetty Hawkesworth from that hamlet near St Helens, Frank … Oh, Frank. More than a friend, so much more. He would have loved Liddy, would probably have likened her to a small bird, perhaps a canary or a yellow budgie. And we would have laughed, not unkindly, might have invented a new language for her, something like Liddy-speak or Liddy-propisms. Sometimes, I ached for Frank, felt like an empty vessel, a small thing that was being tossed about on the tide of life. He had been my stability, my anchor. And Tommo had taken him away, had removed him and all my friends except for Anne and Auntie Maisie.

I brought the children home, went through the usual routine, cook, feed, clear up, wash the dishes. We practised the three-times table for Jodie, drew a map of Britain for Edward, left poor Gerald to his own devices. He sat on the sofa, head in a book, his brain geared towards solving mathematical problems that were a mystery to me. They had told me at the school that he was talented, that his teacher was having to set special work for him. My Gerald was going to be a high-flier, something in
the city, no doubt. My Gerald was going to ask questions. Now. Tonight. In one sense, there’s a lot to be said for single parenthood, because the lone mother or father is tuned in all the time, doesn’t get the chance to off-load difficult tasks. It was down to me, and I had to cope.

When the younger two were in bed, he dawdled at my elbow, watched as I dragged a ruler down my proofs. ‘Why are you doing that?’

‘I’m looking for mistakes.’

‘Do you make mistakes?’ he asked.

‘Yes. So do typesetters and copy-editors and professional proof-readers. Everyone makes mistakes.’

‘I don’t.’ This wasn’t pride – he merely stated a fact. ‘But numbers are kind of absolute, I suppose. Easier, you know.’ Absolute. He knew words like absolute, could connect with all kinds of concepts, was capable of analysing language and number, of understanding even the subtler aspects of a word.

‘Yes. For you, but not for me.’ For me, few things were absolute. But I knew that this boy was going to question me tonight, had felt his nervousness for days. Yes, it would happen now. Absolutely.

He showed no inclination to go upstairs, so I sat back. This older boy of mine did not indulge in conversations that were unnecessary. I waited, watched his deliberately calm face, knew that it masked a thousand questions, a million emotions. ‘What is it, son?’

‘What happened to Frank?’

My heart missed a beat. I hadn’t thought that Frank would be remembered. Clearly, Gerald was aware that Frank was not his father.

‘He … he died,’ I mumbled. ‘He bumped his head and fell into a river.’

Gerald nodded. ‘And he wasn’t my dad.’

‘No.’

He sat down opposite me, looked me full in the face. ‘Have I got a dad?’

‘Everyone has.’

‘Alive?’

Here came the crunch, then. Was he old enough – was I old enough to manage this terrible business? I took a deep breath, longed for a glass of whisky, brandy, anything that might fuel my brain and take away the anxiety. ‘He’s alive. He’s … er …’ I moved my eyes, could not bear to meet that penetrating gaze. This was an exceptional boy, one who could not be fooled, not easily, anyway. ‘He’s in prison.’

My son nodded gravely. ‘I’ve been in that box under your bed, Mam. It was a week ago. I’m sorry. I was looking for things, just looking …’

He had been searching for himself, had been wondering who he was, where he had come from. ‘It’s all right, Gerald.’

‘Photos,’ he said. ‘Of you and Frank, of me when I was a baby. Some with Edward too.’ He paused. ‘Is Frank Edward’s dad? Because Frank lived with us then, when Edward came.’

‘Yes.’ My voice was squeaky, so I cleared my throat. ‘Frank was Edward’s dad.’

‘Jodie?’ he asked seriously.

‘She and you are Bernard Thompson’s children.’

He was ten years old, and his face was suddenly lined like that of an old man. Gerald was a boy with great dignity and self-control, yet his forehead showed the depth of his misery as he homed in on the final chapter. ‘My father killed Edward’s father. It’s in that newspaper with the photos. And that’s why he’s in prison. And he hit Auntie Anne too.’

I longed to reach out and hold him, but this was not a child who wanted to be pitied. Soon, he would work out that he and Edward were cousins as well as brothers, at which point he could well suffer a crisis of identity. Or would he? Sometimes, I wished I’d had an education, but nothing in the world of academia seemed to offer the training I needed. To be a mother, a person required no certificate to prove competence. The hardest and most
important job in the world was being done by amateurs who groped in the dark …

He clasped his hands on the table, looked like a priest at prayer. ‘That was a mistake, Mam. Marrying Bernard Thompson, I mean.’

I smiled reassuringly. ‘Oh no, Gerald. If there’d been no Tommo, there’d be no you and no Jodie.’

His knuckles were white. ‘So you don’t mind me being here, then?’

My hands grasped his, felt the tension that ran through the body of this little boy. ‘I love you,’ I said. ‘I love all three of you. But you’re very special, because you’re the first. There was a time when I had just you, and that was a lot of fun. You didn’t speak much, but you watched me all the time, wanted to learn things. Gerald, never apologize for being born. I don’t hit children, but I’d probably lose my temper good and proper if you thought I didn’t love you. We’d be like Liddy and Short’ouse, you running and me chasing you with the yard brush.’

A corner of his mouth twitched. ‘I still don’t talk much, do I?’

‘No. But that doesn’t mean you don’t feel things. Often, those who say the least think the most. I’ve done my best some of the time, son. But there’s only me between the three of you, so you may not get the attention you need.’

His eyes seemed to darken to a smokier grey. ‘You’re a good mother,’ he said brusquely. ‘I wouldn’t swap.’

I laughed softly. ‘Gerald, I should go to the top of the class and give out the pencils.’

‘Why?’

I got up, pulled the child into my arms. He was brave and brainy, too clever for anything less than the truth. I decided there and then that I would always tell them the truth, even when it was difficult, even when a lie might be an easy option. But for now, I insisted on congratulating myself. ‘Gerald,’ I said, ‘I think I’ve just passed my exams.’

Finding somewhere was hard. I got Liddy to pick up the children, made her promise that they would not have to risk the short journey from school without some adult vigilance. The
Liverpool Echo
travelled with me, rolled up under my arm, circles drawn round sections of the ‘To Let’ section. I wanted private sector, needed to get my name out of the council lists.

Because of the existence of seven Georgina Dawn novelettes, I had managed to save a few hundred pounds, so there was no problem when it came to what the locals called key money. I would manage the deposit and the advance rent, but I was desperate in my quest for something that would please my kids. After all, they would be leaving so much, would be experiencing so many changes and losses that I needed to compensate them.

There were houses with gardens, bathrooms and no school within walking distance. I found a good flat near enough to schools, but this accommodation allowed no children or pets. Each time, there was something missing, a reason why I decided to reject the place. After three consecutive days of searching, I came back to Seaforth through chill November rain, sat dejectedly in my little house, feet in a bowl of hot water, hands wrapped round a glass of cheap brandy.

‘No luck?’ asked Gerald.

‘Not yet. We’ll find somewhere, don’t worry.’

He was worried. There was change coming, and my oldest child hated change. ‘A bathroom would be nice,’ he conceded. ‘But make sure there’s a good school nearby. I’ll be moving into the seniors soon.’

‘Gerald, we’ll all be together. Where we live doesn’t really matter, as long as we stick by one another. As for school – you’ll do well just about anywhere. Talent will out, remember that.’

He apportioned me a tight smile, followed his brother and sister to bed. Gerald was a good kid. Jodie, too, was coming on a treat. If only Edward would shape a bit, if
only he would stop wingeing and whining. Life was strange. I had two children from a monster, one from a wonderful man. Tommo’s were turning out great, while Frank’s had a chip on his shoulder the size of a canal barge. But it was no use sitting here indulging my ideas about Mother Nature and genes that were once-removed.

I slopped about the room, feet dripping as I searched for a magazine. There was an article somewhere, a piece about middle children. The theory that middle children miss out on things had been expounded by an agony aunt, a kindly female with four chins and strong opinions. I might even find an answer, or some guidance about how to cope with a boy like Edward. After years of stomach aches, I had run out of patience, was sending him to school whatever his complaint. Because of my determination, he had been brought home with measles and chicken pox, but fortunately, the teachers understood my mistrust of Edward’s illnesses. The poor lad was looking for something, possibly love, attention, affection …

Someone knocked at the door. Maybe I thought it was one of Liddy’s brood, or perhaps I was rather engrossed in looking for the magazine. Whatever, I was too tired to be careful, too busy to be alert. ‘Come in, it’s not locked,’ I called.

The door swung open with menacing slowness, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. I was reminded of those old black and white horror films, all creaky doors and dark nights, tall servants with white hair and white gloves, a flash of thunder illuminating the hand that holds the knife.

I stood, transfixed and wide-eyed, my feet bare, my hands clammy with cold sweat. A tall figure was framed in the doorway. It was a man. He was broad and strong, with grey clothes and a white scarf at the neck. Frost in the air marked his breathing, made it hang about his head in wreaths of mist. The rain had stopped, then, I thought irrelevantly. My tongue found itself at last. ‘Are you looking for someone?’

‘Mrs Thompson?’ The words were clipped, precise. ‘Are you Mrs Thompson?’

To say no would have been foolish. ‘Who wants to know?’

He stepped into the room, his height dominating the small area as soon as he closed the door. This action was performed softly, as if he needed to be quiet. Why? Who had sent him? ‘Who sent you?’ I asked, the words almost sticking in my throat.

‘No-one sent me. I am here at my own behest.’

Behest. What an old-fashioned word. I backed away, rested my hands on the table’s edge. ‘I don’t know you.’ This statement sounded feeble, childish. ‘I’m … I’m expecting a friend to call shortly.’

He looked me over. ‘Your feet will be cold. Dry them and put on your slippers.’ He waved an arm towards the fender where my mules were warming. ‘Don’t be afraid of me. I have not come here to do any harm.’

I blundered about, managed to get the slippers to stay on feet that were rigid with tension. For a criminal, for a messenger from Tommo, this was a very gentlemanly person. But crime was not the property of one section of society. In fact, most criminals probably came from the upper strata, from levels where detection was almost impossible. As I turned to face him once more, I wondered how many of the big fish actually got caught. After all, money could silence many a complaint. ‘What do you want?’

‘May I sit down?’

I nodded, watched as he pulled out a dining chair and lowered himself into it. He was about fifty-ish, I guessed, a handsome man whose thinning hair had once been brown, almost black. Streaks of iron-grey sat among the darker strands, allowing him an air of dependability. His eyes were hazel, I thought, quite crinkly at the edges. They were the eyes of a man who smiled a lot. He was smiling now. ‘My name is Starling, Ben Starling.’

He seemed to expect an answer. ‘Laura Thompson.’

‘Yes.’ He steepled his fingers, rested his chin on the apex. ‘I know your husband.’

The clock ticked so loudly that I thought it might jump off the mantelpiece at any explosive second. And I could feel my heart beating right through my body, causing my fingertips to thud, my limbs to tremble. ‘I am no longer married, Mr Starling.’

‘Ah. But Bernard Thompson does not recognize divorce. As far as he is concerned, you are still his property.’

In spite of the grim situation, my temper bubbled, moved me to debate the issue. ‘Nobody belongs to anyone. No person can own another. The man is crazed, has always been mad.’

‘Quite. There is a boy named Gerald?’

I stumbled over the rug, arrived at the table rather clumsily. My head seemed to bend of its own accord, was forcing the rest of me to face up to this unwelcome visitor. ‘My children are in my custody, my sole custody. Their care and control is my business and nobody else’s. He can’t have Gerald, can’t ever see him. If I have to kill the man, I’ll keep him away from my children.’

Ben Starling took hold of my hand. ‘My dear lady, I am here to protect you.’

I pulled away from him. ‘Protect me? Like Al Capone protected his victims? Look, I want nothing to do with you. In fact, if you don’t leave my house at once, I’ll scream. Liddy next door will get the police. And that’ll be you back where you belong, mister.’

He sighed. ‘Mrs Thompson, I am a law-abiding citizen of this country. Here is my card.’ He took a beautiful leather wallet from a pocket of what looked like £100-worth of suit. The overcoat was a Crombie, I thought. When the card was on the table, I picked it up gingerly, holding it along its edges, as if I might become contaminated by it.