Women on the Home Front (99 page)

Faye got up from the table, smiling serenely. ‘Forget about the ales, I think this calls for a bit of a celebratory toast.' She went quickly to the pantry and found a bottle of red wine.

‘Never mind that, love,' Rob said, having finished off his beer in a gulp. ‘I've got a bottle of champers down in the cellar. Been saving it for a special occasion, and I reckon this is it.'

When Stephen heard his son's key in the lock he turned off the wireless and got to his feet. It didn't occur to him to glance at the clock on the mantelshelf in the back room or he'd have realised it was early for Chris to be home from a night out with Grace.

Stephen had dropped Pearl off earlier and she'd promised she was going to immediately look at her savings books and do some sums. Stephen had headed off home with the intention of doing the same. He knew he had a Building Society passbook with a small amount in it that he had been saving for Christopher. He hadn't told Chris he'd been putting money by for some years for when he eventually got married. Even had Chris been aware of the little nest egg, Stephen knew his son wouldn't mind him using it on something so important. Besides, Stephen had every intention of replacing it soon from the profits he'd make from his new business venture. And he was bursting to tell Chris all about the exciting plans for a caff that had been discussed that evening at Rob's. He hoped perhaps Chris might take some time at the weekend to look at premises with him, if he wasn't planning to work or be off out with Grace.

Stephen appeared in the hallway, a bright smile on his face. ‘How you doing, son? Good night out? How's Grace?'

Chris mumbled something at him and continued towards the stairs. A moment later he was halfway up them with Stephen gawping at his back.

‘You lot! Get out here and take a look at this!' Vic crowed, his voice bubbling with glee.

Ted and Billy emerged from the house to join him on the pavement.

Ted's grimy face split into a snaggle-toothed grin. ‘Oi! Chris! Come 'n' take a butcher's,' he bellowed. ‘Yer can't miss seeing this! If I 'ad me camera I'd take a picture.'

Chris came out of the house, frowning impatiently, but his expression lifted when he saw what was amusing them.

Along the road O'Connor's crew were loading their gear onto an open-backed truck and it was obvious, from their snarling expressions, and the fact that two of them were rolling on the ground, having a scrap, that they were not happy. They appeared to be packing up and leaving for good.

‘Looks like the guvnor managed to swing it after all … good on 'im.' Vic did a little jig, with much clicking of heels and fingers.

‘Guvnor never lets you down, do he?' Ted began nodding his head. ‘Might have took him a while but he got there in the end.'

‘When he does it, he does it right, see.' Billy added his two penn'orth.

A darkly sardonic glance encompassed his workmates but Chris refrained from reminding them that just yesterday they'd all been chewing his ears off again with complaints about his uncle taking his own sweet time in seeing off the Micks. Instead, he gave Declan O'Connor a jaunty wave. ‘Oi! O'Connor! I'll 'ave me ladder back now as you won't be needin' it,' he shouted. ‘And while you're at it, I reckon you can leave them two shovels 'n' all. Won't charge you no hire rates … ain't my way to put the boot into a man who's down.'

O'Connor tensed rigid on hearing that taunt then swung about and pointed a thick finger at Chris. ‘Told you once before, Sonny Jim, you're a fookin' dead man.'

‘Yeah … and I told you, you'll go down first, mate …'

O'Connor turned his back and continued arguing with Kieran Murphy before shoving hard at the man's shoulder, sending him crashing back against some house railings. A moment later he scrambled into the truck, crashing the gears and sending it lurching forward. The way the vehicle was facing he either had to do a three-point turn to head away from them or drive past and endure more jeering.

The truck suddenly screeched down the road, O'Connor deliberately aiming the vehicle at them, sending the Wild Brothers' lot diving behind the railings fronting the house.

‘Fuckin' sour grapes, I call that,' Billy scoffed with a two-fingered salute from behind his protective screen.

O'Connor's face was boiling red with rage as he sent them all a hate-filled glare. The gears groaned as he got reverse and disentangled his bumper from the railings.

‘You go ahead and have your laughs now while you can,' Declan spat menacingly. ‘I'm not a man with a short memory, you fookin' remember that.'

Ted pretended to scrub tears from his eyes with his fists. ‘Gonna miss you when you're gone …' he boo-hooed.

The rest of the Irish contingent had jumped in a panel van and it came hurtling down the road to shudder to a stop beside their boss's vehicle. The menials seemed to be waiting for a signal from their guvnor to tumble out and get stuck in, but O'Connor appeared reluctant to go for a final tear-up. Chris surreptitiously swooped on an assortment of tools in the hallway of the house and distributed weapons amongst his colleagues, in case Declan decided to give the nod.

O'Connor suddenly let out the clutch and his truck whizzed back, then rammed once more against the railings, buckling them to within inches of Vic's shins. A moment later he'd ground the gears into reverse and, steering manically, he roared on towards Seven Sisters Road with Vic's hammer and snarling curses following him. The other vehicle was soon revving, a mass of faces, spewing filth, bobbing at the side window, then it raced away in the truck's fumy wake.

‘You'll never guess who I saw the other day.'

Grace stopped stirring her tea and glanced at her friend Wendy, faint interest lifting her eyebrows.

‘Hugh Wilkins,' Wendy said. ‘He asked after you.' She took a glance around the café. ‘Where's my bun? I'm starving …'

‘He can go and take a running jump,' Grace muttered sourly.

A Lyons nippy appeared and put down two plates holding aromatic currant buns.

Wendy immediately split hers and began buttering it. ‘I was in Bourne & Hollingsworth and he came up to me.' She shook her head. ‘Didn't want to give him the time of day but …' The bun hovered in front of her mouth. She smiled impishly. ‘I made sure I told him you were with a new boyfriend and it looked serious.'

‘You shouldn't have lied, Wendy.' Grace chuckled ruefully.

‘Is it a lie?' Wendy's eyebrows hovered close to her brunette hairline.

‘You know it is,' Grace said quietly and started buttering her bun. ‘Serious?' She choked a miserable laugh. ‘It's over between us by the looks of it.'

‘Chris
still
not been in touch?'

Grace shook her head.

‘He'll be back.'

‘Was Hugh out with his wife?' Grace could tell her friend was about to pursue that conversation about Chris and, although they were close friends, she didn't want to discuss him with anybody.

At first she'd been confident that in a week or two Chris would pull up outside her house and ask for a second chance, and they'd discuss calmly what to do about his mother. But he hadn't come to see her, or telephoned, and she'd begun to realise she must have been wrong in thinking he'd been on the point of telling her he was in love with her.

He seemed to have easily forgotten her, but, unbearably for her, it seemed there was truth and wisdom in the old saying that absence made the heart grow fonder. Since they'd split up she'd come to realise she'd fallen in love with him. But much as she yearned to see him she knew the problems that made them argue wouldn't go away, not while the spectre of his mother was wedged between them. So she hadn't contacted him to say she'd made a mistake because, deep down, she knew she hadn't, and besides, her pride was smarting and she was unwilling to chase after him.

‘Hugh had a girl with him,' Wendy said, having swallowed her mouthful of bun. ‘She looked about fourteen and seemed a sulky brat.' Wendy sipped from her tea. ‘Hope he's got a hellish life with his stepkids. It's what he deserves after what he did to you.'

Grace shrugged her indifference and bit into her bun. She realised she hadn't given Hugh Wilkins a thought in ages.

‘Don't see how anybody could forgive or forget something like that,' Wendy said bluntly. ‘What about all the money you lost? I feel bad now that I couldn't afford to pay you for my bridesmaid's dress. It was a beauty and I've worn it a few times.'

‘It doesn't matter; in any case, later on you bought me a lovely silk blouse in compensation.' Grace paused, feeling uncharacteristically resentful. ‘I'm glad Hugh had laid out as well, at least he didn't get away scot-free.'

‘But he ended up marrying a rich woman, so it didn't matter so much to him, did it?'

Grace simply shrugged and gazed out of the corner café onto an Indian summer afternoon. It was early October and gloriously mild weather. Women were still strolling in summer dresses and open-toed sandals. But appealing as the sunlit scene was, Grace couldn't put from her mind the loss of her little nest egg. After the shock of being jilted by Hugh had subsided a bit, the realisation that she'd wasted her savings on an aborted wedding had come as a huge blow.

She hadn't yet managed to build up her little kitty again. A wistful twist shaped her lips. But there was scant likelihood of needing savings to pay for a wedding any time soon.

‘You finished?'

Grace was jolted from her thoughts by her friend's voice. She pushed away her empty cup and plate and nodded.

‘Come on, let's go and spend some money,' Wendy said and led the way out of the café and, arm-in-arm, they headed in the direction of the market.

‘How's things going at work?'

‘All right now the pikeys have gone,' Chris informed his dad. ‘Feel sorry for Kieran Murphy; he came over and asked again for a job. I spoke to Rob but I knew what his answer would be: there's not enough in the contract to warrant another pay packet. Anyhow, the lads would never have stopped moaning; they're all after overtime, and again Rob says there's nothing doing on that score.' He paused. ‘We got a good day in today though and are back on schedule. What's for tea? I'm starving.'

‘Doin' a mince 'n' onion pie.' Stevie turned awkwardly on his healing leg to watch his son plonk down at the kitchen table and unfold his newspaper.

‘You not getting in the bath?' He ran an eye over Chris's mucky appearance.

‘Yeah … in a bit.' Chris carried on reading the midweek football scores. ‘Fancy coming down the Arsenal Saturday?' he asked his father.

‘Yeah … don't mind …' Stevie continued spearing sideways glances at Christopher while rolling pastry. ‘Going out tonight?'

‘Nah … gonna listen to the wireless and get an early night.'

Stevie didn't keep tabs on his son's social life, but he was beginning to suspect that Chris hadn't seen Grace for a couple of months. At first he hadn't given it much thought because sometimes a tiff, or family circumstances, just made it work out that way. But now he suspected it was something far more serious than that.

‘You used to see Grace most Thursday evenings.' It sounded like an idle observation.

‘Don't now,' Christopher said, standing up. ‘I'll run me bath. How long's that gonna be?'

‘About an hour.' Stevie patted the pastry lid on his pie and started crimping it. ‘Grace was right for you, y'know. You want to tell me what's gone wrong?' he asked quietly.

‘No,' Chris said and strolled off into the hallway.

Sighing, Stevie shoved the pie in the oven. He wasn't fooled for a moment by Chris's nonchalance. If he were over the girl he'd be out on the pull with his mates, or boozing it up at weekends. The fact that he wasn't, and had spent the past couple of months moping around at home, made Stevie think that his son was behaving himself because he hoped to get her back. But he seemed to be taking his time about doing it for some reason.

When he'd first got discharged, Chris had been like a mother hen, but once his son had realised that, apart from being slow on his pins, he was quite healthy, he'd eased off fussing and they'd fallen back into their old routines.

Stevie reflected on the evening that he had waited up for Chris to come home so he could tell him the news about his plans for a caff. His son had come in looking shell-shocked and had gone to bed without saying a word. Stevie had guessed immediately he'd got woman troubles; he recalled seeing that vacant expression gazing back at him in the mirror a few times in his life. During his divorce from Pam he'd walked round like a staring-eyed zombie for months.

Having put the potatoes to boil Stevie sat down at the table and frowned sightlessly at the newspaper. He regretted bringing his ex-wife to mind. The thought of the horrible tension he'd caused to exist between him and Chris, just before his accident, now made him feel uneasy and ashamed.

He knew he'd cheated death, and whether it was that humbling knowledge or the hefty bang on the head that had knocked some sense in to him, he couldn't be sure.

While in hospital he'd had ample time to reflect. He couldn't escape his conscience, or the fact that Matilda had been right – as she usually was. He shouldn't have been so hard on his son because he wanted to find his mum. Stevie knew the shock of hearing Matilda's news that day had made his mouth work faster than his brain, but there'd been no excuse for carrying on being stubborn and resentful.

Any proper father would have talked things through like an adult with his only child; instead he'd made both their lives hell with his sullen silences. He understood now that Christopher had the right to know about his past, whether it were good or bad, and it was no longer his job to sift out the stuff that might upset him, because he wasn't a kid any more.