A Cuckoo in Candle Lane (11 page)

‘And that didn’t help, I take it?’ Elsie observed.

‘No. He did try for a while, but just looking at Sally used to wind him up. There was one occasion when he hit out at her. The poor kid, she was only three years old, and ran up to him when he came home from work. He shoved her violently away, as if she was poison. But I wasn’t going to stand for that, Elsie. I told him that if he ever touched her again, I’d leave him.’

‘Is that why she has to stay in her room when he’s around?’

‘Yeah, it was safer to keep her out of his way.’ Ruth frowned. ‘It became like an obsession with him and he wouldn’t let her play out in the street either, wanting her kept out of sight as much as possible. Christ, it’s lucky the law says you ’ave to send your kids to school, or he’d ’ave stopped that too.’

‘Poor Sally,’ Elsie whispered.

‘I always thought that if I could ’ave given him a kid of his own, he might ’ave softened, but I never got pregnant and that made him even more bitter. He used to scream at me, asking me over and over again if Sally’s father was better in bed than him.’

Elsie leaned forward, stroking the back of her hand soothingly, and at her touch Ruth was unable to stop the avalanche of emotions. ‘Oh God, what am I gonna do? He’s left me, how can I manage on me own?’

‘Shh, calm down,’ Elsie soothed. ‘You’ll manage, love. We’ll find a way, so stop worrying.’

‘But what will I do for money?’

‘Well, you could get a job. I can have Sally after school, she’s no trouble.’

Ruth finally found herself able to look into her friend’s eyes, and seeing the depths of her compassion, flung herself into her arms. ‘Oh Elsie, I want me mum. I miss her so much,’ she sobbed.

‘Come on now, you’ll soon be up and about and able to visit her.’

‘Elsie, I can’t, you don’t understand.’

‘Understand what, Ruth? Tell me,’ she urged.

She told her about Harry’s assault on Sally, seeing her friend’s eyes darken with horror, then added hopelessly, ‘So you see, I can’t visit me mum.’

‘Oh, poor Sally,’ Elsie cried. ‘No wonder she’s nervous of Bert whenever he comes into the room.’ She sat quietly for a while, deep in thought, then said eagerly, ‘Look, I’ve got an idea. How about asking your mum to come and live with you now? I should think she’d be glad to get away from that Harry. It must be awful for her, having to live in the same house.’

Ruth looked at Elsie in wonderment. ‘Yes – oh yes! That would be smashing and Sally would love it. ’Ave you got some paper and a pen? I want to write to her straight away and …’ She paused, deflated as realisation hit her. ‘But she couldn’t get here. She’s been housebound for years, with terrible arthritis. And there’s her things – she would never leave her dresser, bed, and her other bits and pieces. They’re all she’s got left of her old home.’

‘Well, that’s nothing to worry about, is it?’ Elsie grinned. ‘Have you forgotten my Bert’s a removal man? He’ll pick up your mum, and her furniture.’

Ruth gripped her hand, her voice cracking as she said, ‘Oh Elsie, I’m so glad that you moved in next door. I dunno what I’d do without you.’

‘Go on, don’t be daft, what are friends for? Now come on, how about some dinner. I’ve kept yours in the oven – are you hungry?’

‘Do you know, I really think I am now,’ Ruth answered. ‘Will you ask Sally to bring up the pen and paper? No, wait,’ she called, throwing back the blankets. ‘I think I’ll come downstairs.’

‘Careful love, you may be a bit wobbly,’ Elsie said, hurrying to her side. ‘Come on then, I’ll help you down. Your Sally is going to be thrilled.’

M
ary watched the tail end of the van as it rumbled down the street, only going inside when it turned the corner.

Feeling listless she climbed the stairs and entered her mum’s room, empty now except for a chest of drawers. The silence of the house felt oppressive and she shivered. What was the matter with her? She had railed against her mother’s disgusting habits, dunking biscuits in her tea, stuffing that revolting snuff up her nose and her interfering, always interfering. She had dreamed of having the house to herself again, but now that it was a reality, she felt bereft.

It had been dreadful since it happened, the atmosphere tense, and her mother refusing to be in the same room as Harry. She had wanted to tell her, to try to explain, but somehow she could never find the words; it was too embarrassing, too personal. Dejectedly she closed the door and went into her own room, curling on her bed in a foetal position, the memories flooding back …

It was her wedding night and she and Harry were in Brighton for their honeymoon. They had just finished dinner in the hotel, smiling at each other across the table, his hand covering hers.

She had refused any intimacy with him before their marriage; it had meant a lot to her to walk up the aisle a virgin. Of course she knew it had been hard on Harry, and during their two-year courtship there had been many moments when he had nearly exploded with frustration. Yet looking at him now and seeing the love in his eyes, she was glad she had waited. Tonight would be so very special.

‘Why don’t you go on up, darling,’ he urged. ‘I’ll follow you after I’ve had a quick drink in the bar.’

She smiled gratefully, nervous yet excited too. Harry was so thoughtful, giving her this time to herself, and she loved him so much. He was a perfect gentleman, kind and considerate, and so handsome too with his dark brown hair and eyes.

Wallowing in a bath filled with rose-scented crystals, she felt some of the tension ease. It would be all right, she told herself; she trusted Harry, sure that he would alleviate her fears.

Stepping out of the bath she dried herself and slipped a pretty new nightdress over her head. Then, after brushing her hair, she climbed into bed to wait for him. Where was he, she wondered, her eyes growing heavy with sleep. Why was he taking so long to come up to their room?

Her next memory was of waking up to a nightmare. The room was in darkness and hands were tearing frantically at her nightdress. There was the strong stench of sour whisky as a wet mouth devoured hers, making her stomach heave. She twisted her head away, opening her mouth to scream, but a hand was placed brutally over her lips, cutting off the sound.

‘Come on, you’re my wife now, stop struggling.’

She froze momentarily in shock. It was Harry! Her legs flailing and her fists beating his chest, she fought to throw him off. With a swift movement he dragged her to the edge of the bed and turned her over, face down. One of his hands held both her wrists, pinning her arms above her head, while she writhed ineffectually beneath him. Then there was pain. An agony of excruciating pain, that seemed to tear her apart …

She pushed away the awful memory now and sat up, shivering. Her eyes felt gritty and she rubbed at them impatiently. Leaning back against the headboard she thought about their marriage and the sham it had become.

Harry had been so ashamed when he awoke the next morning to find her sitting awkwardly hunched in a chair, still wearing the shreds of her stained and bloody nightdress. She had reared back from him in terror when he approached her, refusing to listen when he tried to explain that the whisky he had drunk to steady his nerves had made him lose control.

After that, every time he tried to touch her she became hysterical, fighting him off like a wildcat, never able to forget the pain of being sodomised.

Thankfully as the years progressed, he tried less and less. Until one last final attempt.

She fought him off as usual, but this time it was different; instead of anger he had broken down and cried, saying her rejection and hysterics made him feel like an animal. He was ruined, less than a man now. Assuming he’d become impotent, she hadn’t cared. After all, it was no more than he deserved. And anyway, it was a relief to settle down into a platonic relationship.

Now, shaking her head, she got off the bed, smoothing the covers automatically behind her. Walking slowly into the bathroom she stared at herself in the mirror, seeing her own pain-filled eyes staring back. Perhaps it was thinking about the past that caused it, she didn’t know, but the realisation of what she had done suddenly hit her, and her face stretched in horror.

My God! It was her fault that Harry had lost control with Sally. If only she hadn’t rejected him for all of their married life, if only she had tried to get help … Gazing at her reflection she was filled with shame and self-hatred. She deserved this – deserved this empty house and empty life.

Turning on the taps she filled the sink with water, then, snatching the nailbrush, she began to scrub her hands violently. They were dirty, so dirty; she had to get them clean.

Finally, exhausted, she looked with dispassion at her red, raw flesh, before her eyes scanned the bathroom. It was filthy too; she had to clean it, just look at the muck. She hurried downstairs and filled a bucket with hot, steaming water. Then, adding a liberal amount of soda, she bent down, grabbing a scrubbing brush and cloth from under the sink.

I
n Blackpool, Barbara and Ken were walking along the front. A cold easterly wind was blowing, snatching at her scarf, and she impatiently tightened the knot under her chin.

I hope this one’s better than the others we’ve seen, she thought, hooking her arm through Ken’s. According to the agent’s details the house sounded perfect. Six bedrooms, a large reception and dining room, with the bonus of a basement. A snip, he said, at eighteen hundred pounds. Why was it so cheap, she wondered, when all the other properties of this size were way beyond their budget, despite the treasure trove they had found.

She smiled, remembering their arrival in Blackpool. It had been pouring with rain and Ken was still hardly speaking to her. They had tramped the back streets, looking for an out-of-the-way bed and breakfast, their shoulders drooping wearily when they found that most were closed until the start of the summer season.

Eventually they had come across a seedy-looking house with a board declaring
Vacancies
in the window. The sour-faced landlady had begrudgingly booked them in, and they’d sunk onto the rickety bed gratefully, too tired to bother about the state of the grubby room.

It had been the cash box she’d found in the safe that changed everything. Ken had forced it open, gasping at the large rolls of notes that spilled onto the bed. A small book remained at the bottom and she smiled, remembering how Ken had pulled it out, eagerly flicking the pages.

‘The crafty old sod,’ he’d chuckled. ‘Look, he’s been on a right old fiddle.’

She hadn’t understood the neat rows of figures, until Ken had pointed out that the landlord had two other barmaids listed as working in the pub.

‘But there weren’t any other barmaids,’ she’d protested.

‘That’s just it. Don’t you see, Babs,’ he had cried excitedly, ‘he’s claiming for non-existent staff and copping their wages. Christ, looking at the amount of dosh here, he must ’ave been at it for years.’

Oh, she’d been furious. She had worked like a slave in that bleeding pub, and all that time the landlord had been building himself a nice little nest egg for his retirement. She was glad then, glad that she had turned him over, nicking his hoard of cash.

It was even better when they realised that they were in the clear now. The police wouldn’t be looking for her, as they feared. After all, the landlord daren’t report the robbery. They had the evidence right there that he’d been cheating the brewery …

‘Are you all right, Babs? You’re a bit quiet,’ Ken said now.

‘Yeah, of course I am. I just hope this won’t be another blind alley. I’m beginning to think we’ll never find the right house.’

‘Perhaps we’re aiming too high. If this is as hopeless as the others, we may ’ave to look for something smaller.’

‘I suppose so,’ she sighed. ‘But if we don’t get a place with a decent number of bedrooms, we won’t make much money.’

Leaving the seafront they turned into a wide road lined on each side with tall imposing houses. ‘This looks promising,’ Ken said, a hint of excitement in his voice as they walked briskly along, looking for number seventeen.

They found it halfway along, sandwiched between two immaculately decorated houses, where it stood out like a sore thumb.

Barbara gazed at the tall Victorian house with its filthy marble stairs leading up to a battered-looking front door, and her mouth drooped. ‘It looks a bit rundown.’

‘Nothing a lick of paint couldn’t put right, but it all depends on the state of the inside. Come on, the agent’s supposed to be waiting for us.’

They followed behind the portly figure as he extolled the virtue of each room. Their eyes darkened with dismay as they took in the filthy chipped paintwork, the wallpaper stained and hanging from the walls, and the smell! It was awful, a mixture of damp wood and mildew.

‘The owner died recently and her heirs are anxious for a quick sale. They may be open to a reasonable offer,’ the agent said, his eyes roaming over them.

‘What! Recently, you say? This place looks like a bloody pigsty,’ Ken scoffed.

The agent stiffened, but his manner remained polite as he said, ‘From what I understand, she was elderly and only used the basement flat. Apparently she had become somewhat eccentric in recent years. If you would like to come this way, I’ll show it to you.’