Bloody Mary (18 page)

I was comfortable in the white-sheeted bed, woozy from the morphine I’d been given to alleviate the pain, but awake now I wasn’t breathing the odorous fumes, and reasonably coherent. The burns I had received weren’t as serious as at first thought, they’d been cleaned, smeared with a thick layer of antibiotic cream, and covered with a Telfa dressing. Although I would probably only be in hospital overnight, two nights at the most, the staff had rigged up an intravenous drip to replace the body fluids I’d lost. I was to be given ibuprofen four hourly to keep the pain at bay.

Uncomfortable at my bedside because he barely knew me, but determined to stay due to my relationship to him, Alan sat in the chair beside me. Since the nursing staff had agreed to Alan and Harold being able to sit with me, Alan had been trying to coax what had happened from me, but I ignored his questions, guilt twisting my insides at the ridiculous situation I’d managed to get myself into. After Harold had left the room to phone Sophie, Alan had given up bothering.

Harold stepped into the ward, fresh faced from the chilly air outside, and marched purposefully over to the bed. “Mary! What did you do with the money I gave you?”

I shifted awkwardly, desperately trying to concoct a feasible explanation that would cover my shame. “I gave it to Darren, but then he said he’d need another two thousand before giving me any details.” It was the first thing that sprung to mind.

“You’re lying. I’ve just spoken to him, and he told me he hasn’t had the money.” I could tell that Harry deeply wished he’d passed the payment directly to Darren, this was a mess, and it was his daughter’s welfare that was at stake. But he also realised that he was up against a brick wall talking to either of them, one of them was lying, but it was all irrelevant: he was two thousand pounds down in his savings account, and he still had no address for his daughter.

Alan was confused with the conversation. “Money? Details? What’s going on?”

I jumped in, eager to tell my story first, the more I related the lies, the more they would become fact in my head. “Harry brought me two thousand pounds the other day so I could give it to Darren in return for the address in Mallorca. But he wouldn’t give it to me, he just laughed and said he wanted more.”

Alan dragged the folded note from his pocket, angry that his birth parents had buckled to the blackmail of an idiotic bully. He roughly opened it up and thrust it at Harry. “You stupid, stupid man! Why on earth get involved in his evil games, I’ve already got her address, I got it from the removals firm!”

In the end I stayed at the hospital for two nights, and I was very grateful when Harry told me he’d been speaking with Beryl, and that, as I had nowhere to live until my flat was stripped and re-decorated, they were willing to put me up in the meantime. A month later I was still staying with them, a situation I knew, understandably, grated daily on poor Beryl. She had never been the cleverest of women, the appeal to Harry which had led to his to proposal forty one years before had been her homely skills: she was an excellent cook, kept a clean and tidy house, and kept herself well dressed, well presented, and dignified. However, she could now see why Harry had fallen for my charms, because underneath the crazy persona I displayed on the outside was a massively intelligent and inquisitive mind, and the regular debates and discussions I had with Harry obviously pleased him. Beryl had no concerns about Harry straying again, I had completely let myself go over the years. I was overweight, verging on obese, my clothes disgustingly scruffy, skin harsh and hair I crazy, wiry grey. On top of that, she had told Harry about the tarot readings, and I knew he didn’t approve of such things. But Beryl felt as if she were sitting on the sidelines, unwanted, unneeded, now, a spectator to our playful mind games and serious conversations.

A phone call to the council told me they wouldn’t finish my flat for at least another month, they had no urgency as long as I had somewhere else to stay. So Beryl had no choice, really, but to put up with my hefty presence, and my inherent untidiness.

To oust Beryl even further into the coldness of being a spectator in the family, to rub her nose in her husband’s affair from all those years before, making the grief she’d experienced resurface so deeply, Alan had become a regular visitor, a fourth person in our united concern for Sophie and her unborn child. She’d balked with dismay when Harry, unaware of her distress at their lodger and recurrent guest, had suggested they all spend Christmas together, but, being a lady, she was too polite to say.

At first it had seemed brilliant, having a forwarding address for Sophie, as if all our problems were solved, but now, as the weather grew colder and the naked trees waved in the strong winds, we realised it didn’t make the slightest difference: we were still estranged from her. We still had no idea of how her life was progressing, how her baby was progressing. Harry and Beryl had both hoped the Christmas card they sent her might provoke a response, but after the last postal delivery on Christmas Eve, they realised their expectations had been futile.

He’d been marching aimlessly around the house for the best part of the day when Beryl finally had enough. “Harold! For heaven’s sake will you just sit down, you’re driving me batty.” In the living room, hearing the frustration, I thought I might eavesdrop. Why on earth not listen when there’s true drama emerging?

Harry was stunned, he’d rarely heard Beryl raise her voice in their forty year marriage, and he slipped onto a chair at the kitchen table. “I’m sorry, darling.”

She breathed deeply, soothing herself, mentally calming herself, and ensured her voice lowered to a reasonable level before she continued. “Since our daughter married that man things have been getting progressively worse, and the past few months have been a nightmare. I’m not sure I can cope with any of it any more.”

“I know it’s been hard, darling, but Sophie…”

Her voice raised again, her coolness lost. “Sophie this! Sophie that! It’s all about Sophie. Does it ever occur to you that you have a life with me as well as her?” He was astounded at the outburst, unable to think clearly. “Does it ever occur to you how selfish she’s being. If she had any sense she would have left Darren the first time he hit her, but no, she uses us as a shoulder to cry on, then toddles off back to him to get beaten again. When I try to call her up on it, she dumps us and tramps off to another country. She’s a selfish, spoiled brat, Harold, and it’s your mollycoddling that’s made her that way.”

I was as astounded as Harry, I could understand her turning on me, but not Sophie. They had their backs to the kitchen door, so were unaware that I’d stepped in to their argument. I couldn’t help myself. “I don’t think you should talk about our daughter that way.”

Beryl spun round, furious. “You’re just as bad, Mary Miller! First you steal my husband and spit him back at me when he’s given you what you want, and now you’re in my house, claiming the daughter I raised and loved for you because you were just a silly child. You never give us any money towards your food and board, and you won’t lift a finger to try and make the council hurry up with your flat. You’re just sponging off Harold’s good nature, and taking advantage of my placidity.”

Watching his wife rip her apron off, slamming it on the side before storming angrily from the room, Harry was dumbfounded. “I’ve never seen her like that.”

I stepped softly towards him and rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. He may have been over thirty years older than when I’d fallen for him, but touching him was electric, and that surprised me. I knew I still loved him, I knew I always would, but really, all I’d wanted from him was revenge for the years I’d lost.

But now, feelings I hadn’t felt for as long were awakening. I realised I wanted him, not revenge.

And being acutely aware of Beryl’s distaste for me, as a person, as a house guest, and the bitterness that came from years of poverty, I realised now was the time to get some of what Beryl had. As my hand caressed his shoulder, his innocence unaware that I was going to make sure he became mine again, I savoured the delicious warmth that flooded through my body.

For the first month, living in Mallorca had been wonderful, an extended, exotic holiday. Neither Sophie, nor Darren, had a job to go to, so they spent their days ambling through the quaint streets, stopping at the sidewalk cafés for coffee, the bars for a fresh, cold beer, sometimes sampling the delicious selections of
tapas
. They took lazy strolls by the marina, soaking in the comparative warmth of the Mallorcan winter, having left the bitterness of the English weather, and marvelling at the splendid scenery, the palm trees, the mountains, the local people. Each moment was a new and precious experience.

A few days after the flight had brought them to their new life, having left enough time to settle themselves into the underbuild of Maureen and Bob’s new villa, unpacking some of the boxes they’d had shipped over and creating a temporary, comfortable, albeit small, home, they had gone into the town centre to look for a place of their own. The sale of Iris Cottage was due to complete in a week’s time, and Sophie was keen to invest the proceeds into a new property as soon as possible. It wouldn’t be as big as the cottage had been, property prices being on a par with England’s: after paying off the credit cards and loans, even with Darren’s hidden savings from the sale of his house and a hefty gift from Maureen and Bob, they would only be able to afford a small place, but at least they’d have no mortgage, which was the goal.

Sophie wasn’t surprised to find that they differed on the style of the property they wanted, she loved houses that were unique, whereas he wanted modern and minimalist, however, she was disgruntled at their different stances regarding the area they would be buying in. Sophie didn’t want to live in a tourist area, the summers would be full of rude and raucous holidaymakers, the winters barren with all the hotspots closed. Her ideal would be inland, a peaceful village, surrounded by the natives, learning the language, and totally living the Spanish life. But Darren and his parents overruled her, constantly berating her choices, insistent they buy a place as near as possible to Maureen and Bob. For the baby’s sake, they told her, although she couldn’t see why it would make any difference to her child. She buckled to their wishes in the end, the battling just wasn’t worth it.

Four weeks after they’d flown across, just two weeks before Christmas, they picked up the keys and excitedly walked into their new apartment. Sophie couldn’t believe how quick the process had been, but not having to arrange a mortgage had speeded the procedure up even further. Bob brought their belongings over, taking several trips in his new four wheel drive, and Sophie was in her element unpacking all the ornaments and crockery, personal effects, things they hadn’t seen since they were boxed two months before. She was relishing her new home.

To complete the idyllic new life, Darren, through a conversation at the bar they frequented near to Maureen and Bob’s villa, managed to procure himself a regular job to start in the new year, meaning they would now have money coming in to live on. Everything was perfect, and it didn’t take Sophie long to wipe the hideous memories of the final few months in England from her mind. As far as she was concerned, they had arrived in paradise.

It was nearing Christmas, and the weather was mild, warm enough to go out without a coat, just a chunky jumper and jeans, tight across her rapidly expanding baby belly. She slipped her shoes on. “Back soon.”

Darren, who was busily painting the second bedroom in anticipation of the baby’s arrival, poked his head around the door, his expression quizzical. “Where are you going?”

She breezily picked up her bag. “I thought I’d pop down to the market and get some food in for Christmas. Maybe look at the clothes too, mine are getting a bit snug over my bump.”

Darren had left the bedroom now, pale blue emulsion dripping from the paintbrush still in his hand. “You don’t need to get any food, we’re going to Mam and Dad’s for Christmas dinner.”

Sophie felt her shoulders fall, she’d been eager to have some privacy now they’d moved into their own place. “Do we have to?” She was suddenly aware how immature her outbreak had been, and glanced at him, and nervousness crawled up her spine, more than a tinge of fear resurfacing.

He dismissed her with ease, to her relief. “Yes, we do, it’s all arranged and Mam can’t wait, she’s really excited. Go and get some new clothes, though, you look ridiculous squeezing your fat body into those jeans.”

The words slapped Sophie on both cheeks, and she could feel her embarrassment and shame burning. It had been so cruel, she was doing her best not to overeat, to keep trim and healthy, but she couldn’t do anything about her growing abdomen, in fact she’d thought she was doing remarkably well to still be wearing size ten jeans five months into the pregnancy. Forcing back the tears, she snatched her bag and left.

Sophie hadn’t been gone long when a ring on the intercom disturbed Darren from his painting again. Swearing, he slammed down the brush, striding towards the front door. He pressed the speaker. “Hello.”

“Darren, it’s Mam.”

He pressed the buzzer to let her in, and she took the lift to the third floor. Briefly kissing him on the cheek as she passed him, Maureen launched into the reason for her visit. “I thought you said you’d not given our address to anyone back in England?”

Maureen sat herself at the breakfast bar, her large handbag on the counter beside her, while Darren retrieved a cold can of beer from the fridge for himself, and poured a large white wine for her, neither concerned that it hadn’t even reached ten in the morning. “I didn’t!”

Rummaging through the bag, Maureen fished an envelope bearing a British stamp from inside. “Well, someone has, because this was in our letterbox this morning.” She passed it to Darren, whose brow furrowed into a deep frown.

“It’s addressed to Sophie! She can’t have told anybody, I didn’t even tell her your address before we moved.” He tore at the envelope, dragging out a scenic Christmas card, and flicked it open, a handwritten letter falling to the floor. He read the card. “It’s from her bloody parents! How did they get your address? Interfering bloody bastards.” He thrust the card back into the envelope, retrieved the unread note from the floor, pushed it roughly inside the card, and shoved the package back to his mother with disgust. “Take it home and bin it, will you Mam, we can’t have them ruining our plans now.”