Cut To The Bone (24 page)

She didn't need time. The list was ready.

Afterwards, Mr Waring cleared his throat and fiddled with his signet ring.

He's finding it hard to tell me I'm no good, she thought, but I don't have to make it too easy...

"I've got my driving test this afternoon and my instructor thinks I'll pass,” she added. “Then I'm getting a car so I don't have to depend on buses."

She then leaned towards him. "Look, Mr Waring. I'll be straight. I really need this job. You see, it's only me looking after the two kids. My husband walked out on us four years ago."

He got up to turn the sign in the front door to CLOSED, and paused before renewing eye contact.

"I think you'd be ideal. You showed initiative by picking up the milk - lots of people wouldn't have even noticed it - you had the foresight to request my identification, and above all, you seem refreshingly honest."

"Thank you sir."

"There is one thing..."

Rita's heart seemed to drop out of place.

"Your clothes. Now don't get me wrong. You've undoubtedly made the effort, but in this business, we must be spot on."

She looked down in dismay at her mucky shoes, her ruined tights, willing the floor to open and swallow her up.

"What I propose is giving you a hundred pounds for a dark suit, and if you fancy any of our unclaimed items before they go to charity, please feel free."

"So I've got the job?"

“Indeed you have.”

Rita felt dizzy. There must be a catch somewhere. She waited as he spoke again.

"You mentioned family commitments, so I could offer you a Wednesday and Thursday, nine to three thirty to start with. Then who knows. The pay is twelve fifty an hour to begin with, plus bonuses. Weekly, in cash." 

This seemed to represent a small fortune, and Rita glanced at the door, expecting to see a long queue of hopefuls. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but are you seeing anyone else?"

He smiled. "My wife asks me that every Friday night. No. I haven’t time to waste, and as your children get older you may find that being full time here fits your plans even better. Until then, I'll share the load, and when the purchase of the Bowater Road shop goes through, there'll be further opportunities. Meanwhile, you’ll also be entitled to Working Tax Credits.”

“Hopefully not for long.”

“You are entitled. It’s the one decent thing this government’s not reneged on.”

"I can't thank you enough," she said and, with other details sorted, he shook her hand.

Rita emerged into the drizzle of Farnham Street as if entering Heaven, yet as she waited for the bus to the Driving Test Centre, soon brought herself down to earth by mentally preparing herself for her next ordeal.

*

The bus dropped her near the Cathedral and pausing outside a Classy Cards shop, she scanned the birthday display which included
My Dear
EST
Husband
.
 
Another,
For the sexiest man in my life
.
Then,
To my
Man In A Million
which conveyed nothing remotely close to what she felt about Frank. Forty or not. In fact, it was Tim Fraser who came to mind. Even though they'd not met since that grim March day in 2009, he'd never been far from her thoughts or the occasional dream.

Anything was possible, Rita told herself. Especially after her recent success. But on what pretext could she contact him? He was off the Briar Bank patch with doubtless too many problems of his own to be bothered with hers. Yet he had left her a lifeline. Had said if she ever needed anything...

But little did she know, standing there with the elation of her new job still uppermost in her mind, how great that need would soon prove to be.

30

Douglas Reynolds, ex-Royal Navy, of upright bearing and immaculate navy blazer, was already waiting for Rita when she left the Ram & Tether pub and crossed over towards the FIRST CLASS School of Motoring premises.

"You're looking very chipper, if I may say so." Her instructor smiled as he opened the blue Micra's door for her. "All helps. And if Mrs Armitage is your examiner, well…" he got in beside her. "She’s a tough nut, but fair. And knows how you well you scored in both your Theory and Hazard Perception tests. So, let wagons roll…”

*

After his half hour lesson, Rita drove up Market Street and parked smoothly in the Test Centre's forecourt.

"Excellent,” he said, and if you pass, or rather, when you've passed, my Moira says she'll knock five hundred off the price of her Peugeot for you. So, bit of an incentive, eh?"

 
It was.

But Rita's obvious pleasure disguised a sudden disabling bout of nerves. She felt hot then cold, her limbs trembling. If she failed today, it would mean buses and more buses for the next eight weeks until the next opportunity to re-take it.

You drove that van to Walton-on-Sea and back, remember?

“Thank you.”

*

"I’ll be asking you to do an emergency stop within the next five minutes, so be prepared," barked the stout woman with a crop of black hair and wearing a too-tight grey coat, as Rita passed the Crowmore Industrial Estate and entered the High Street. "Now!"

Rita braked hard, causing the woman to tip forward in her seat belt.

"Proceed," her passenger said flatly, resuming her notes.

At least the Micra hadn't stalled, and Rita changed up into third gear as the traffic lights before St Matthew's church turned to green. She wanted to say that her son was in there, deep under the wet ground. That she was enduring this hour for what was left of her family, but instead, kept moving until all at once, she spotted someone leaving the churchyard gates. A tall, young man she recognised even without the black-framed glasses. He'd grown, but had the same walk, same light brown hair and, and those hooded eyes. Then he began to run.

"There’s Pete Brown!" she cried out, slowing down to get a closer look. "I swear to God it's him!"

"Mrs Martin, may I remind you that under Test conditions, you do not allow yourself to be distracted."

“He led my son astray. May even have killed him. Please look, so the police will believe me."

But Mrs Armitage's blunt profile faced ahead.

"After the mini roundabout, take the next turning right past the police station then at the T junction follow the road signed for Marshfield." Was all she said. Her face still impassive.

Keep going…

Yet Rita could see the youth in her rear mirror, and her every nerve and fibre wanted to stop the car and grab him. So, he must still be living nearby, she reasoned, pausing to allow a slow pedestrian over a zebra crossing.

Miraculously, there was no oncoming traffic when she finally turned right without checking in her mirrors, and the woman alongside had appeared not to notice. Nor when Rita slowed down by Briar Bank Police Station where Tim Fraser once greeted her so sympathetically. Where she'd soon be paying another call.

*

She’d passed, and immediately pinched herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. But two things blunted her elation. If that had been Pete Brown in the churchyard, why was he there and so keen to get away? These thoughts so pre-occupied her, that when Mr Reynolds mentioned the Peugeot's excellent service history and how she could call round any time to test drive it, she barely heard him. 

31

351b, Mullion Rd, Downside, Coventry

14th December 2013.

Dear Graham,

I realise we agreed for everyone's sake never to make contact after our divorce, but I don't know who else to turn to. Some days I think I can't go on; however there’s Louis to support and despite the problems he presents (often through no fault of his own,) he’s why I keep going. Dave's promise of school fees was a lie, and after the sale of the Meadow Hill house and my car, I got nothing. Not even the sun loungers I bought for his last birthday. 

I’m not sure of his whereabouts, or if he'll deign to contact us, but his infatuation with one of his female students and those porn magazines which I later found in his bedroom would make any reconciliation very difficult. As you can see from our address, we're in the worst street on the worst estate in this city.

Every day’s a struggle. We’re cut to the bone, what with the bedroom tax which has reduced my housing benefit by 14% and my Working Tax Credits still owing. Even with the Family Allowance which won’t last forever, there’s nothing over for Louis' clothes or school books.  The only work locally is in the chicken processing factory. You can imagine how upsetting this is. I earn well below the minimum wage, thanks to the Poles who love their jobs there.

You may well ask why Louis too, isn't working even at weekends, but the fact is, he's never interviewed well and has like me, been sleeping badly.  Selling his violin would be a last resort and I took a loan to pay for a new computer to help with his IT and German studies. (He's set on joining the Metropolitan Police once he's done his A Levels, and there's a local army cadet force which he also seems keen on.) My late mother left me nothing, so please, if you have a shred of sympathy, send me something for Christmas. I’m forced to use the local food bank every week, and I've chased the CSA about Dave, but they don’t hold out much hope of finding him. However, they did hope your conscience as Louis’ real father, might prevail.

Jacquie

PS. Dave left a note for him saying you were now in London. Otherwise I'd never have known.

PPS. Both Louis and I are using my maiden name. He's happier with that, and these days, it's anything to make him happy...

*

“Fuckit,” muttered Graham Lodge to himself. It was too early for this. Besides, he'd spent yet another bad night reminiscing on why he'd been so dumb as to let Tina Crabtree slip through his fingers, and, to cap it all, there'd been a terrorist bomb scare near the London Wall, meaning an extra mile's hike to his office. 

The Senior IT consultant with MTEC Global's Holborn branch, tore the thing up with its envelope and second class stamp into neat little squares and fed them into his shredder.

His ex-wife's controlled writing belied her disturbed outpouring. Maybe it was catching. The same reason Tina handed her calm-eyed kid over once it had been born. The cord business. Anyone with half a brain cell would have left well alone, but not Jacquie. Oh no. She always had to redeem something, didn't she? Bad move though. He could have told her that. In fact he did. Several times, but she'd got Dave, and Mr Bloody Perfect had seemed on a mission as well...

"We can't guarantee there'll be no further epileptic fits, no fainting or even a severe adolescent personality change," the first consultant had opined. "It's all in the lap of the Gods, I'm afraid," he'd added, washing his surgical gloves free of blood then peeling them off.

So yes, Graham mused, as he pretty well did every waking moment - he'd been well rid. They both had, and now their instincts were being proved right. Jacquie should have followed hers, instead of throwing every last penny after some stupid idea. And that prick of a pianist had been foolish enough to go along with it.

He pulled open the topmost of his crammed desk drawers, his attention momentarily diverted by a seagull which had landed on the sill outside. Its dark green deposit scrolled down the window. He banged his fist against the glass. It hurt, and the creature merely stared at him before letting out some more.

"Jesus Christ, man," he remonstrated with himself. "It's just a bird you saddo." He then found what he was looking for and stared at the colour photo now in his hand. Tina still looked terrific, even after three kids. Enormous brown eyes provocatively fixed on his camera. The Algarve beach glowing all around her. Breasts enhanced by her underwired bikini top, her thighs firm and tanned as she knelt on a pink TINA-labelled towel. He remembered with a jolt what her kneeling over him had felt like. Four months ago, but still unforgettable. For that brief holiday, she’d fabricated a business trip to her husband, and himself a bout of ‘flu to his boss.

He felt the familiar lurch of resentment that she and Ronan Crabtree still played happy families with their two boys, in an architect-designed house complete with three garages and a hardwood conservatory. He also realised it was too long since his last letter begging her to see him again had gone unanswered. So, there was nothing for it, but to make a clean break with her and think seriously about MTEC Global's recent offer of a consultancy in Toronto. He checked his Filofax.  He had a free Saturday on January 18th and while her husband was usually away on business after each New Year, Little Bidding would be his priority.

Suddenly his phone's green light flashed an incoming call via switchboard. Being so early in the day, any number of possibilities tore through his mind. Could it be her after all, taking advantage of a quiet office?  Feeling psychic, maybe? Coming to London for lunch and an hotel room?

"Mr Lodge, sir?" the operator interrupted his thoughts. "You have a call. Will you take or shall I cancel?"