Dying Fall, A (13 page)

‘All kinds of families work, don’t they?’ she says now, very much wanting to believe it. ‘Not just the traditional kind.’

‘They sure do,’ says Cathbad. ‘Look at us. Mother, child and passing warlock, having a whale of a time. Why don’t we go into Blackpool this afternoon?’

Nelson’s mother, like Cathbad’s before her, is at Mass. She always enjoys sung Mass on a Sunday although her enjoyment is usually expressed in running criticism of the choir, the flowers and, most of all, the priest. Father David, a nervous and sincere young man, is a convert and so, to Maureen, deeply suspect. ‘Not a cradle Catholic,’ she told Michelle in a piercing whisper before the service started. ‘Not really one of us.’ In Maureen’s mind Father David compares very badly to his predecessor Father Damian, of whom Maureen always talks as if he’s gone to his blessed reward. He is, in fact, drying out in a clinic in Ireland.

Today, though, Maureen’s enjoyment is marred, not only by Father David’s suspiciously Protestant sermon, but by the fact that she doesn’t have her son at her side. It’s a rare treat for her, showing off her son and his decorative wife to her fellow worshippers. But today Nelson has refused to play ball. He has a complicated relationship with his baptismal faith. On one hand he has an almost fearful dread that it’s all true, on the other he loathes the whole flower-arranging, Cafod-collecting apparatus of his mother’s church. His refusal to attend had quickly escalated into a row, ending with Maureen storming off with Michelle in tow, warning Nelson that he would soon burn in hell. ‘I’ll see you there,’ Nelson had growled.

Harry has been strange this holiday, thinks Maureen as she bows her head piously at the elevation of the Host. Every homecoming is always marked by a series of pyrotechnic rows. Maureen quite looks forward to them, to be honest. Harry has always been short-tempered but his mother and sisters are more than a match for him. This time, though, he seems different. Quieter, sadder. A couple of times Maureen has caught him on his own, staring out of the window. Even as a child Harry was never one for sitting and staring; he always liked to be doing things, playing football, going out on his bike with his friends, driving his mother demented. Of course he has been sick. Maureen remembers that awful journey to Norfolk last November, how she had prayed all the way for Harry to survive that terrifying mystery illness, the bargains she had made with God, cheerfully offering to die in his place. She had meant it too. In fact, when Harry had miraculously pulled through, she had half expected to be taken up to heaven on the spot. And does he seem grateful for this devotion? No. He skulks around with a face like thunder, disappearing off to see his old police friends, refusing to accompany his mother to Holy Mass. He doesn’t deserve to have such a mother and such a wife. He really doesn’t.

Now Maureen prays angrily for her favourite child. Please, God, let him see the error of his arrogant ways. Keep him safe, Lord, and let him realise his many blessings. At the sign of peace she holds Michelle’s hand tightly. Though she doesn’t know why, she suddenly feels very protective towards her daughter-in-law.

‘Peace be with you, my darling,’ she says huskily.

‘Thank you,’ says Michelle, who can never remember what she’s meant to say in return.

The beach is beautiful. The tide is out and the sand stretches for miles beyond the piers, the sea only a blue haze in the distance. Kate falls in love with the donkeys and clamours to go on one. This is a relief as, when they parked the car, she had seen a poster with Dora the Explorer on it and has been demanding Dora ever since. The poster is advertising the Pleasure Beach, where there is apparently something called ‘Nickelodeon World’ starring giant cartoon characters, as well as a selection of truly terrifying rides. The biggest of these, a roller-coaster called the Big One, dominates the Blackpool skyline. It is higher than the seagulls, a nightmare railway track in the sky, swooping downwards in an almost vertical death plunge. Never, Ruth vows, never will I go on that thing. Cathbad thinks it looks great.

But the donkeys are lovely. Kate’s is called Jolly Roger. Ruth pats him, marvelling at his soft coat—more like fur than hair. Roger flicks his ears to and fro and looks irritated. He is black with a grey muzzle and his harness is yellow. Other children are lifted onto Roger’s companions and the cavalcade prepares to set off.

‘Hold on, love,’ says the Donkey Man and Kate holds on, looking delighted and not at all scared. For the hundredth time, Ruth wishes that she had remembered her camera. She should take a picture with her phone. She fumbles in her bag.

‘Ruth,’ says Cathbad.

‘What?’ Damn, why can she never find anything in her organiser handbag?

‘Isn’t that Nelson coming towards us?’

Ruth looks up and, sure enough, advancing over the sand is an all-too-familiar figure. Nelson in jeans and a blue shirt, accompanied by Michelle, two other women and a baby in a pushchair.

Ruth is paralysed. Should she call out to him? Hope that he won’t see her? Oh why didn’t she tell him that she was coming to Blackpool?

Cathbad, though, has no such qualms.

‘Nelson!’ he shouts. ‘Over here!’

Nelson looks across, says something to Michelle and takes a few steps towards them. But Cathbad has already bounded over and is shaking Nelson’s hand enthusiastically. There is nothing for Ruth to do but follow, keeping an anxious eye on Kate and her donkey.

‘Cathbad,’ Nelson is saying. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing in Blackpool?’

‘Language, Harry,’ says one of the women, a formidable matron in blue who looks vaguely familiar.

‘Harry,’ says Michelle. ‘It’s Ruth.’

‘Hi, Nelson,’ says Ruth. ‘Hi, Michelle.’

Nelson just stares at her, a muscle is working in his cheek and he looks furious.

‘Where’s Kate?’ asks Michelle.

‘On a donkey.’

‘Oh, the kiddies love the donkeys,’ says the woman in blue. Then, as no one else seems about to do it, she introduces herself. ‘I’m Maureen, Harry’s mother, and this is Maeve, my oldest, and her granddaughter Charlie, though why she’s got a boy’s name I’ll never know. She’s such a pretty little thing.’

Nelson’s sister. Ruth can see the resemblance. Maeve is tall with black wavy hair liberally streaked with grey. She has Nelson’s heavy eyebrows and his fierce expression. And she’s a grandmother! Ruth never imagined that Nelson’s sisters would be so much older than he.

‘Charlie can be a girl’s name now,’ she is saying, rather impatiently. ‘Pleased to meet you, Ruth.’

‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’ says Maureen. ‘At the hospital.’

That’s why she looks familiar. Ruth briefly met Nelson’s mother on the morning after the night when they thought that Nelson was dying. Ruth glances at Michelle and is sure that she is remembering the same thing.

‘Ruth works with me,’ Nelson says shortly. ‘She’s an archaeologist.’

‘That must be interesting work,’ says Maureen. ‘I never miss
Time Team,
do I, Maeve?’

‘They did a programme near here,’ says Ruth. ‘At Ribchester.’

‘I saw it,’ says Maureen, sounding delighted. ‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘Sort of,’ says Ruth, feeling uncomfortable. The donkeys have reached the pier and are turning back. In a few minutes, though she won’t know it, Maureen will be face to face with another grandchild.

‘Is this because of Dan Golding?’ Nelson asks Ruth. He still looks angry. Ruth sees Michelle touching his arm as if to placate him.

‘Yes,’ says Ruth. ‘Pendle University asked me to look at a discovery he made before he died.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I don’t know.’

Maeve looks curiously from one to the other. Luckily Maureen is chatting to Cathbad. ‘Kilfinane!’ Ruth hears Maureen exclaiming, ‘but that’s next door to me, so it is.’

The donkeys approach. Despite everything, Ruth’s heart contracts with love when she sees Kate’s radiant face, beaming from ear to ear as she wobbles on Roger’s back. The Donkey Man puts up a hand to steady her. Ruth waves; she knows that Nelson is looking too.

‘Mum!’ shouts Kate. ‘Mum! Mum!’

‘Oh bless her heart,’ says Maureen. ‘Is that your little girl?’

‘Yes,’ whispers Ruth.

But Kate has seen Nelson. ‘Dada!’ she yells in delight. ‘Dada!’

‘Do you think she suspected?’ asks Ruth.

‘No,’ says Cathbad reassuringly. ‘Kate calls everyone Dada. She said it to the Donkey Man, didn’t she?’

They are on their way back to Lytham. Ruth is driving; Kate is in the back, humming a tune from Dora, lost in a dream of donkeys. They pass the Pleasure Beach, the Big One looming above them, posters advertising the many different ways in which humans can be flung into the air, rotated or just plain terrified. One of the rides is in the form of a vast raven, its black wings outstretched: a slide spews out from its open beak into a continual, churning waterfall. Its name is spelt out in lights, ‘Raven Falls’. Ruth thinks of the Raven King, of the two deities that seem to rule in Lancashire. The Raven King in his lonely grave on the way to the sea and the Demon King of pantomime that presides over Blackpool. Glittering lights, garish costumes, bread and circuses.

Ruth stops at the lights next to a gypsy caravan offering ‘Genuine Romany Fortune Telling’. Perhaps she should make an appointment. ‘But Nelson’s face,’ she says. ‘I would have suspected if I’d been Maureen.’

This is a new departure for Ruth and Cathbad. Although Ruth knows that Cathbad knows about Kate’s parentage, this is the first time that they have discussed it openly. Ruth usually tries to ignore the whole fatherhood issue but she is so shaken by the afternoon’s encounter that she just has to talk to someone.

‘Maureen was too busy chatting to me,’ grins Cathbad. And it is true that he and Maureen had hit it off immediately. It is largely Cathbad’s fault that Maureen has invited them to tea in three days’ time, ‘so we can talk some more about the old country.’ Ruth, remembering Nelson’s face as his mother issued the invitation, wonders if she’ll live that long.

They hadn’t stayed too long on the beach. Maeve was meeting Danielle at the south pier and didn’t want to be late. The two parties had separated with shouts of ‘See you on Wednesday’ (Cathbad and Maureen), embarrassed waves (Ruth and Michelle), yells of ‘Dada’ (Kate) and complete silence (Nelson).

‘She won’t guess,’ says Cathbad, twisting round to smile at Kate. ‘She won’t guess because it’s so unlikely.’

Is it unlikely, wonders Ruth. She supposes it is. Unlikely that a man who is married to Michelle would ever look at an overweight, forty-something academic like her. Unlikely that the man who looked at her with outright hostility could ever have . . . But she won’t think about that. She’ll file it away along with Max and the baby question. Things she will deal with when she feels strong enough. For now she concentrates on driving. They pass fairy lights, trams, a giant glitter ball.

‘Nelson looked furious, though, didn’t he?’ says Cathbad.

Ruth doesn’t answer. She stops at a red light and a horse-drawn carriage draws alongside. There are hundreds of the things, bowling up and down the Golden Mile, skinny horses pulling fat tourists. This one is pink and glittery, shaped like a pumpkin.

‘Cinderella,’ breathes Kate.

Nelson, Michelle and Maureen are also on their way home. Maeve has gone back to Danielle’s house. Although the beach is within walking distance Maureen has decreed that they bring the car. Nelson agreed, partly to make up for refusing to go to Mass that morning. Now, as his mother embarks on a voluble critique of his driving, he’s beginning to regret this peace-making gesture. His patience with Maureen is wearing very thin. Thank God they’re going to Michelle’s mum’s place next week.

In fact, Nelson, for him, is driving rather tamely. In Norfolk, he scorches round corners on two wheels and acts, in general, as if he is involved in a Seventies TV police series car chase. Now he contents himself with revving up furiously at the lights and stopping at the last possible minute. Maureen is exaggerating the effects of this, throwing out a hand as if to save herself, other hand clutching her throat.

‘For pity’s sake, Harry,’ she says, ‘take some care.’

‘It’s the idiot in front,’ says Nelson.

‘You were too close,’ says Maureen who, despite not having a licence, considers herself an expert on driving. ‘Does he always drive like this, Michelle? You should make him take a refresher course.’

Michelle, wisely, says nothing. She knows, from the angle of his neck, that Harry is in a real rage. She tries not to think exactly why this is.

‘Well, she was a nice girl, wasn’t she,’ says Maureen, turning round to Michelle. ‘That Ruth whatshername. Quite a pretty face. Shame she’s a bit on the plump side.’ Maureen, who hasn’t seen her feet for decades, disapproves of women ‘letting themselves go’.

‘She is nice,’ says Michelle tonelessly. Nelson grinds the gears furiously.

‘And a lovely babby. Kate. Now that’s a proper girl’s name. Not like Charlie. And I did like her boyfriend. What’s was his name? Cuthbert?’

‘Cathbad,’ says Michelle.

‘And he’s from Limerick, did you hear? Kilfinane. That’s in the Ballyhoura mountains. Where I was brought up.’

Nelson, who has never thought of Cathbad as being from anywhere, says nothing. Why the hell is Ruth in Lancashire? And why didn’t she tell him when he spoke to her yesterday? It must have been Cathbad he saw in Lytham that day. Cathbad, pushing
his
daughter in her pushchair. Cathbad, posing as Ruth’s boyfriend. Maybe he
is
Ruth’s boyfriend now? But what happened to that Max bloke? He knows that Ruth still sees him. Maybe she has half a dozen boyfriends in tow. What sort of environment is that for Katie? He takes a corner too fast and narrowly misses a bollard.

Maureen shrieks. ‘Are you trying to kill us?’

Nelson slows down as they reach Maureen’s house. Nelson’s family home. The house where he grew up. A three-bedroomed terrace painted a rather violent pink. For the first time he wonders what his dad—not a man in touch with his feminine side—thought about the pink. It’s possible that he just wasn’t consulted. The house has been pink as long as Nelson remembers. His dad died twenty-eight years ago, when Nelson was fifteen. Sometimes he finds it quite hard to recall his face, though he can still hear his voice, quiet Lancastrian, far gentler than Maureen’s.