Fly in the Ointment (6 page)

So Trevor Hanley was right. I was too cool a customer for any man to fancy. Not that it bothered me. I liked to know that I was so impregnable that nothing could touch me. I even watched my own birthday come and go, unremarked by anyone, without a flicker – apart from the reminder that later that month it would be Malachy's too. Halfheartedly I did begin to gather a few goodies in a cardboard carton: a book of cartoons, tea bags and chocolate, the tins of lychees he had always loved. But then I broke into the package of tea bags and after that, instead of pressing on to fill the box, I simply emptied it out. I wasn't in the mood to go and trawl the city streets for my son, knowing from long experience that there was nothing I could do to change his current way of life. If he was desperate, or ill, or worryingly thin, I didn't want to know.

I didn't want to
care
. I was too busy, loving my little house, loving my plants, loving my pretty garden arbour. I went for great long walks. I took a painting class. I cooked more, taught myself to sew and spent hours listening to the radio. I liked the daily drive into the city. I liked the way that both the Hanleys took a few minutes from their own work each day to stroll behind our desks, cooing our
praises. When Audrey and Dana eyed one another as the clock came round to half past five, and closed their box files, I took great satisfaction in stacking things for the morning, then sliding my chair in neatly under my desk just as we had at school. I'd say goodbye to Dana on the steps, then walk with Audrey as far as her Queen's Park bus stop before taking off down yet another street, towards the car park.

And it was there one light spring evening that, pulling out of the exit, I braked to let a pregnant woman cross the road in front of me. I hadn't even made her break her stride, but she was clearly the sort hair-triggered to take offence. Even before she stepped off the kerb she was giving me the finger. Strutting in front of my car, she made the effort to swing her arm around so she could keep up the offensive gesture. And though my window was rolled up I could still hear her piercing yell. ‘You stupid trout! Get off the fucking pavement! Bitch!'

It was the voice from under the canal bridge. I stared at her, appalled. Could that be Malachy's baby she was carrying? Oh, dear gods, no! Surely from one glance you could see she was the sort of young woman who'd get through boys and men as fast as other people get through underwear.

My look of horror set off a fresh wave of abuse.
‘What are you staring at, you prissy bitch? You had your eyeful? Stupid, stupid cow!'

Panicking, I glanced in my rear mirror. Just for once, no one was behind me. I slammed the car into reverse and shot back, giving myself just enough space to swing around and drive instead past the NO EXIT sign.

And once again I was lucky. No one was driving in. Without a thought for any penalties if I were caught, I shot out of the entrance and off down the street. As soon as I dared, I took a look behind me. The witchy creature was still standing blocking the exit, probably still shrieking after me as, trembling so hard that I could barely keep a grip on the wheel, I reached the roundabout at the end of the street and took the very first turning – not the road I wanted at all – simply because it was clear.

SAFE HOME, I
took stock. How had the sight of this young woman so managed to rattle me? She didn't know who I was. And who was to say that it was Malachy's baby? How long ago had I heard them quarrelling under the bridge, and followed them along the canal path? A whole lot longer than nine months. There was no reason to think that someone as feckless as Malachy would stick at such a troubled relationship, and she didn't look the sort to keep her knees together very long.

But still I couldn't put the worry out of mind. Something went wrong. The simple trick I'd used through all my previous upheavals had deserted me. I fretted till my brain bled. From what I'd seen, the birth could easily be imminent. Over the past year I'd managed not to go out and scour the city for my son,
yet now when I read the local evening paper, my eye fell first on snippets about babies that had been born in taxis or supermarket aisles; and though there was nothing about the girl I'd seen that would lead anyone to think she was the sort to want to see the words ‘Proud father Malachy' set into print, I took to studying the birth announcements. Over and again I'd try to get a grip, reminding myself how very unlikely it was that her baby could be any grandchild of mine. And yet I couldn't help but be aware that, on the excuse of only two days of roadworks, I seemed to have changed my route to and from work. Now I drove down the long, long street on which I'd watched the two of them catching the bus all that time ago, and more than once over the next couple of months, instead of turning off on to the road to Pickstone, I kept on north, tracking the route of 18A request stops as far as Forth Hill and Danbury, keeping my eyes peeled through those grim estates.

Each time, I asked myself why. After all, no one is mad enough to go out searching for a daughter-in-law with a vile attitude and a foul temper. But I had built a fantasy on one small fact: she'd not been smoking. Perhaps, though it made her so irritable she'd pick a fight with a stranger, she'd managed to give up the habit for the sake of the baby. Maybe Malachy had too. And if he could give up one
addictive thing, why not another? Bad habits reinforce one another. Maybe the shock of finding out they would be parents had forced the two of them to clean up their druggie act. It wasn't likely. But it was possible. Anything was
possible
.

And then it would be up to me to mend our fences. I knew exactly what was lost when a rift settles in a family. The last thing on earth I wanted to do to my son was treat him the way I'd been treated. I couldn't bear to think that he might simmer with resentments even a fraction as strong as those I'd ended up holding against my mother and father. I would go mad even to think it. He knew why he'd been asked to leave the house. He'd sat there sulking as Mrs Kuperschmidt had done the business of explaining exactly why it was impossible for him to stay. He hadn't argued. He had understood. But it had been my decision to let him slide entirely out of touch. So now it was my job to find out more. If Malachy was off drugs then, even if his new child's mother wasn't the partner I would choose for him – and she most definitely was not – then I would bite the bullet.

But there were other voices in my head – sensible voices that had no truck with fantasy, and took a different tack. They crowded in, reminding me how grim life with Malachy had been, assuring me that
young men like him don't throw off addiction that easily. After the efforts I'd had to make to spirit myself safely away, it would be madness to risk being spotted. My son might see me driving past and follow to find out where I lived.

I wasn't the only person who could do the job, though. If whole hosts of suspicious wives could get their husbands followed, then surely I could find someone to track my son down, take a look, and report back.

No sooner had I had the thought than caution intervened. I'd taken so much trouble to cover my traces. Now I'd be inviting some unknown professional to bridge the precious gap between my old life and my new. Did I really want to put myself at the mercy of somebody else's skills and discretion? I didn't mind the tax office knowing where I'd gone. The gas and phone companies sent bills, and that too was fine by me. That was computers. But take the risk of asking a living person to track down my son to see if he and Trouble were still firm friends? That was a different story.

On my brain gurned. Disguise, then. How about a floppy hat? Or headscarf?

Both dismissed at once. I'd spent too many hours at SwiftClean not to have realized how mistaken any woman is to think that what she wears can make that
sort of difference. You may hear ‘You look ten years younger,' – even ‘It makes you look a very different kind of person.' But ‘I'd not have recognized you in a million years'? Oh, no. You don't hear that.

A wig, then. I could disguise myself by buying a wig! I thumbed through the Yellow Pages and was quite shocked to see how many wig-makers could make a living in just one city. It sent my thinking up a strange old path. Before she died, had my own mother's hair come out in handfuls? Could she have so despaired of the pink patches spreading hotchpotch on her skull that even she had gathered up the courage to walk through the doors of one of these places that so discreetly advertised their skills? I suddenly remembered her only headscarf, a swirly orange and yellow affair she'd rarely worn but I had loved, and rippled round my head through all my childhood ‘ballet shows' and ‘fairy dances'. Had she worn that as she inched shyly through the door to get advice? I couldn't bear to think I might go somewhere she had been in such sad straits. I chose a place my mother would have found far too intimidating, on one of those hidden little back streets where pricey and sophisticated dress shops with bells on the door deter all but the most confident shoppers. My mother would have made excuses and fled if she'd been greeted with the same urbanity
with which the ‘salon' owner greeted me. Her calm soft-spoken patter drew out the chosen lie: ‘One or two friends suggested I'd face the treatments with more confidence if I know, even if my hair falls out, I'll have the option . . .'

She sat me at a mirror inside an elegant little cubicle hung on three sides with grey drapes. In all the things she tugged down on my head I looked exactly like myself, but better.

‘You see, I was thinking of a change.'

‘If it's to cover temporary hair loss –'

I tried to look the ‘fun' sort. ‘But it seems such a waste to choose something that looks so like my own. I thought it would be good to have something different. If I do have to wear it, it will make a change. And if I don't, then I can use it after.'

‘After?'

‘To wear to parties,' I explained.

‘
Parties?
'

‘You know,' I faltered. ‘Fancy dress. Charades and stuff. That sort of thing.'

She was appalled. Thinking I must still be in shock from hearing my diagnosis, she murmured to her assistant to bring back the cup of coffee I'd hesitated over for just a moment before refusing. While we were waiting, she worriedly fixed her eyes on my reflection and tried to persuade me into yet another
soft brown affair that mirrored my own hair but made me look younger.

I pulled it off. ‘I'd like to be a redhead.'

‘It's always best, we find, to—'

But I had swivelled round to point at a wig on the display shelf behind us. ‘That one there.'

‘I really do think you should consider—'

‘Yes. That one. Definitely that one.'

She wasn't happy, frowning in a most unprofessional way as she adjusted it on my head. Her whole demeanour made it obvious she thought my walking round in it would be the worst possible advertisement for her shop. I got the feeling she only let me have it because she feared I might be able to bring some action against her if she refused for no good reason that anyone (except those with judgement) could see. Certainly no one can ever have made it quite so unspokenly clear to a stranger how much they hope that their imminent medical treatment will not result in hair loss.

But she did take my measurements and fill in the form. Two weeks, she warned, but maybe the order haunted her so badly she pushed it to the top of the list because the package arrived only a few days later. The small brown box was so discreet that finding the wig inside it took me by surprise. I pulled it on and looked at myself all ways in the mirror.

Appalling. Almost a fright wig. Forget about fancy-dress parties. This was fit only for Hallowe'en. I cursed myself for wasting half a month's salary on some bubbling red monstrosity I'd never dare to wear. And then, in some despair and irritation, I fetched the scissors.

Once it was shorter it did at least look less like a joke. I tipped my head this way and that, making the curls bounce and practising casually chatting to my new self in the mirror. I cut off a little bit more. Now it looked even better, and I could almost imagine passing through crowds of distracted shoppers without everyone staring. What if I just—?

The doorbell rang.

Pulling the wig off, I ran a comb through my own flattened hair and hurried to the door.

Two police officers stood waiting, one man, one woman. ‘Mrs Henderson?'

From the way that the woman was wringing her cap in her hands, I knew already and tried to slam the door shut. ‘No!'

This way of trying to see off bad news can't be unusual. The other officer was already using his foot to jam the door open. ‘Mrs Henderson, please let us in.'

‘No! Go away! Go!'

But why I said it with such vehemence I'll never
know, because already I had given up the fight. An arm was laid around my shoulder and I was ushered back into my own living room. ‘Mrs Henderson. Come and sit down.
Please
.'

They hovered till I was safely on the sofa, then sat down, both uncomfortably leaning as if poised to catch me. It never occurred to me that they had come about Stuart. Why should it? My vanished husband had picked his way far, far too carefully through life to suffer accidents.

‘It's Malachy?'

Yes, it was Malachy. And yes, my son was dead. Not from an overdose, it seemed, but from a scuffle because of a stupid drug debt. One kick too many had sent him sliding down the bank into the canal. And for some reason that would be left to the coroner to rule on, he wasn't in a good enough state to scramble out. My hand was being patted. I watched the dust motes in a shaft of light and waited for the gentle burblings of two well-meaning people to draw to an end. ‘These thugs don't bat an eyelid. Owe them too much and they turn into animals. They don't care if you leave a young mother and a twelve-week-old son.'