Lois Meade 03: Weeping on Wednesday (1987) (28 page)

But when Lois finished talking to Hazel, and searched through the local directory, there were no Blenkinsops listed. Well, all those girls must have married and got themselves different names, and the old folk would have died by now. Miss Beasley’s comment, faithfully relayed by Hazel, came back to her.

A whiney, spoilt sort of creature. Good at getting her own way. Was that why she became a recluse, discovering that it was a very effective weapon? And where did that leave Enid? Whose side was she on? Lois sighed again. If only she could hear from Enid, just to know she was still alive, then she’d be happy to leave the rest to Cowgill.

She told Derek this when he came in from the garden. “Don’t deceive yerself, me duck,” he said. “You’ll ferret away ‘til you come up with somethin’ like the truth. And we’re all prayin’ to God it’ll be soon, if only so’s the kids can get through to you! Josie’s bin asking for new jeans for a week now, and it’s time you listened!”

As they ate, Lois told Gran about Hazel’s call, and she smiled. “Right ole acid-tongue, that one,” she said. “Everybody knows her, and most of the WI are scared stiff of her. Still, she came up with the goods.”

“Hazel wasn’t sure it’s much help,” said Lois. “But it’s a start.”

“I’ll ask around,” Derek said. “I’m helpin’ next door with his paving tomorrow, then we’re goin’ to Waltonby for a refresher. Someone in the pub might remember the Blenkinsops. The old farmers get in there, playin’ dominoes. Get them goin’ on the old days, and you’re there for the afternoon.”

“Mum?” Josie smiled pleadingly at her mother. “Mum, can we go shopping soon? I need some new – ”

“I know, love,” said Lois, “some new jeans. Yep, o’course we can go. I bin a bit busy lately, but we’ll go to that new shop in the centre. Get you some T-shirts as well. I reckon you’re goin’ to be busty like your gran!”

“That’s quite enough of that, Lois Meade,” said her mother huffily. “Your dad used to say I’d got a better figure than Betty Grable.”

“Betty
WHO?
” chorused the kids.

E
dward Abraham was looking for a chemist. In his new guise, he strode along, head held high, smiling to himself and seeing miraculously more clearly through Donald’s spectacles. He was quite unrecognizable, he was sure of that. He even
felt
like a totally different person! Whoever would have thought that it would be as easy as that? He should have done it years ago.

“Afternoon!” he said, passing an old newspaper seller, who was offering papers with Edward’s photograph emblazoned on the front page. The seller nodded at him without a second glance. Wonderful! He walked into a small supermarket and picked up supplies for Enid. Now for a chemist to find some pills for Father. He was sure Enid had been exaggerating, trying to worry him about the state of their father’s health. He was clearly better, and after a day’s recuperation would, Edward was convinced, be as good as new. The change of scene would do him good. Still, better humour Enid for the moment.

He walked on down Nicholson Street, and saw a green cross sign coming up. That would do. As he walked into the light, airy chemists, it seemed familiar. Had he been here before? Certainly not this visit. Then it came to him: this was where Enid had worked. Everything had changed, of course; a completely new interior, but the general layout was the same, and a panel of coloured glass over the door had survived. Ah, yes, and there was the huge bottle filled with bright blue liquid that had stood in the window for as long as he could remember. He was the only customer, and a woman assistant had perched herself on a stool in the corner, leafing through a newspaper.

He stopped to look around, and muttered to himself, “Well, bless me…”

“Excuse me?” said the assistant, coming forward. “Can I help you?”

Edward smiled at her. He dared to do that now! Perhaps he would mooch around a bit, indulging in memories. “In a minute, thanks very much,” he said. “Just looking around. I used to come in here in the old days. It’s changed a bit!”

“Yes, well…” The woman lost interest. She had thought she knew him from somewhere, school, maybe. But he was too old to have been at school with her. He was drifting about the shop now, picking up things and putting them down again. One of those. Still, what was it to her if a couple of packets went missing? She wandered back to her stool and picked up the newspaper again. She turned the page, and a face stared out at her. She frowned, and looked up to where Edward had picked up a small hand mirror and was looking admiringly at himself.

He caught her eye.

He turned and saw the newspaper and her startled expression. In a second, he was out of the shop and running.

“Mr Gordon!” The woman rushed out to the office at the back of the shop. “Look, here…this photo! He’s just been in the shop…honest, it was him!”

The manager took the paper from her and stared. “Are you sure?” he said, but he knew the woman was reliable, not one of the mbberty young ones. He picked up his telephone and dialled. “Hello? Police?”

Edward, out of breath and slowing down, found himself approaching Forrest Road, and calmed down sufficiently to give a quick pat to Greyfriars Bobby on his doggy plinth. No harm done, he reassured himself. The chemist woman was probably thinking of something else entirely. He ambled along George IV Bridge and turned left into Lawnmarket. Nearly home. Home? His mood darkened again. They were more or less homeless now. They could never go back to Cathanger, but this did not worry Edward. He hated the place, just as his mother had hated it. But then, she was full of hate.

Hatred of his father, of Enid, of anyone who tried to help her…Still, the three of them would make a life in Scotland somewhere. Enid was good at homemaking.

As he went through the little arched passage leading to the courtyard and the flat, he stood aside to allow a couple to pass. “Thanks,” said the woman. “Lovely day.” He kept his head down and grunted. Musn’t make the same mistake again. He was still a wanted man, however good his disguise. He walked through the passage and into the door of their building.

“That was the bloke from the flat opposite,” said the Midlands woman to her husband. “Now I’ve seen him up close, he is very like the other one, except not so hairy.”

“Really!” exploded her husband. “Don’t you ever listen to anything I say?”

§

Enid took the ham, lettuce, tomatoes, and fruit. “And the painkillers for Father?”

Edward waved the question aside. “Doesn’t need them now, surely,” he said. “Seems a lot better.”

He was pleased with himself, thought Enid suspiciously. But not quite so jaunty as before. What had happened out there on the streets? She was beginning to feel claustrophobic, shut up in these small rooms. She could see out of the window that the sun was still shining, and tourists wandered slowly in and out of the courtyard, visiting a museum in an ancient building across the way.

She prepared the salad, and Edward helped his father to the table. There was no doubt the old man was a lot stronger, and Enid was encouraged. This suited her plan. She could not have carried it out if Father had been ill and bedridden. The time Edward was out shopping had not been wasted. She’d found a current railway timetable shoved in amongst cookery books in the kitchen, and rejoiced.

After their meal, Father sat in an armchair and dozed off. Enid and Edward sat at the table, drinking coffee. Edward had taken a book of old photographs of Edinburgh out of the shelves, and was leafing idly through it.

Might as well forget the sunshine, Enid told herself. When she went out, it would be in the dark, preferably with just enough light for her to see where she was going. It would be difficult with Father, but they would manage. Meanwhile, she must keep her mind empty, in case Edward tuned in to her thoughts. Conversation, then, about ordinary things.

“Where else did you go, when you were out?” she asked.

He pushed his chair back suddenly. “Nowhere much,” he said casually. “I’ll help you wash up,” he added, and picked up their coffee mugs.

As she washed the plates, stacking them on the draining board for Edward to dry, Enid risked starting a conversation on a more dangerous topic. “Um, I was wondering,” she said, “whether Mother sent a message for me at all?”

She could almost feel the temperature drop, and Edward’s reply was icy. “No message for you, Enid,” he said. “Concerned only with herself.”

Enid was silent, hoping he would continue. She was desperate to know how he had been driven to such violence against his chief champion, the one who had blindly adored him all his life.

“I’d like to think,” he said eventually, after minutes ticked by, “that senility was settling in. Making her worse in every way. Exaggerating her bad points. It does, you know, Enid,” he added, looking at her closely, as if needing her agreement.

She obediently nodded. “I know,” she said, and scrubbed round a dish that was already very clean.

“I couldn’t stand it,” he went on. “All the recriminations if I didn’t see her every day to bring her flowers and swear undying love. And then, when I stayed away, she stored it all up and was hysterical the times I did call in.”

“What times? Where were you, Edward? I never saw you coming and going…”

He grinned, a sudden flash of the old, invincible Edward. “Of course you didn’t,” he said. “I made sure you were out of the way, doing your extraordinary cleaning jobs. My hiding places were many and various, I can tell you!”

“So how did you persuade her to go into the nursing home?” Enid said.

His eyes changed, the guarded look returning. “Father did most of it,” he said. “He was very firm, just like the old father we remember. That voice that had to be obeyed. I helped her dress in her best, and then she got quite girlish and demanded lipstick and a comb. Went off without a backward glance, Enid. The confirmed recluse! Makes you wonder, doesn’t it.” He hung the drying-up cloth on its hook, and turned to smile at her, quite fond again.

She shivered. “It does indeed, Edward,” she said.

J
amie was not feeling so good. At least, that is what he had told his mother first thing this morning. Lois had looked at him doubtfully. “You look all right,” she’d said. But when he answered her, his voice was hoarse, and he coughed painfully.

“Well, you’d better stay there today,” she had said. “I’ll get Gran to make one of her specials. She swears hot lemon, brown sugar and a splash of something stronger will cure anything.”

“Kill or cure,” muttered Jamie, who’d had specials before, and hated the taste.

The real reason for his not feeling so good was a session fixed for tomorrow with the history teacher. They were doing the Second World War, and had some facts to learn.

Jamie had been bored with the subject, and done no work. He’d promised to have it learnt by tomorrow, but couldn’t see any hope of it. It wasn’t that he hadn’t tried. He’d sat in his room with the book open in front of him, and gone over and over. But it didn’t stick. This morning, he’d decided on evasive action. Maybe if he asked Gran to help him, he could do it. No good asking Mum. She never had a spare minute. Yep, Gran would do it. And if it didn’t work, he could still be ill tomorrow. It’d be more convincing. Relaxed by this consoling thought, he had shut his eyes and when Lois came in with the special, he’d given a very convincing imitation of being sound asleep. She put the drink by his bed, and smiled down at him. My baby, she had thought. Looks so innocent, bless him.

Derek had gone off early to help with the paving stones, and she knew he’d be late back. They’d have a real thirst on them. She went into her office to check messages, and saw ‘Blenkinsop’ written on her pad. Damn, she’d meant to remind him. She dialled his mobile, and got a breathless Derek. “OK, I won’t forget,” he said. “What? Oh, yep, it’s goin’ fine. Cheers.”

§

Sheila Stratford had surprised her husband at breakfast. “Nothing much in the larder for dinner,” she said. “Shall we go to the pub?”

“What?” said Sam. “On a Sunday? What about that leg o’ lamb?”

“You got that last Sunday,” she said doggedly. “Anyway, it’s our anniversary, in case you’d forgotten. It’d be a little treat.”

Sam was cornered. “Oh, well then,” he said grudgingly. “I suppose it’d be all right, just this once. Can’t spend more than the hour…we’re very busy on the farm. I shall be there most of today, Sunday or no Sunday.”

When he’d gone, Sheila was chagrined to answer the door to the florist from Tresham, who handed over a bouquet of roses with a professional smile. “Happy anniversary, Mrs Stratford,” he said.

“Best love, Sam,” she read. So he’d not forgotten. Damn. Still, there was an ulterior motive to her pub idea, and she put the roses in water gratefully. She’d made a special fruit cake for his tea, so that should put things right.

§

“Hello, Derek! Fancy seeing you here!” Sheila and Sam walked into the bar, and Derek rose to his feet.

“Could say the same,” he said. “What’re you havin’?” He introduced his neighbour, who said he must be off for his dinner. Derek intended to follow, but couldn’t duck his round when Sam and Sheila came in.

“No, it’s a special day today,” said Sam, rising to the occasion. “Another half?” Derek nodded his thanks, and congratulated them.

A voice from the corner chimed in, “How’s about one for the oldest inhabitant then?” It was old Alf, one of several who made the oldest claim. He was on his own and feeling left out.

“I known you two since you were knee-high,” he said. “That counts for summat, don’ it?”

The four of them sat around the table swapping tales of old times like the Stratfords’ wedding day, when it had rained right up to the time when Sheila got out of her dad’s car at the church, and then the sun had come out like a spotlight, and not gone in again for the rest of the day.

“We seen some times,” said Alf, shaking his head wisely. Sheila judged it the moment to mention the subject she’d planned to bring up all along. She’d known Alf would be in his regular corner.