Nest of Sorrows (30 page)

‘Yes. I’m on my way to here. Anything in for tea?’

‘Bacon, eggs, I can rustle up a few chips if I’m pressed.’

‘You’re pressed – I’m stopping.’ As if to emphasize this intention, Rachel slipped off her damp shoes. ‘Wet shod, witchered, you’re likely right. You always were right when it came to English. Remember all the prizes? And the letters in the Bolton
Evening News
? Happen you should have been one of them reporters, going round mithering folk for their life history. You were like that as a small child, very embarrassing. Always asking questions, you were: “Why has that lady got feathers on her hat?” and “why does that man walk funny, has he got a war wound like Grandad?” Murder, it was, especially when you asked them to their faces. We were on the Daubhill bus once, and this woman was sitting opposite next to the door. You kept staring at her ’cos she had a skenning eye. Then when we came to our stop and we stood up to get off, you told her she was very clever and asked her how she’d learned to look both ways at once. I could have died on the spot! We flew out of that bus, couldn’t get away quick enough. In fact, a few of us got stuck in the doorway fighting to get off, because there wasn’t a straight face to be seen. Except for the poor skenning woman, of course.’

‘How awful for you.’

‘Aye. And, of course, I couldn’t tell your . . . couldn’t tell anybody about it.’

‘You couldn’t tell my father.’ This came out as statement rather than as question.

Rachel sighed heavily. ‘I never told him anything.’

‘You used to hide the housekeeping in a tin under the bedroom floorboards.’

The older woman’s jaw sagged for a fraction of a second. ‘Eh? Well, I’ll eat my hat. How did you know about that?’

‘There was nothing in that house I didn’t know about. Nothing at all.’

‘Oh.’

‘I knew you were frightened of having any more children even though the doctor had said it wasn’t likely.’

‘Katherine!’

‘And that’s why he beat you. And raped you. More than once, too.’

Rachel’s hand strayed to her face. ‘Dear Lord!’

‘Well, you can’t live in a two-bedroomed house without knowing these things. Mind, Judith managed to sleep through everything including the Second World War.’ Kate paused, her head nodding slightly. ‘My father was a fool of a man. He didn’t realize what he had in you, or in his children. I hated him, Mam. I was glad when he died, because I didn’t like you being alone with him.’

Rachel’s hand covered her eyes now as she said, ‘We are terrible people, you and I, Katherine. Because – oh Lord in heaven have mercy on my sinful soul – I was glad when he left us too. Mind, if he hadn’t died, I did have some ideas. I thought once I was sure that you and Judith were settled . . .’

‘We were settled. You could have left him.’

‘Aye.’ She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘But he was ill, wasn’t he? It’s all very well meaning to go off and leave a man once your children are independent, but I couldn’t leave a dog with what he had. It was all through him at the finish. There wasn’t one part of him healthy.’

‘Rotten to the core, Mam.’

‘More ways than one.’ This was almost whispered. ‘Isn’t it funny how close we’re getting since you left yon queer feller? It’s like having a friend as well as a daughter. So, friend and daughter, I’ve got something to tell you.’

‘All right, spit it out.’

Rachel giggled girlishly. ‘It’s not summat as will come out easy. Happen a drop of sherry would hasten it up a bit?’

Kate walked to the drinks trolley and Rachel noticed how much more relaxed her daughter’s movements sometimes were, how pretty she looked these days. There was a new bloom to her skin, a bright sheen in her hair, lightness in her step. Yes, in spite of some misgivings and worries, Kate was better off.

They sipped their Harvey’s slowly until Kate, on the edge of her seat, could bear the suspense no longer. ‘Well?’ she cried. ‘Will it take a scotch and a crowbar?’

‘Eh?’

‘Don’t you come the innocent with me, Mother. These things work both ways, you know. Just as you can always tell when I’m up to something, I know when you’ve a weight on your mind. Unload! Immediately, if not sooner!’

Rachel hesitated, then drained her glass in one gulp. ‘Right,’ she gasped. ‘I’ve met a bloke, a nice bloke. He wants to marry me.’

Kate’s face was a picture of surprise. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. I’m not that bad a catch, you know. He’s a man of substance too, a dealer in hardware goods. Arthur Bottomley.’

‘What? Bottomley’s big shop down Derby Street? That one with two fronts? Bottomley’s off the market too?’

‘That’s him. He’s a good chap, a bit on the big side, heavy like but ooh, he is good-hearted and pleasant company. A bit of a change from . . . from anybody I’ve known before. His wife died and they never had a kiddy, so he’s lonely.’

Kate pondered for a while. ‘Why?’

‘Why is he lonely? Because he’s stuck on his own all the while.’

‘No, I mean why are you getting married?’

Rachel raised her shoulders in a gesture of exasperation. ‘Because I like him. Because he asked me, and he’s Catholic . . .’

‘Are you running, Mam? From a house with no bathroom, from your own loneliness?’

‘Eeh, well.’ Rachel leaned back in her chair. ‘I wouldn’t say I’m running, not like some folk I could mention. No. Arthur’s like an old friend. Like a glove I might have lost years back, and it turns up still a good fit. We’re a matching pair, him and me. He likes crosswords and reading, a nice ride out in the country. And he loves cats. I have to sign a paper about cats.’

‘Oh? What paper’s that?’

‘It might be called a dis-claimer or summat of that sort. Anyroad, it boils down to this: if he dies before I do, I’ve to sell up and give half to stray cats. He’s got nobody to leave it all to anyway. Except a nephew who’s usually half-cut, up to his ears in beer every other day. So I agreed to sign.’

Kate tapped the base of her glass against the chair arm. ‘All a bit sudden, isn’t it?’

‘No more sudden than you were, lady.’

‘And look where it got me. I don’t want you suffering, Mother. In fact, I won’t have it.’

‘Ah.’ Rachel grinned very broadly. ‘The shoe’s on a different foot now, isn’t it? What did I say to you when you brought soft lad home? “You’ll regret it,” I said. But now you’re trying to stop me and you haven’t even met Arthur . . .’

‘Oh, Mother!’

‘It’s true enough though, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so. Yes, yes, it’s true. A mother threatening to get married is as frightening to a daughter as vice versa must be to a mother. I mean, what if he’s not good to you? What if you’ve only seen his best side?’

Rachel giggled. ‘Arthur hasn’t got a best side. In fact, there’s no side at all to Arthur Bottomley. He smokes a pipe, breeds Persian cats and sells paraffin heaters and firewood.’

‘And pots and pans and shovels.’

‘Exactly. With Arthur, you get what you see, no more and no less.’

Kate thought for a moment. ‘Does he drink?’

‘He likes a pint, but not every day. Don’t be thinking of the past. And he never goes near the greyhound track, never haunts the betting shop. He’s a good lad.’

‘How old?’

‘Fifty-nine. And he’ll be here in ten minutes, so get cracking with the eggs and bacon.’

‘Oh, Mother!’

‘If you say “oh mother” again, Katherine, I’ll belt you one. I asked him to come because I know you’ll like him. And because I trust you too. There’s no side to you either, our Katherine, never was and never will be. If you were the sort that needed advance warning of a visitor, you’d be no daughter of mine.’

Kate’s mouth hung open for a second or two. ‘But, there’s only three eggs,’ she declared finally.

‘One each. Shut your gob, there’s a tram coming. Look at you! Your mouth is hanging as wide as the Mersey tunnel. Stop fretting.’

The younger woman pulled herself as near together as she could manage. ‘Hang on a minute. I think I’ve a couple of slices of gammon left. And I can do a bit of cauliflower cheese. Does he like cauliflower? Shall I go out and get some beer? And just look at my hair, Mam. Ooh, I could kill you, really I could.’

‘Get away with your bother! We can just as soon send Arthur out for fish and chips, he’ll have his car or the van. And there’s nowt wrong with your hair – shove a comb through it and spray some of that glue you’re so fond of.’

Kate rushed off to the kitchen to search her sparse cupboards. Just as she was debating about whether or no to add tinned tomatoes to her proposed gourmet feast, the back door was pushed open.

‘Hello? I’ve got no hands. Anybody in?’ Arthur Bottomley’s beaming round face gazed benignly upon her. ‘I’m loaded up with curry and chips three times, your mother seems keen on Indian cooking. You’re Katherine, I take it?’

‘Kate.’

‘Oh.’ He juggled with his parcels and removed a flat check cap. ‘I’m Arthur, the intended. Though what she intends to do about me, well, I really couldn’t say. Get some plates, love.’

Rachel stayed where she was, an ear cocked towards the next room.

‘They’re not warmed,’ muttered Kate lamely as she took three plates from a rack above the cooker.

‘Never mind, this here stuff has its own central heating. Ever had curry?’

‘Yes. Oh, you brought some rice too. I’m fond of boiled rice.’

‘Good.’

They stood in awkward silence, each eyeing the other across the table. Kate liked what she saw. He was a tall man, large of build and with a smile that meant something, a smile that didn’t reside on his face permanently. His hair was thinning and his cheeks were ruddy, while his clothes, though of good quality, were those of a working man. She smiled. ‘Hiya, Arthur.’

‘Hiya, Kate.’ They shook hands solemnly. ‘I’m glad we’ve met at last, lass. She goes on about you something murderous, nothing bad, just endless chat about “my Katherine”. Aye, she thinks a lot of you, does Rachel.’

‘And I think a lot of her.’

‘Oh, I see. Yes.’ He flushed a darker colour and cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Will I do? Do I come up to muster? Or shall I go out and come in again backwards?’

‘No, you stay where you are, Mr Bottomley. I think you’ll do very nicely for my mother. What’s more, she’ll do nicely for you. You’re getting first prize with my mam, you know. I wouldn’t let her go to any old bidder in the auction room.’

They turned simultaneously to see Rachel standing in the doorway. Kate stared at her mother and remembered the silent, cowed little woman Rachel had been, and her heart felt it would burst with joy, gratitude or some similar emotion as she watched the bustling new-born woman taking over the situation – just as Mother usually did these days. Women, Kate decided in that moment, were capable of changing almost indefinitely, for here stood the evidence, full of life where there had been none, full of love where little had been allowed to show in the past. Oh, Mother! No wonder Kate said those two words so often of late.

Rachel strode into the kitchen. ‘What’s up with you pair?’ she barked with mock severity. ‘Good food going cold, no kettle on, and this one . . .’ She jerked a thumb towards Kate, ‘due for her points. Diabetics has to have their points. Arthur, did you wipe your mucky feet? Has it given over raining? Katherine, take his coat. Has he got your seal of approval, then?’

Without waiting for any replies, Rachel carried on talking while distributing food on plates. ‘Arthur Bottomley, you can put a few shelves up in the other room, somewhere for all her books. And see if you can come across a better cooker, this one hisses and spits like a cornered snake. Does everybody want a bit of rice? Is there any poppy-dums? Arthur, you should have got some. Right. Let’s sit down and say grace like a proper family . . .’

They sat obediently while Rachel intoned the prayer, ‘Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts . . .’ Arthur winked at Kate. Kate winked at Arthur. It was going to turn out all right after all.

The wedding took place at Saints Peter and Paul on Saturday 15 June 1968. Kate played a dual role. As matron of honour, she walked behind her mother and carried the bride’s small posy throughout the service. And, because Rachel’s father was dead, Kate gave her mother away. This had been debated for two or three weeks, Rachel uncertain about which of her three brothers she should invite to perform the task.

‘See, our Jim’s me favourite. He’s awkward, is our Jim, funny sense of humour and always good for a laugh. But our John would feel left out. Then there’s Joe. Poor Joe’s forever been the also-ran on account of being youngest.’ So Kate simply stepped in and said that if anyone were to give Rachel away, then it should be one of her own daughters. Judith had been sent an invitation, of course, but she was too busy looking after American statesmen and their translation problems, though she forwarded some pretty cotton sheets, her very best wishes and a lovely wedding card covered in white lace, the sort of card that was not available this side of the Atlantic.

Rachel looked a picture. She wore a beautiful dress and jacket in an odd shade of grey that somehow held a hint of pale violet in its floating folds. Arthur looked scrubbed, polished and pleased, while Kate had chosen a suit in a green that fell just short of emerald.

Outside the church, they lined up for photographs, uncles, aunts and cousins all squashed together in an attempt to get in on the act. Arthur’s friends stayed slightly separate, their collective dignity marred only by a local butcher whose demeanour betrayed that he had imbibed rather too freely during the preceding night.

But everyone’s thunder was suddenly stolen when a wonderfully elegant white horse trotted round the corner, its rider side-saddled to perfection and clothed in a hired Edwardian riding costume. Rachel and Kate ran forward. ‘Melanie!’ they screamed together.

The young woman slid down from her mount. Kate caught her breath, a hand to her throat. How long had it been? A month, six weeks? And here was a real lady, slim and elegant, all of five feet and five inches tall, hair scraped back beneath a hat of superb simplicity. ‘Mel,’ she groaned quietly. ‘Dear God, you must have lost a stone.’