Parallel Life (12 page)

She dried her hands and set the percolator to perform its task. Gus liked Kenya blend, so she, too, had decided to prefer it above all other coffees. ‘How's Benjamin?' she asked.

‘As ill-informed as I am, I suppose. He's too busy keeping himself apart from the rest of us. I am hopeful that he will emerge in time to do something with his life.'

She poured the coffee and handed him a glass cup in a stainless steel holder. ‘They don't deserve you, any of them,' she said.

Gus suspected that she was right, though the track along which she travelled led in the wrong direction. He should be the one to shift the points, wave the flag and take control of the journey – before it was too late. He did not know where to start, how to change himself into a parent. ‘I have not been much of a father,' he said when they were seated in easy chairs. ‘I can't remember their childhood, you see. One minute, they were babies, and the next – well – they were fully-grown strangers.'

‘But you're a genius,' his companion cried.

Gus nodded. ‘Perhaps – though that is hard for me to judge. But even a forgetful scientist should know his children. She – Harriet – is extremely beautiful and as bright as the sun. Yet she has dedicated her life to her little brother. Benjamin needs help, but so does she.'

Sheila felt her jaw slackening. For the first time ever, the most important person – the only person in her life – was admitting a fault in his make-up. Panic flooded through her veins. Would he give up his trains and dedicate his time to his offspring? ‘What are you going to do?' she asked tentatively.

‘I haven't the foggiest,' he replied. And that was the absolute truth.

Will Carpenter was not making great strides in his effort to court Harrie. Although he had a first in chemistry and a postgraduate degree in education, he was not at all talented in the field of communication. No, that was hardly the case, as he was good at teaching, yet the one-to-one business between himself and his chosen one was not plain sailing. She was witty and inclined to deliver smart, double-edged answers to questions. Comments he made were similarly drowned beneath waves of humorous monologue. He adored her, feared her, was terrified by her family.

Their meeting place had been turned into a building site, so he was now forced to knock at the front door of Weaver's Warp in order to see her. Mrs Compton-Milne the Elder had always allowed people right of way through the copse, but builders had stemmed the easy flow of walkers, and there was a danger that the woods might become out of bounds once Harrie's chalet had been completed.

Now, the courtship had taken on a formal air. How could knocking on a door make a difference? It did, though. Their meetings were visibly engineered; the fact that he had often waited for hours in the copse to ‘happen upon' her did not matter. He was knocking on a door, now, and was thereby declaring his intentions. Perhaps he had been born into the wrong era; perhaps he should wear a top hat and cutaway coat and raise a glass to Queen Victoria after meals.

They walked in silence along Weaver's Weft, the lane on which the Compton-Milne house stood. Milly, released from the restraints of a leash, bounded along like a practising young kangaroo.

Will cleared his throat. ‘Your house seems to be making good progress.'

‘Yes. It's just a shed with electricity and drains. Americans live in them all the time. It comes with all appliances built in, you know. Brilliant idea.'

‘And it gets you away from Ben.'

Harrie nodded. ‘Something has to shock him back to life. That apartment of his is a tomb. The camper van hasn't been used yet, but I live in hope. He couldn't have taken driving lessons and a test a year ago. He's working it out. I'm leaving him to it.'

Milly arrived with a large bough between her teeth. ‘That's nearly half a tree,' Harrie chided. ‘We are supposed to be saving the planet, you daft dog.'

Milly dumped her find before dashing off in search of further mischief.

‘And . . . erm . . . how is your mother?'

Harrie stopped walking, causing him to go into reverse for a couple of paces. ‘My mother is brilliant. Some people think she's so loose with her favours that her ankles have separate postcodes, but she's not like that. She's lonely and lively and she's forgotten more about precious minerals than I shall ever know.'

Will cleared his throat. ‘Does your dad know about . . .?'

‘About her dalliances? Of course he does. He has his own arrangements. I think I saw him waiting to meet his own arrangements a couple of weeks ago on Wigan Road. Plays the mad professor, but he's not as daft as he wants us to believe he is. They survive, both of them. Gran brought us up.' She touched his arm. ‘You think we're all mad, don't you?'

He paused before replying. ‘Eccentric, yes.'

‘It's been an unusual childhood,' Harrie admitted, ‘but I wouldn't change a moment for myself. Ben was more needful than I. All I wanted was Gran's awesome stories, something to read and the odd hour with Woebee.'

‘Mrs Eckersley?'

Harrie nodded. ‘She's amazing, a real-life Mrs Malaprop, every wrong word a winner. I remember her saying she was having mortal trouble with her cubicles. She meant cuticles. Childhood was a maze of guesswork and dragons. Gran gave us the dragons, knights and fairies, while Woebee provided us with a whole alternative thesaurus. Mother worked, Father worked, and Gran and Woebee were our carers. That's just the way it was. Why does this feel like some sort of job interview?' Without waiting for an answer, she dashed off in pursuit of the wayward dog.

Will followed her. He had a sudden feeling that it was now or never. She wouldn't tolerate any messing about. Harriet Compton-Milne was a pragmatic young woman, outspoken to the point of recklessness and as straight as any die. He grabbed her arm. ‘Remember when I kissed you?' he asked, knowing that so stupid a question would throw her straight into the role of comedienne.

‘How could I forget?' she asked. ‘Liquorice.'

‘What?'

‘You tasted of one of those terrible black Spanish sticks.'

‘Did I?'

‘You did. That was ten years ago, and I still get a whiff of it whenever you are around. Well, that and wet dog-hair. When it's raining, of course.'

His heart went into overdrive. There was no doubt in him – he loved her and wanted her and . . .

She kissed him. He pulled her close and hoped that his breath didn't smell of anything peculiar this time. She was reluctant to release him, so he was pleased about the new mouthwash he had acquired. Moments passed, and he forgot about liquorice and wet dog and mouthwash. How could one embrace mean so much? This was a match made in heaven or hell – certainly not on earth. ‘God,' he whispered.

‘Where?' she asked, her eyes mocking him gently. ‘It was what you wanted, yes?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you were getting nowhere, yes?'

‘Yes.'

Harrie stroked his face, one hand on each cheek. ‘You're lovely, Will Carpenter. But you're afraid I might turn out as cracked as my brother. I won't. I am a totally unique kind of loony. God broke the mould when he invented me.'

‘Are you ever serious?' he asked.

‘Only when in love,' she answered before marching off to find his dog.

Amazed, Will stayed where he was for several seconds. She loved him. She had almost said so – hadn't she? He wanted to run about punching the air, but he didn't. Teachers of maths, physics and chemistry didn't run about wild, but perhaps they should. His throat felt full, and he experienced a ridiculous need to shed tears. It was the happiest day of his life so far and here she came, dog behind her, the other half of some God-forsaken tree between its teeth. ‘Thank you, Milly,' he said to himself. Because Milly had been a vital part of the whole equation.

The cottage looked derelict from the outside.

Jimmy pulled his car on to a dirt track at one side of the house, climbed out of the passenger seat and went to press his face against a window. Visibility was severely restricted by dirt and greying net curtains; it seemed that Sally's place had scarcely altered since the death of her father. She cleaned other people's houses, but not her own. Had she moved?

He tapped a coin against the window, banged on the door, walked round to the back of the cottage. The rear door was unlocked, so he let himself into a small, filthy kitchen and announced his presence by calling her name. There was no response. He walked through to the living room, shook his head when he saw the clutter and dust, lifted a pile of magazines and newspapers from a chair and sat down.

It was hell in here. Jimmy hoped he was mistaken, but he thought he caught a hint of an odour that had once been only too familiar when Sal's father had become incontinent. Surely not? Surely, she must have made some effort after the old man's death? The bed had been under the window. Good heavens – Mr Potter's medicines were still lined up on a plastic trolley – and were they his teeth in a jar? The television screen was clean enough. It was plain that Sal still enjoyed her soaps, then. But no detergents had been used on this place in many a month – could he really live here?

Just as he was about to beat a retreat, the back door swung inward. ‘Jimmy?' Sal called. She entered the room, homely face glowing with anticipation. ‘I recognized your car. How long have you been here?' she asked.

He cleared his throat. ‘Not long, but long enough, Sal. This place is a bloody pigsty. When did you last clean up?'

The colour in her cheeks deepened further. ‘I lost heart living on me own. Doctor gave me pills for depression, but they don't seem to help. All I've got is me telly. When I come home from work, I just sit and watch me programmes, then drag meself off to bed. I can't help it. Any road, why are you here?'

He sighed heavily. ‘I've left her.'

‘Left Annie?'

‘Aye. Thought I'd shack up here with you, but I can't live like this. Nobody should live like this, Sal.'

She dropped into another chair, her position in the world remaining unnaturally high, as she was perched on a pile of clothing. ‘I'll clean up. I promise. I'll go through top to bottom, honest. You know I'd do anything for you, Jimmy.'

‘Well.' He pondered for a few seconds. ‘I'll sleep in the car till you get straight. And we need a few bits of new furniture. You can sort that out – I'll give you some money.'

Sally beamed. ‘Ooh, thanks, love.'

‘Just one thing, though. Nobody must know I'm here. There's a good reason for that, so just trust me.'

‘You know I trust you, Jimmy.'

He wondered when she had last taken a bath. Her navy cardigan was stained, and at least two buttons had parted company from the knitted item. A once-white blouse displayed a greasy mark where it stood away from her neck. He refused a cup of tea and returned to his car. If Sally wanted him, she had better get a move on.

At eight in the morning, she delivered tea and bacon sandwiches to him. He rubbed his eyes, grabbed the cup and surveyed his soon-to-be lover. She was sparkling clean in a new dressing gown, and her wild hair was anchored back into some sort of order.

‘I've cleaned up,' she said proudly. ‘Hours and hours, it took. I could do with a new three-piece and a bed as well. Can you afford it?'

He opened the car door and stepped out. ‘Let's have a look first,' he said.

In spite of the shabby furniture, it was a different house. After inspecting every room like a sergeant major surveying ranks, he gave his opinion. ‘You'll have to keep it up, though,' he warned. After all, she would be getting new furniture out of him. She would never keep him, not permanently, but he would allow her some time while he worked out his next move. The furniture would be compensation for when he moved away and left her again.

He packed her off to Bolton with a shopping list, asked her to write down the date and times of delivery so that he could make himself scarce. Now, all he had to do was think hard. This could take months to work out, but there was just one goal in life.

He had to get the gun back . . .

Five

Sister Mary Magdalene was enjoying herself. The piecing together of a white altar cloth was one of the more pleasurable activities available to a bride of Christ. Around the edges of Irish linen, she was attaching lace made over fifty years earlier by French sisters in another order, so the work was taxing, delicate and absorbing. The joining of robust cloth to delicate fibre was difficult, and this altarpiece had to be taken apart every time it required cleaning. As it was used only on very high feast days, mending days were set well apart.

She threaded a needle, said a quiet prayer for survival of the lace – and stopped when she heard a strange sound.

It was one of the meters that recorded neurological and cardiac activity in the patient known as Princess Mathilda. Magda looked at the girl in the bed, glanced at the monitor, shrugged slightly. Electricity, and the machines via which it spoke, were not the most reliable of man's discoveries. The patient remained motionless, a perfect doll in a bed where she had spent many years.

Attacking the job in hand, Magda lowered her eyes and stitched. A second blip caused her to drop the needle. Surely not. Had the left hand quivered? Had she really caught a fleeting glimpse of movement just before looking down at her sewing? She folded the work and placed it on a trolley. God would not mind if one of his daughters ignored the ornamental aspect of service in order to do the work for which she had been trained.

Quietly, she walked to the bed and raised delicate lids from eyes that had never seen the beauty of this world. Pupils matched – neither one had blown, so there had been no nasty activity in the brain. ‘Mathilda?' she whispered. ‘Are you coming back to us, or is there a fault in our machinery?' The eyes did not shift.