Parallel Life (28 page)

If he couldn't get the gun, the other method would need to be employed. It was a terrifying idea, yet there was no alternative. Focused solely on the retrieval of the weapon used in the Birmingham raid, he deliberately tidied away recent events, including burglaries and the attack on his wife. The fact that he might have to break the law again was of no consequence – he would do whatever it took to achieve the most important of his goals. The weather had turned unpredictable, so he needed to wait for a dry night. It would be soon, he hoped.

According to Sal, the girl had moved into a wooden bungalow in the rear garden of Weaver's Warp. She was isolated. If he failed to find the gun in the office, he would remove her from the scene. They had something he needed; it did not take much of a brain to work out that the daughter would be precious, as vital to the Compton-Milnes as the gun was to him. There could be a straight swap; the plan was simple, dangerous and essential. Nothing else mattered. Jimmy was going to save himself. And to hell with everybody else.

Freda Nuttall was very impressed by Hermione's apartment. ‘It's lovely,' she exclaimed after entering. ‘Modern. Makes my place look like Pot Bailey's stall down Bolton market when I was a kiddy.' She sat down. ‘But why do you live up here, Hermione? Wouldn't it be easier for you downstairs? That's why I have a bungalow – no stairs.'

‘Call me Iona – it's easier. I live up here because I can see everything and everybody. I like to take an overview, you see.'

‘She's nosy,' offered Eileen. ‘Nosier than a herd of elephants.'

Hermione awarded the carer one of her harder stares. ‘Make the tea,' she said. ‘And I hope you produced a decent cake this time.' She winked at Freda. ‘Can't get the staff these days, you see. This one thinks she's in charge and I am supposed to do as I am told.'

The visitor was still trying to recover from the shock resulting from her first encounter with Eileen Eckersley. It was easy for the Compton-Milnes because they were used to her, but a new arrival often took a few minutes to absorb the vision. It was the hair. No, it wasn't, it was the eyes. No, it was definitely the teeth. Whatever, Eileen took some digesting at the first sitting. Freda cleared her throat behind a well-mannered hand.

‘The children are fine,' said Hermione reassuringly. But she continued, ‘We, however, are not. The twins are . . . adventurous.'

‘You're telling me?' Freda sighed. ‘I've lost more figurines through them two than I have in thirty-odd years. It's like letting a pair of bulls loose on Pot Bailey's stall – I mentioned him before. Do you remember how he used to juggle plates? Clever man, he was. Never dropped a plate. Craig and Billy drop everything.'

Eileen reappeared with a tray. She dumped it on a low table between them, sat in a third chair, began to pour tea and cut slices of cake.

Freda glanced at her hostess. Was it normal for a servant to sit down with her boss? Then she watched while Eileen guided a shaking hand, while she fixed a napkin around Hermione's neck and helped her with a bit of cake. It was a damned shame. But it was difficult to feel pity for very long, because the old woman was more than feisty.

‘What did you use to clean this silver? Sandpaper?' she asked. ‘I've seen a better shine on fitted carpet.'

‘No, I used a nail file. Now drink up and shut up, because I can't be doing with all the complaining and the whatevering while you're spilling tea.' Eileen spoke to Freda. ‘She does half of it on purpose, I swear to God. There's no reasoning with her some days. My mammy warned me that life would be hard, but she never mentioned impossible. I suppose we all have a burden in life, and madam's mine.'

Freda smiled uncertainly. It was strange, because the second time she had a good look at Eileen, the woman looked . . . well . . . normal. It was not a face that might launch a thousand ships, and it owned a voice that could sink the same thousand, but she was kind and humorous. ‘You can only do your best, love,' she replied.

Hermione chuckled. ‘Whose side are you on?' she asked her guest.

‘My own,' was the fast reply. ‘I've learned to duck while there's low-flying objects. With my husband and my Jimmy, I had to fettle fast.'

Hermione gave her cup to Eileen. ‘He's not visited you since that night.'

‘No.'

‘Any phone calls, letters, postcards, pigeons with notes fastened to their feet?'

‘Not a dicky bird,' replied Freda deliberately. ‘Not even a budgie in a cage. I can't think where the bloody hell he's got to.' She lowered her chin. ‘I'm ashamed,' she said. ‘Annie always said if he clouted her, she'd get him while he was asleep, but she never got chance, did she? Cos she slept for a couple of days, nearly in a coma, holes bored in her head and I feel so guilty, because he's—'

‘Don't upset yourself,' ordered Eileen. ‘Children can be a blessing or mortallious troublesome – often both. I'd a brother with a limp – one leg a smidge shorter than the other. So Mammy goes down to the market one Tuesday, and there he is, bold as brass and twice as ugly as sin, playing the mouth organ while people threw pennies in his cap. He couldn't play a tune to save his life. He'd a notice in front of him that read “look what the English did to me”
.
Mammy clobbered him good and hard with her basket, and that was an end to his game. She never forgave him, and it was ages before she showed her face at the market again.'

Hermione and Freda were both doubled over with laughter.

Eileen scowled at both of them and asked why they found so tragic a tale in the least way funny, then she joined in the merriment.

The door opened. In walked Milly like the leader of the band. Behind her, both looking suspiciously clean, Craig and Billy each held a hand of their little sister. Harrie brought up the rear. ‘I followed them so they wouldn't get filthy on the way,' she explained.

They kissed their grandmother, and Daisy climbed on to her knee. ‘When Mummy coming?' she asked.

‘Very soon,' promised Freda.

‘With new hair,' added Hermione. ‘She knew more about wigs than I did. So we got two. She can have a split personality for as long as she likes.'

‘Have they took her hair off?' Craig asked.

Billy dug him in the ribs. ‘Course they have, you div. You can't use a Black & Decker on hair. All the hair would go through to your brain.'

In Harrie's opinion, this was rather too much information for Daisy, so she changed the subject by displaying the child's works of art. ‘That's Princess Diana's castle, and this is Princess Beatrice's palace.'

Everyone made the right noises until pasta started to drop off. There was an immediate scuffle, and the children retrieved all except for two pieces, both of which were consumed by the dog.

‘You see?' said Eileen to no one in particular. ‘It's always complicated. Still, as long as they don't start playing the mouth organ and begging, you should come out of it with no shame.'

Enlivened by the idea of mouth organs and begging, the twins bombarded Eileen with questions. ‘My lips are sealed,' she said.

‘And so they should be,' remarked Hermione. ‘Get that superglue, Harriet.'

Ten

The children were in bed at last. The battle had been fought, and Harrie, who had emerged triumphant from the field of battle, was exhausted. She tidied away debris and thought about motherhood, wondering how on earth women coped with kids and a full-time job. Most had a kid before they gave birth, since few men she knew had really achieved full adulthood. Will probably had. It was nothing to do with the ‘new man' thing, it was about inner maturation. He had it. She hoped with all her heart that her little brother was finding it. It wasn't enough for her own life to be sorted; Ben had to get a sense of direction, and it seemed to be happening.

Texts from him came thicker and faster, though they grew shorter. ‘OK n still alive'
,
and
‘how ya doin? Rode a horse today'
.
That last one was brilliant, because horses had to be dirty. Equines certainly didn't keep their CDs in order and never worried about a scratch on a kettle. They didn't take three showers a day, either, so Ben's chances of recovery looked good.

She finished her tasks, lay down on the sofa and wondered about normality. Mother had been running all her life from an apparently cold husband who was buried in microbiology. Why was Father so embedded in his work? God alone knew the answer to that one. Ben's obsession with cleanliness had possibly come from the mad prof who was his dad. But Ben had found refuge in a bad place, a bolt-hole that had turned out to be the catalyst that began the mending. Was Father a bad man? Probably not. Mother was definitely not bad; she had been lonely to the point of desperation.

Gran was becoming forgetful – just a symptom of old age. She had always been eccentric and was travelling in splendid disgrace through the winter of her life. Woebee was wise, but wonderfully daft. Will, though sensible on the whole, was madly in love. The twins were enjoying and employing the lunacy of youth.

But true insanity rested with the man who had beaten the mother of his three children. Jimmy Nuttall was the one who had truly lost it. She shivered. No one knew where he was. He could be outside now, might be preparing to take away Daisy, Billy and Craig. ‘He'd have to get past me first,' she said. All the same, she was glad that Will was on his way. They had to sleep on the sofa bed, since the children filled two divans, but she and Will would be together if the ogre appeared.

‘And I was the one with the psychologist,' she said. ‘I was the one who needed treatment? Sheesh!'

‘Talking to yourself again?' Will leaned over and kissed her. ‘An early warning of madness.'

‘It's the only way I can be sure of an appreciative reception,' she replied. ‘I didn't hear you come in. Did you see any mad men skulking around outside? Anyone with a chainsaw or an axe? Perhaps a black-hatted bloke carrying a violin case?'

‘No. Just a mad woman in here.' He went into the kitchen and clattered things.

It was amazing, she thought, how the sound of plates and cups could be such a comfort. Rattling kept the world sane, somehow. He appeared with drinking chocolate and a rose in a jam jar. It was a beautiful yellow flower, but it didn't seem too happy in its Sainsbury's ‘Reduced Sugar Strawberry Jam' pot. Harrie rescued it and placed it in a tiny vase. ‘Men,' she said sweetly. ‘No idea.'

He sat down. ‘Harrie?'

‘What?'

‘Can we get married now?'

She glanced round the room. ‘Well, I see no vicars or registrars. We could use the twins, I suppose. Daisy's a bit young.' She laughed. ‘What's the rush? Are you pregnant?'

‘No. Just scared.'

That was it, she decided. The fact that he could admit his fear was a symptom of adulthood. He wasn't concerned about his masculinity, couldn't care less if people thought him weak. That was his strength. ‘Why?' she asked. ‘If there's no rush, things are fine as they are. We are almost living together.'

‘You might meet someone else at uni.'

‘And a certificate would prevent that?'

Will shrugged.

Harrie clouted him with a cushion. ‘And here was I, congratulating myself on having found a grown-up man. Marriage changes nothing. No, that's not true, because it often ruins a relationship. And children don't mend it. If the cracks are there, offspring will make the building tumble. Let's make sure we have good foundations before we start bricking ourselves in.'

He rubbed his head. ‘I only asked,' he said. ‘No need to give me brain damage. Or a property surveyor's report, come to that. Anyway, our marriage will be fine. I've loved you since I was a mere boy.'

‘Will?'

‘What?

‘Shut up.'

He drew a hand across his mouth as if closing a zip fastener, then sat still and held her hand. Each knew that life without the other would not be bearable. Married or not, they were welded together. But she could not resist a final dig. ‘You could get me an ASBO and one of those ankle things – a tag. I'd have to be inside by seven p.m. every evening. But –' she grinned mischievously – ‘would I be alone? Would I?'

Sheila never once complained about the tedium. Happy to do Gus's bidding, she planned her day around his needs: cooking, cleaning, boiling bed linen and pyjamas, shopping for whatever he fancied. He never said much, yet she knew she was appreciated. They were like brother and sister; it felt as if they had been together for ever.

It was during an expedition to Bolton that she happened to wander past Lisa Compton-Milne's jewellery shop. Deep down, she knew that this was no accident, that she had followed her instincts without allowing the knowledge to seep through completely. She stood at the window and looked past displays all set out on dark-blue velvet. Lisa Compton-Milne was just about visible. She was a pretty enough woman and was probably very well-dressed, though Sheila could see only head and shoulders.

While she lingered as if planning on choosing an item, a younger version of Gus's wife arrived at the shop. So this was his daughter. She, too, was remarkably pretty. Sheila had seen her before, but not closely. This was a lovely girl. Yet he didn't seem to be involved with these beautiful people. He chose instead to spend time with Sheila, because she allowed him to be himself.

The pair emerged from the shop. They were arm in arm as they went to the pavement's edge to prepare for crossing the road. The younger one was speaking about children being minded by . . . Woebee? What kind of a name was that? They crossed and entered an elegant coffee shop across the way. Sheila followed suit and chose a table next to theirs.

The girl had blue eyes. They were similar in shape to her father's, although the rest of her face seemed to have been borrowed from her mother. Conversation at this point related to blends of coffee: skinny latte, cappuccino and espresso. Sheila guessed that they also knew about fine wines, designer clothes and good shoes, but she was still better than they were. In her house, a good man lay trying to hide from hospital infections. He was at war with germs, was the very embodiment of hope for the future, and here they sat deciding about coffee.