Union Belle (26 page)

Tom had forgotten all about it.

He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Yeah, probably, but it’ll be by myself.’ The idea that he and Ellen would go along like a happily married couple was laughable; the whole bloody town must know by now.

‘You going home first?’ Vic asked. The current state of play in the McCabe household must be pretty dire. He’d heard Red Canning’s accusations, Tom and Ellen hadn’t even stood together during the game this morning, and Tom had spent the afternoon alternating between sullen moping over his beer, and mouthing off angrily about anything and everything.

Tom shrugged again, as if he neither knew nor cared.

‘Well, why don’t you come back to ours for your tea?’ Vic said.

‘I can’t see Lorna wanting a pissed bastard in her kitchen.’

Vic laughed. ‘She’s used to it, don’t worry.’

So Tom went back to Vic’s. If Ellen was wondering where he’d got to, that was her bad luck.

He wasn’t a very charming dinner guest, but then Vic hadn’t expected he would be. Lorna rounded on him when Tom left the table to go out to the toilet.

‘For God’s sake, Vic, why did you have to bring him here?’

She was angry at not being consulted about the extra mouth to feed, and at Tom for spilling beer all over the tablecloth and for swearing his head off at the table. Fortunately, she’d told the kids to go and eat their meals in the sitting room before he’d started in with it.

‘Jesus, Lorna, look at the state of the poor bastard,’ Vic replied. ‘I couldn’t leave him to stagger up and down Joseph Street all night.’

‘Why couldn’t he go just home?’

‘You know as well as I do: they’re having a bit of trouble.’

Lorna’s mouth compressed into a narrow, self-righteous line. ‘Well, it’s none of our business if they are.’

Vic snorted. ‘You seemed to think it was when you were having a bloody good gossip with Rhea Wickham at the game this morning. And don’t bother denying it because I saw you. You want to learn to keep your nose out of things that don’t concern you.’

Lorna went red. ‘Well, it’s disgusting, her and Jack Vaughan carrying on like that.’

Vic’s hand flew to his mouth. ‘Don’t tell me he’s been getting a leg over Rhea as well. The dirty dog!’

‘Oh, stop it, you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, I know exactly what you mean, and if you’re that concerned about the injustice of it, have a heart for poor Tom. He’s the one who’s been hoodwinked.’

‘You know, I’ve always had my doubts about Ellen McCabe,’ Lorna said.

‘That’s enough, Lorna,’ Vic said, suddenly angry. He pointed his knife at her. ‘You have
not
had doubts about Ellen McCabe. She’s been a good friend to you over the years and don’t you forget it. Whatever’s going on will get sorted out one way or another, and they don’t need you making high and mighty judgements about it, all right?’

‘I really don’t think…’ Lorna began.

‘No, you don’t think at all, do you? Now shut up, here he comes.’

Tom had heard the raised voices from outside. ‘Is something wrong? Is it my swearing? Sorry, Lorna, I’ll fuck off if it is.’

Vic shook his head. ‘No, mate, you’re all right, sit down before you fall down.’

So Tom did, and knocked his beer over again.

Lorna took her husband’s advice and kept her mouth closed. She stood up and began to clear the table around the pair of them.

Tom had sobered up marginally by the time he got to the dance, mainly because Vic had taken his beer off him. There had been an uncomfortable moment when Vic thought his friend might take a swing at him for it, but in the end he’d just sat there and nodded resignedly.

The hall was almost full when they arrived at a little past eight o’clock. Tom looked around to see if Ellen had had the cheek to come herself, but to his relief he couldn’t see her anywhere. He did, however, catch the furtive glances of people unable to stop themselves. They’d been giving him sympathetic—and curious—looks all morning at the game, too. It should have been gratifying to know he had their commiseration, but it was humiliating because it felt like pity, not sympathy.

He felt Vic’s hand on his elbow, steering him firmly towards a table where Pat and Rhea, Frank and Milly, and Lew and Andrea Trask were already sitting. Rhea, done up to the nines as usual, gave him a long, cool look as he sat down.

‘Is Ellen not with you tonight?’ she asked.

Tom regarded her steadily. He might be pissed, but he knew when someone was having a go at him.

‘Pinny pains,’ he said, and watched with satisfaction as she blushed furiously. That’ll teach you, he thought, as she heaved her backside around in her chair and presented her back to him.

‘That was a bit naughty,’ Milly said, trying not to laugh.

Tom ignored the comment. ‘Who’s looking after the boys? Have they gone home?’

Milly shook her head, making her curls bounce. ‘Gloria’s
taken them, and Evan and Billy. They’re camping out in her
lounge
, apparently.’

‘Oh.’

So what was Ellen doing? He very much wanted to know, but wasn’t going to ask Milly. He hoped she was sitting at home as miserable as he was, although she probably wouldn’t be drunk. But then a truly ghastly thought occurred to him: what if Jack had come home early, and was at this very moment sitting on the couch with her?

He lurched to his feet, but in an instant Milly had grabbed his sleeve and yanked him back down.

‘Sit down,’ she said, reading his mind. ‘She’s at home, by herself. She said she wanted to think about things. And if I were you, Tom, I’d go home myself and have a go at sorting it out before it’s too late.’

But Tom didn’t hear the deliberate emphasis Milly put on the last four words. ‘That’ll be the day,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing to sort out. If she wants a backdoor man she can have him.’

Milly frowned. She was very worried because Jack Vaughan was obviously much more than just a backdoor man to Ellen, although Tom hadn’t seemed to realise that yet. And if he didn’t do something soon, he could lose her altogether.

‘You don’t mean that, Tom, I know you don’t. Look, you’re a bit worse for wear. Why don’t you go and sleep it off? Go back to ours if you don’t want to go home.’

‘I’m all right,’ Tom said. He reached for a beer. ‘I think I’ll stay a while.’

Milly suggested to Frank that the men should keep an eye on Tom, and although they did what they could he somehow managed to get even drunker, alternating rapidly between rowdy high spirits and bursts of anger and gloom.

Then, very uncharacteristically, he decided he felt like
dancing. He dragged Milly up first, and she managed two songs to humour him before she had to sit down again because her toes were so badly trampled. Next he asked Andrea Trask, who was delighted as she saw it as a blow against Ellen McCabe, who was obviously the reason Jack had dumped her. But even she sat down fairly quickly: Tom was a big, heavy man. Then he approached Rhea Wickham, who made a great show of ignoring him, which only made him laugh his head off.

It was then that Vic suggested seriously that Tom go home, or anywhere really, for a bit of a kip before he got himself into real trouble. He seemed to be having a high old time, but there was something very nasty brewing behind his eyes, and Vic could see it.

But Tom refused, declaring at the top of his voice that if it was good enough for Jack Vaughan to whizz the ladies around the dance floor like Fred fucking Astaire, then why shouldn’t he?

‘Because Fred Astaire isn’t built like a brick shithouse, he can actually dance and he isn’t usually full of DB when he does,’ Vic replied. ‘Now go on, Tom, go and get your head down.’

But instead Tom asked Meg Thomasson if she would care to cut a rug. Giggling, she agreed and off they went, banging indiscriminately into couples as they swept through the crowd.

As Tom looked down at her big, brown eyes and wide smile, he realised that Meg really was quite pretty. He’d never really noticed that before. She was also rather drunk, but he decided that that was neither here nor there. She felt nice, too, and he appreciated the way that her breasts—much bigger than Ellen’s—were pressing against his chest. In fact, all of her was bigger than Ellen, although she stood no taller and came up to about the same place at his
shoulder. Her body, warm and soft, was sort of melting into his and although he wasn’t a very good dancer, a social impediment of which he was usually very conscious, they seemed to be doing pretty well together tonight. Perhaps it’s who you dance with, not how good you are. But then that reminded him of Ellen dancing with Jack, the pair of them whirling elegantly around the floor as though they were made to be together, and his mood plummeted.

He stopped suddenly, and Meg almost went over backwards.

‘Christ!’ she said as she teetered, then found her balance again. The silk flower in her bright, blonde hair had almost fallen out, and she raised both hands to adjust the hair pins securing it. ‘A bit of warning wouldn’t be a bad thing.’

‘Sorry,’ Tom said.

But she didn’t stay put out for long. ‘Where’s your wife tonight?’ she asked, smiling up at him with an expression that Tom couldn’t fathom. She must have heard, surely?

‘Ellen?’

‘Yes, unless you’ve got more than one wife.’

‘No, I’ve just got the one.’

‘Is that “just” as in only one wife, or “just” as in you’re only just hanging onto her?’ Meg said.

Tom shook his head to clear it; she couldn’t be that drunk, she was talking rings around him. Or perhaps it was him who was really drunk.

He nodded his head at the couples going past. ‘Do you want to keep going?’

‘Why not?’ she said.

And they started off again, unsteadily at first, but were soon spinning around and around until Tom began to feel quite giddy, and then sick. Near the door he called another halt and dabbed at his sweaty brow with his sleeve. ‘I think I need some fresh air.’

‘Want some company?’ Meg asked, slipping her arm through his.

Tom thought about it for a moment. He knew he was drunk, but not drunk enough to claim insensibility as a defence against what he suspected was going to happen next. And that was good, because then it couldn’t be classed as an accident, one of those things that just happened when a bloke had a few too many beers and got carried away. Not that he’d ever been carried away like that himself, not since he’d been married, and certainly not like Ellen and Jack Vaughan, not by a long shot. But perhaps it was time he did.

‘Yeah, I do,’ he said, ‘that’d be nice.’

Outside it had been raining, and heavy mist shrouded the hills surrounding the town. Clouds drifted across the night sky, letting the moon show through and turn the raindrops on the grass and in the trees into dull diamonds.

Tom felt a lot better in the fresh air, the nausea that had swamped him inside receding. He got out his tobacco and rolled a smoke.

‘Want one?’ he asked Meg.

She nodded.

They stood on the steps for several minutes, smoking in silence as people ducked past them in and out of the hall.

Tom was starting to feel a flutter of nervousness in his belly at the thought of having sex with a woman who wasn’t Ellen, as well as an unpleasant sense of unease and wrongness, which he bludgeoned away with deliberate images of Ellen and Jack, together. He held out his hand to Meg.

‘Coming?’ he asked.

‘Where?’

‘For a walk.’

She smiled coyly, then said, As long it isn’t far, I’ve got my good shoes on.’

‘No, it won’t be far.’

He took her hand and led her down the steps and around to the back of the hall. He saw that she gave the dingy shadows there a weary and disappointed look, as if she’d been there before and nothing much had changed.

‘Here?’ she asked.

‘No, not here, further back, by the shed.’

She followed him through the long damp grass across the overgrown section at the rear of the hall to an old shed tucked beneath a row of pines, and waited patiently as he shook the rickety wooden door. It rattled but didn’t open. Tom swore. He gave it a last belligerent shove, then towed Meg around to the side of the shed, out of sight of prying eyes where the shadows were deepest. He thought she must know what was coming next, because she leaned back against the flaking weatherboards and relaxed.

Tom set his hands on her shoulders and lowered his face to kiss her. Her mouth tasted of beer and cigarettes, and something waxy and slightly scented—her lipstick, he supposed. But her lips were soft and welcoming, and he felt himself stir at her response. Her arms came up around him and she moved her ample hips against his groin.

‘I knew you’d be a big man,’ she murmured in his ear, and Tom felt his erection spring to full attention.

He pushed a cold hand down the top of her blouse, not bothering to caress and take his time as he usually did with Ellen. He didn’t think he needed to, because this wasn’t Ellen, this was just going to be a root, and he assumed Meg knew that as well as he did. He was very aroused, though, in spite of the amount he’d had to drink. It was exciting to caress the skin of a woman he shouldn’t be touching, and the more he did it the more he felt he was clawing back a measure of dignity and confirmation that he was still a desirable and attractive man, regardless of what Ellen obviously thought.

Meg raised a leg and he felt her heel stroking rhythmically up and down over the back of his knee. The gesture encouraged him to undo the small buttons on her blouse and slide a hand up her back. The hooks of her bra defeated him, however, and after a minute Meg reached around and undid them herself. Her breasts dropped heavily, her nipples dark in the expanse of soft, pale skin. He bent his head to kiss them and she sighed, her hands resting on his shoulders.

But he didn’t stay there for long. Sliding her skirt up her legs, he slipped his hand between them and felt his pulse thud as his fingers moved past the nylon of her stockings to the warmer silkiness of her skin. He inched his way further up and was pleased to note that she had her pants on over her girdle—good, that would save a lot of mucking around.

She pulled them down herself, wriggling her hips as she did in a manner that made him squirm. She stepped out of them and popped them neatly into her handbag in the grass at her feet, then raised her skirt, giving him unobstructed access to her. He looked down hopefully but couldn’t see much: it was too dark to make out more than the shadowed triangle at the top of her thighs.