Lemonade and Lies (15 page)

“Mangletrær,” he said. “That’s what the Norwegians call them.”

We were all sitting in what my parents called
The Parlour
. Each of us with a glass of Ardmore single malt in hand. Harry Webster was a traditionalist in his drinking habits and hadn’t asked the others their preference, but I noted that none of them had complained. He and I had already made a large dent in the bottle when he’d brought it with him to my bedroom earlier.

He held the carving aloft for the assembled audience to appreciate, like a porter in an auction house, taking some sort of proprietorial pride in the action. Even through the anaesthetising effect of the strong whisky, I felt shame and embarrassment prick at me.

I’d sent it to him, not as a favour, but as some sort of sick joke, but now I guess the joke was on me. For he kept the carving in pride of place over the fireplace in his study and, according to my mother, would show it off to special visitors as a present picked out for him by his daughter. Great! More guilt to add to the heap I already carted around with me. Some of it deserved, I guess.

The wooden board was long and flat like a miniature plank, with a single handle attached at one end of it in the shape of a horse at full gallop. It was called a Mangle Board in English, a traditional wedding present carved by a young man for his fiancée as a betrothal gift. Trust a man to get it wrong. What was wrong with jewellery? Why did they feel it necessary to carve something that was used to smooth the wrinkles from linen cloth? I’m all for tradition, but it’s a bit like giving your girlfriend an ironing board. Hardly setting the scene for a lifetime of romantic bliss is it?

“I’ve researched them,” he said “and they were made by young men when they decided to ask a girl to marry them. The chap would hang this thing outside the girl’s door and if it was taken inside, then it meant that the young woman would accept the proposal. If the Mangle Board stayed outside, then the man was unsuccessful in his suit, and he’d have to try another girl. Mind you – he couldn’t use the same Mangle Board. He’d have to go and carve a whole new one.”

“Bloody hard work if you ask me,” said David. “Nowadays a good restaurant and a decent bottle of Chardonnay should do the trick. Lot less labour intensive.” He laughed.

Alice dug him in the ribs. Whether it was the Chardonnay that had done it, I couldn’t tell. But if the wine was white, Alice preferred Champagne.

Either way, Harry Webster ignored the interruption. “Most of the traditional ones look just like this,” he said, pointing at the Norwegian artwork. Notice the rich carving of the Acanthus all the way along the front. Proper carving that. Chipped out with different sized chisels. That’s real workmanship.” He looked over at me and nodded, as if I’d had something to do with the craftsmanship.

“Lovely.” Alice moved across to give the thing a closer inspection. I guess, like me, she felt some kind of response was called for.

But I couldn’t speak. I was all talked out. Up in the bedroom we’d spoken more in fifteen minutes than we had in the whole of my formative years. Or so it seemed, but then everything seemed weird to me right now. Like the earth had shifted just a tiny bit on its axis. Not enough for anyone else to notice, only me.

David took his lead from Alice and went as far as touching the thing. “Do you mind?” he asked.

“No go ahead.” My stepfather seemed happy that someone was taking an interest in it.

“Solid piece of wood, that. What would you say – about a couple of feet long?” asked David.

“Twenty-four inches, exactly.” He was a man of exactitude, always had been. “They’re usually around four inches deep, but this one’s just over six and the same for the width. That’s a couple of inches more than normal as well. Reckon the woodcarver wanted to make this one a bit special.” Again with the look in my direction.

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Not that I wasn’t grateful for the attention from the old man, but the unspoken praise wasn’t something I was used to. And it wasn’t even like I deserved it.
Yeah, okay! It’s hard to get it right for some people, I know.
But I had a lot of history to overcome before I could be happy with any kind of praise from his direction.

“What are we looking for?” David directed his question at me.

“I wish I knew. The only thing I’m sure about is that Bill was very keen to get his hands on it.”

My mother drew in a dramatic breath (we were all at it) and the whisky that had been making its way down her throat made her cough. Either she wasn’t used to the alcohol, or the implications of Bill chasing after the carving that her husband was so proud of, finally hit her. “Good grief,” she said.
This was as close as she usually got to swearing.

My stepfather moved over to her chair and placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. A gesture meant to settle, to reassure.

“Now, Mother. It’ll be fine. Any nonsense from that man and we’ll have Sergeant Andrew Patterson on to him. Andy’ll sort him.”

My mother smiled; a weak sort of thing that was meant for our consumption. To prove she wasn’t really upset, and that we shouldn’t worry about her. Christ, what is wrong with us all? Why can’t we just be more honest, say what we mean and get on with it? But then my mother had always felt it her job to be stoic.

And Sergeant Patterson? Maybe I was doing him an injustice, but my mind conjured up a Brigadoon character with a bushy beard and a large, jovial face. Someone who might be fine when it came to sniffing out illegal whisky stills, but a policeman I seriously doubted would have the measure of Bill and the kind of people he hung around with. I smiled reassuringly all the same. For everyone seemed to be doing it.

We all had a go at inspecting the Mangle Board. Several keen minds at work, some more whisky-sodden than others.

“What do we do about the children?” asked Alice. She’d always been able to hold her liquor. Drink and think at the same time. Something I was struggling with.

“What? When Bill Murdock arrives you mean?” David spoke as if it was already a foregone conclusion and I watched my mother’s face go into spasm.

“Jesus!” she said.
Scratch that, the woman could swear when she had to.

“I think school’s the safest place for them, don’t you?” My stepfather looked around the group for confirmation that this was sensible. “They should go to school tomorrow morning same as usual.”

“Nowhere’s safe,” I said, knowing now that Bill Murdock wouldn’t give up until he got whatever he was after.

My mother stared at me, appalled. And I tried to imagine what she saw that drew the look of fear. A face that had been in the wars? A daughter who had brought panic and danger to her well-run house? But I gave up. It wouldn’t help to know. Nothing would help. Let’s just hope Sergeant Patterson from the local constabulary was a huge man with a loud voice and a big stick.

*

“Couldn’t sleep either, eh? Want some warm milk?” He nodded towards the stove where a saucepan of milk had started to bubble up. “Or would you prefer another shot of what’s good for you?”

Harry Webster pointed towards the remnants of the whisky and I covered my mouth with my hands in a throwing-up mime. He got the idea.

“Hot milk it is then.”

He had to do that. Always making decisions for other people. Always in charge. It was one of the things I found hard to take about him.

He put a forefinger to his lips urgently. I got it. I wasn’t that hammered. I was supposed to be quiet.
What now
?

He nudged me towards the backdoor and picked up a heavy duty fire poker from a companion set beside the Aga.

“What?” I whispered.

“There’s some bastard in my house.” He unlocked the backdoor and we went outside into the freezing, dark night.

As far as I knew there were lots of us in his house. Me, his wife, the kids, Alice, David, an English Setter - the list went on. His grip on the poker tightened and we both stood still behind the scullery door, waiting. For what? I didn’t know. But he seemed to.

“There’s a loose floorboard in the parlour. One of the jobs I been meaning to get round to.”

“Yeah?” I couldn’t see him as a man who put things off. But maybe with the kids’ arrival he’d been busy doing other stuff.

“We’re all used to where it is now. Step around it. It’s a habit. One the bastard invading my property hasn’t had time to acquire,” he said angrily.

“But it could be Alice or David,” I said, and looked at the poker in his hand.

“I’ve got good hearing. There wasn’t a sound before the squeak of that floorboard. If it was either of your friends, d’you think they’d try and cover up their movements like that?”

“Maybe not.” But I wasn’t convinced.

“Did you hear that?”

He was hearing noises in his head. I hadn’t heard a thing.

“Sounds like there’s two of them,” he said with conviction. “Right, you go round the front. Key’s under the flat rock by the door. Get to the telephone, punch number four on the presets and get Andy Patterson down here. Tell him to bring one of the lads with him. Quick as you can, girl!” he said, when I didn’t move.

“But the phone’s in the parlour,” I blurted. “Isn’t that where we think he is?”

“Use the telephone on the hall table. Just inside the porch. Now get moving!”

Shit, giving orders again, back in the reins. Ex-army. They never shrug it off. I wasn’t in his damn regiment. And I wasn’t even convinced there was anybody inside. Still . . .

I edged my way around the side of the house, holding my breath, my shoulders hunched rigid with tension. I tried to be quiet but the crunch of my feet on the gravel was amplified in the stillness of the night. I fought the urge to run, to get to the front door in one quick burst, but instinctively knew that I shouldn’t.

My hand shook as I turned the key in the front door lock and I tried to shake off the image of someone waiting behind it, ready to bludgeon me with some sort of heavy weapon. I found the telephone table easily enough for I fell into it, and figured that if an intruder hadn’t heard the noise as well, his hearing aid needed an up-grade. I struggled to find the right preset in the dim wash of light coming from the security bulb outside.

I waited for Andy Patterson to pick up and thought about his lads. About how useful (or not) they might be. They were probably just as old as he was. And a picture flipped into my mind of the CID guys Jamie had called lads and the ferocious way they had fought with Kabak’s goons. Maybe this lot would be as good. Sure!

A yell from the back of the house made me drop the phone just as it connected with the police, and I bolted out the front door. I met my stepfather trailing someone along the rough ground by the scruff of the neck. He threw the man unceremoniously into the step-well. 

The faint light gave the man an eerie, ghostlike appearance, but there was no mistaking who it was. It was Bill, my ex-husband, and his stark white face made the crimson colour of the blood already caking on his head and neck stand out dramatically. The grin on Harry Webster’s face was quickly replaced by something else. A look of slight regret and a grunt that might have been pain. Then the man keeled over on top of his victim.

I put my head closer to his for he was muttering something.

“Can you believe it? The bastard stuck a knife in me. Hardly playing the game, eh?” He smiled again and I recoiled in horror as he reached for my hand and placed it on the sticky red substance that covered the side of his pyjama jacket. “Press your hand down hard on it, girl. Keep the pressure up. Wouldn’t want to get blood all over mother’s clean step, would we?”

Getting my kids ready for school. It wasn’t something I’d had to do lately. And it was a pleasant oasis after a night that had rivalled the horrors of the Black Museum. But some kind of normality had to cobbled together, not only for the children’s sake, but for all of us.

We’d agreed to tell Millie and Tom that their grandfather had been taken ill during the night and was now in Ayr hospital, recuperating. “Getting better,” I told Tom when he asked me what that meant. And I genuinely hoped it was true. No vital organs had been damaged. But the man was old, and he’d lost blood and then there was the shock thing.

I found myself cheering for the home team of Harry Webster. It was an about-face that was probably overdue. Not that I was his number one fan. I still had to work my way through the grief he’d caused me with his rough and ready parenting that had more in common with an army boot-camp than a kindergarten. I had been a shy kid who needed a confidence boost from time to time, rather than a size ten army boot.

“Was there blood?” asked Tom.

“What?”

“You’re supposed to say pardon.” He gave me a high-handed look.

“What?”

“Grandma says we’re supposed to say
pardon
. Saying
what
is rude,” explained Millie patiently.

Shit. I’d come up short again. Here was me trying to keep my kids well adjusted in the face of divorce, turmoil, punches in the face, lack of funds, lack of time to spend with them – when all I really needed was a book on etiquette.
Ignore me. It’s just the dregs of bitterness rising to the surface. I’ll be better soon. It’s been a hard night.

“Fine.” I said, trying to sound like it really was. But my kids weren’t stupid. “Grandma’s right,” I told them. “Good manners never hurt.” (No, only if you tried to say pardon in the school playground and somebody ten pounds heavier decided to deck you).

“Well – was there blood?”

“Blood thirsty little toad.” I laughed. My son had always been able to do that. Make me laugh. “No. No blood,” I lied, and hoped none had actually made its way onto my mother’s clean doorstep.

I didn’t tell them about their father. He’d never been much of a father anyway. His condition was a bit more uncertain. Cerebral Contusion. A bruise within the actual brain tissue. When Harry Webster clobbers someone over the head with a poker they stay down. One more point for the home team.

“Right, you guys. Time for school. You can show me around.”

Tom puffed out his chest. “I will. I’m in charge.”

Men’s work! I marvelled at the way even at the tender age of six, Tom saw his place in the Universe as being above the female of the species. It wasn’t something he’d learned from me. But you can’t fight City Hall, I suppose.

He led the way down the hill. Millie gave his retreating back a look of disgust and took my hand. An all-girls-together gesture. A protest against the world of boys, brothers in particular. She threw her eyes skywards and puffed out in exasperation, to make sure I got it. I got it.

I was given the fifty-cent tour. A small school with only seventy-odd pupils. It was impressive and the quality and commitment of the staff obvious. I don’t know what I was expecting. I suppose the contrariness in me was hoping for something lacking, something that would make them anxious to get back to their own school. But the kids loved it.

“I’m in the football team,” boasted Tom. “In goal.”

“An important job,” I agreed.

“Yeah. See!” He threw a cocky look at his sister. And I hoped I hadn’t widened the sister/brother gap another inch or two.

“Well –
I’m
on the student council. Almost everybody in my class voted for me. So there,” said Millie. “And I’m a Deputy House Captain.”

“That’s boring stuff,” said Tom, “I wouldn’t want to do any of those stupid things.”

“Hey, steady on you two. I’m really, really proud of both of you.”

Pride? My chest swelled with it. A child of mine on the Student Council, a Deputy House Captain and a member of the school football team. I couldn’t wait to share the news with Alice. I couldn’t stop smiling. It balanced out the bad stuff that had gone down lately.

I’d always tried to resist the temptation of boring others with my children’s achievements. To be cool. But right now I felt like broadcasting Millie and Tom’s success from the roof tops. Other people showed off about their kids, but I rarely did. Oh I told
them
I was proud of them, but it always seemed a step too far to boast about it to others. Maybe Alice was right. Maybe at times I could be a right stick-in-the-mud-tight-arse.

I said goodbye to the kids and made my way back up to the house. It was a fifteen minute walk, plenty of time for brooding. But all I did was enjoy the scenery and try to relax. All that without a single Diazepam. I was feeling stronger, confident, optimistic, ready to face the challenges the day would bring. And there would be several. My mother was a different woman. I’d watched her crumble before my eyes last night. But I’d do what I had to, to get her through it.

When I got back Sergeant Patterson was there, making his second visit of the day. The man had been a surprise; instead of my Brigadoon cut-out he’d turned out to be a no-nonsense, competent and articulate copper. He’d just come from the hospital where my stepfather was making slight progress and had asked to see both me and my mother.

The assailant on the other hand (that would be Bill) was still in a critical condition and hadn’t regained consciousness. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I didn’t exactly rub my hands in glee which would have been uncivilised. But then the guy had given me a bloody nose, stolen my money, left me to pay the mortgage by myself and was a crook. Some sort of payback was due.

“Got somebody coming up from the Met,” Sergeant Patterson said. “
Liaison
, they’re calling it. That’s fancy talk for stealing our case.”

“Taking your prisoner back, is he?” I asked, showing I had a grip on the situation.

“He’ll have to take him back in a handcart. The bloke’s brain is swelling up like a watermelon.”

I assumed this wasn’t the official medical diagnosis.

“We’ll need a statement from you,” he said.

“Sure.”

“Harry’s already given his. Short but to the point. You know Harry.”

I nodded. I didn’t, but maybe it wasn’t too late to fix that.

“You know that Bill’s my ex-husband,” I said.

“Harry told me. Commiserations. He seems a bit of a rat, if you don’t mind me saying so.” He nodded towards my face where the purples and blues had now progressed to a yellowish brown colour. “If someone did that to me, I’d want to see him where he belongs – behind bars. The Met has a long sheet on him, but I figure he’s on my territory now. And sticking a knife in one of our respected citizens isn’t something we’ll let him get away with. Harry’s a good man. Straight talking. No frills. Does his bit for the community without gabbing on about it. We could do with more like him.”

“Sounds like you’re friends.”

“Aye. We play poker together. But I’d never let friendship interfere with the job. You want me to run his missus and you into Ayr?”

“That’s kind but I wouldn’t mind the drive myself. Give me something else to think about,” I said.

“Gotcha.” He smiled. It was a natural, full beamed version that opened up his whole face. And I thought then that maybe I hadn’t been far out in my estimation of him. Jovial, with a smile that made you feel better. It reminded me of somebody else. Jamie.

*

“I’ve been thinking about the carving.”

We were alone. My mother had finally left his side and gone to get us both some tea from the visitors’ cafeteria - two volunteers in their eighties, an ancient tea urn, and assorted packets of biscuits. But you took solace where it was offered and it was better than nothing.

“Yes?”

“The size of it’s all wrong, and it’s heavier than it should be, and larger. Look inside,” he said.

“But there is no inside. It’s a solid block.”

“Maybe. Get David to put it up on my vice. Use my chisel on it.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Run your finger along the side of it. Feel for some kind of indent or a ridge maybe.”

“Ah.”

“There you go. I always said you had potential.” He laughed and it started a wracking cough.

“You need to rest.”

“Okay. But you go and look for that join.”

I left my mother nodding off in a chair by his bedside. She looked more relaxed and actually smiled in her sleep. They were holding hands. The tableau fascinated me and I kept it in my head on the way back to Maidens. Alice was right, the bloke wasn’t good at touchy-feely stuff, but there was something sweet and innocent about the picture that made me question my previous notions.

Maybe the pair really did love each other. The axis in my head gave another tiny shunt and I gave up trying to figure it out and moved on to what I would cook everyone for dinner. I’d promised my mother I’d pick up the reins. The household wouldn’t run the way it did in her hands, but I guess we’d survive.

My mobile blasted out the theme from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. I juggled with finding a safe spot to pull over, tugging the phone out of my jacket pocket, and fumbling for neutral on the car’s alien automatic transmission.

“Yep?”

“That you, Jillian?”

“It is.”

“We need to talk.” The tone was professional, but there was a cold edge to Emily Thomson’s voice that flagged up some kind of situation.

I hadn’t thought about work for a while, but of course this limbo I’d been living in couldn’t go on. Not in the normal, well-ordered world outside of my disaster-ridden bubble.

“Okay,” I said.

There was a short silence, no longer than a heartbeat. But it was significant, like someone trying to get their script right before reciting something, well –
significant
. I jumped in before she had the chance.

“Look Emily, I’m really sorry. I should have been in touch.”

“Yes you should! I think I’ve been more than understanding. But frankly, Jillian, this has run on far too long. I gave you a few weeks, but you’ve presumed on my good nature. Candidly - I’m surprised and not a little disappointed.”

Good God. That was a real bollocking, coming from Emily. I’d never heard her get so close to anger.

It threw me.

“Well, haven’t you anything to say? Some sort of excuse?”

Dear Lord. Now anything I said would sound like an excuse.

“I thought not.” She seemed to make up her mind about something. “Well, I’m afraid I’ve had to rethink the deputy position. I’m giving the job to someone else, hopefully someone more reliable. I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I couldn’t just wait on your whim.”

My whim? What did she think? That I’d been swanning around the Med. Why is life so bloody unfair? It just gangs up on you. More reliable? There were times when I’d twisted myself inside-out to be reliable. To cover for people who were sick, to do things that weren’t in my job description.

She was waiting for some sort of reaction, but I couldn’t beg for the job. I’d never been sure that I even wanted it. And now, with the extra cash that my mother had given me, did I need it?

But what about my old job? I liked my classes. Mostly liked the students. Enjoyed the cut and thrust of debate when it came, and the analysis. The passing on of knowledge.

“Jillian, are you still there?”

I wasn’t going to crawl. And tell her everything that had happened. Would anyone believe it anyway? It was more like fiction than real life.

“My father’s ill,” I mumbled lamely. Did I say father? Well, obviously Emily’s tirade had thrown me. But I rolled the word around in my head. Father – it didn’t feel too odd.

“I see.” She sighed.

But of course she didn’t
. And I felt hard done by. Pissed off, to tell the truth. It was obvious she didn’t believe me.

“I’ve got to stay and look after my mother. She’s pretty shaken up. Upset – you know? Bit off kilter.” Why the hell was I explaining myself?

“She’s not the only one. I don’t know what your plans are, Jillian.” There was a slight emphasis on the Jillian. “But if you want to carry on teaching in my department you’ll have to get your priorities clear.”

Her voice vanished. Had she put the phone down on me? I pushed the off button on my mobile. It wasn’t a classy one. No bells or whistles. No Apps, no Androids, not even an Internet connection, just your basic pay-as-you-go handset that made phone calls. (My aim had been to keep life uncomplicated!) I couldn’t believe I’d made such a pathetic job of the call. I taught communication, but couldn’t communicate. If I’d been in her position, I don’t think I’d have believed me.

Get my priorities clear, she’d said. And maybe she was right.

I gnawed on it the rest of the way back to the village. But the more I thought about the future, the more confused I became, until I got to the house and Millie came rushing out to meet me. What did it matter where I went, what job I did? As long as my kids were with me, were safe and happy and well adjusted. The rest would sort itself out.