Bloody Mary (21 page)

Darren poured the refreshing beer down his throat thirstily, the rolls having dried his mouth. “She couldn’t stand the woman, hated her. She’ll be pleased if anything. You never know, she might actually raise a smile for once.”

It wasn’t a smile, so much, more an air of dismissal, when Darren told her the news. He didn’t mention the letter, that might provoke an argument, telling her he’d heard the news from an old friend from England. It didn’t occur to her to question anything, why a friend in England would phone Darren at his parents to tell him news about a woman nobody had reason to link her or Darren with, it wasn’t important to her. She continued to caress her stretched belly with a tender hand, relishing the baby’s movements underneath her skin. “She meant nothing to me, she was crazy anyway.”

The first week after her death, Harry had stayed rooted in his house, not able to face the world, trying to clear his head of ‘what ifs’ and ‘if only’s before he braved visiting the building his wife had taken her last steps in.

I was pleased to see him, yet feigned shock when he told me that the woman I’d ‘heard’ about on the grapevine that had fallen to death outside my flat had, in fact, been Beryl. I hastened to the kitchen to make him a strong mug of tea, after ensuring he was seated comfortably, blanket over his knees to ward off the biting cold of the unheated room. Over the ensuing conversation, both of us warming our hands with the steaming cups, we both came to the conclusion that Beryl must have come to visit me on the fated night for some reason. So near, yet so far, as her life had been stolen so viciously moments away from the safety of my home. I felt victorious, although, obviously, I couldn’t share that.

Harry, a traditional man with a very British ‘stiff upper lip’ had kept his tears in check, but I made sure mine ran copiously as I listened to the grief in his voice, holding his hand gently in mine.

After several hours of reminiscing about Beryl’s life, her personality, achievements, woes, Harry brought the meeting to an end when I offered him a meal, telling me his appetite hadn’t returned since he’d received the terrible news. I knew he’d be back, it was a dreadful situation, but one that would bring us closer, of that I was certain. Harry was going to need a friendly face to talk to, and I could give him the tenderness only a woman could issue when holding a hand, or patting his back. I knew that the more he burdened me with his grief, the more he would come to rely on my company. As I waved him goodbye along the balcony where his wife had taken her final steps, I knew I was winning the game, the way was clear for me and Harold, it was just a matter of time before I could leave the cold, featureless flat for the luxurious semi I’d spent the most comfortable two months of my life in. Only this time, I would be the lady of the house. Poor Beryl.

The funeral was a tidy, intimate affair. Beryl had been, apart from her children who didn’t bear her maiden surname, Shillaw, the last in the line of her family, so the only people who attended were Harry, me, which would have made her turn in her coffin, Steve, Alan, and the very few close friends she’d had. It was a distressing occasion anyway, but rendered even more upsetting to see how, with her life extinguished, very few people actually cared about the woman.

Every single member of the mourners was disgusted that her daughter, once close, hadn’t bothered to attend. It was a much discussed matter at the private wake held in the home she’d once run with utmost efficiency, now gathering dust with Harry’s hapless attempts at cleaning. He, ever the optimist, had reasoned that Sophie would be in the latter trimester of her pregnancy, but even he had to admit that the absence of a wreath, a card, in fact, no contact at all, showed the utmost cruelty. However, he knew his daughter too well and in the back of his mind he could see that something was amiss with life in Mallorca.

The few guests gradually tailed off, leaving crumb laden plates over the tables, and used glasses in every nook and cranny, and Harry, with only me and Steve left for company, began the arduous task of clearing the clutter away.

Steve was drying the crockery, Harry washing, whilst I, slimmer and fitter than I’d been since my teenage years scoured the surfaces around the house for the hidden dishes and glasses. “How are you feeling, Dad?”

He emitted a long, drawn out sigh, his persona deflated. “I don’t know, son. When I married your mum, it never occurred to me that I’d face my older years alone. We were to be with each other forever. There’s a part of me that’s died with her, but at my age I know I could have so many years ahead of me, and that’s what I have to work out. How I change my life now.”

“Why don’t you move in with me?”

Steve regretted the question instantly, relieved when his father rejected it. “No, you’re a grown man, you need your privacy. And, come to it, so do I. Anyway, this place holds thirty years of memories of your mother, I’m not ready to let that go.”

I had heard the final comment as I brought a tray full of empties through, setting them on the worktop beside the sink. “Of course you’re not, Harry, but you’re not doing so well on keeping the place clean.” I saw Harry balk having seen the minimal housekeeping that I applied to my own flat, although he couldn’t deny that since I’d moved back in, the junk hadn’t piled up so much. Maybe it was because all the rubbish, hoarded over many years, had burned, I guessed he was thinking, but didn’t really care. “I could make a suggestion.” Both men continued with their tasks, both listening. “I could move in, take Sophie’s old room again, and look after the housework. I mean, I wouldn’t ask for payment, just board, food. At least you’d have company that way.”

Steve’s comment was instant. “No, I don’t think Dad’s ready for that yet.”

Harry slowly laid the plate he was cleaning back into the water, thoughtful. “You know, I think that might be a very good idea.”

Darren had never met anybody as impulsive and wild as Vicki, she intrigued him, and he was smitten. Their late night sex sessions had become more frequent, and he’d definitely become hooked enough to spend the entire night with her, rather than leaving in the early hours to crawl into bed with his hefty, miserable wife. She made no move or suggestion to commit, but he knew she wanted more than just a shag every couple of days. When she suggested moving in with him, giving up the costly flat she could barely afford on her low wage, he had to finally admit his marital status.

She was stunned. “You’re married! And it didn’t occur to you to tell me before!”

Darren hated being put on the spot, he stomped to the fridge in Vicki’s pocket-sized kitchen area, an offshoot of the open plan living area, and dragged out the vodka bottle, and a carton of orange juice, already inebriated from the night of drinking at Blakes Bar. He poured them a generous tumbler full each, the dose of vodka exceeding the mixer, and brought them to the table. Sitting, he put his arm across her shoulders, and she pulled away, still outraged. “Babes, it’s an awkward situation. We’re not married in the conventional sense any more, that stopped months ago, but she’s expecting my baby and…”

“A fucking baby!” She was incredulous. “A wife and a bloody baby in one foul swoop! Darren Delaney, you are so, so history. Piss off back to wifey, I’m over this.” Vicki stood, firmly pointing at the door.

He remained seated. “Vicki, look, my son’s due in two months, once she’s had him, I’m leaving her. I don’t love her any more, in fact maybe I never did, I certainly didn’t feel about her the way I feel about you. You’re spontaneous, you’re fun, you live life to the full, no rules, no regulations. Sophie’s not…”

“Sophie is it? Fucking bitch!”

“Vicki, she’s too staid for me, she hates going out, she’s let herself go, she’s just not…” He tailed off, choosing his words but coming up with nothing better. “She’s just not you.”

Vicki knocked the ball of her hand against her forehead, marching across the room, trying to digest the situation. She knew she’d fallen for Darren Delaney, he was so much fun, such a laugh, especially after a few beers. He was handsome, hard-working, kept her exceedingly happy in bed. But he was married. And he was about to be a father. Her debating ceased instantly as he wrapped his arms about her, warm, comfortable, loving, protective. Reciprocating his kiss, lips not leaving lips, they shuffled back to the bedroom.

Sophie lay in the marital bed, alone, as was the norm nowadays. Every night Darren would leave for the bar after finishing the meal she prepared for him, having a shower, and overdoing the aftershave. Sometimes he’d be back before midnight, sometimes he’d stay until the early hours, reeking of an unfamiliar perfume. It was obvious he was having an affair, but she had no interest in him, in sex with him, in being with him. Her love for him had waned to nothing since the day he’d hit her knowing she was pregnant. In her mind she’d excused him throwing her down the stairs, assuming he wouldn’t have been so vicious if he’d known about the unborn child, but the second beating, and failure to apologise, had rooted deeply into her psyche.

It was a rotten situation to consider, what to do. She wasn’t the type of person who would tolerate adultery, so she knew the marriage was over, there wasn’t a chance of reconciliation even once the baby arrived and her sex-hating hormones diminished. Divorce wasn’t a word she’d have ever considered before, but anything had to be better than this farce of a partnership. But at the moment the money he brought in was necessary to keep her going. Once the child was born, she’d be able to get herself a job, it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t high-powered business like she’d dealt with in England: waitressing, shop work, cooking. It didn’t matter. With no mortgage, the only money she’d need to earn would be enough to put food on the table for her and the baby, enough to pay the bills. But for now, for the next two or three months, Darren had to be there.

The level of boredom and loneliness having risen to fever pitch within her, Sophie had stopped consulting the pregnancy manual she’d brought with her, and she excused her daily litre of
vino Espanol tinto
, a ridiculously cheap beverage if purchased by the carton, as a necessity, that it wouldn’t be bad for the baby because red wine was good for the heart. Wasn’t it? The baby kicked and punched for England, flitting about, turning and twisting, so it was obviously healthy. Anyway, one carton an evening seemed acceptable.

Darren, needlessly, had continued his verbal abuse, attempting to drain her soul of any confidence, but she let the words float over her head, not listening, not believing. The only snipe that continued to strike a chord was that her family hadn’t been in touch, he insisted it was because they didn’t want to know her any more. In the past few months she’d thought of them many times, the lies they led her to believe in her growing years, her adult years, but she’d also seen it from their perspective, and had found herself ready to forgive. She resolved to call her father at work the next day, once Darren left for the substantial, and lucrative, building project he was working on.

The call was futile, the receptionist advising her that Harold Waller had retired, and Pat Walton, his secretary, had decided she was too long in the tooth to get used to the quirks of a new boss, so had taken early retirement at the same time. Sophie searched high and low for her address book, unable to remember her parent’s number, or her brother’s, neither numbers having been dialled for such a long time, oblivious that Darren had discarded it with the rubbish before moving. She no longer had any contact details on her mobile phone, she’d failed to transfer them out of anger when Darren had presented her with a Spanish mobile to replace her English one. The only detail she could remember were their addresses, she would have to write to them and pray they’d respond.

It was mid-April, a wonderful spring day, the sun shining its merry beams in the cloudless sky, daffodils, tulips, unopened blooms of iris’s and lilies, swaying in the gentle breeze, cheering England’s soul. I had settled into Harry’s home with ease, and, although I was still sleeping in the spare room, we were becoming closer by the day, he relying on me for company and housekeeping, me relishing the beautiful semi and abundant money his healthy pension brought in. The house was kept so clean it was bordering on sterile, belying the clutter and junk that had riddled my flat, and I’d proved myself to be a wonderful, and inventive, chef.

The icing on the cake for both Harry and me was the re-invention of myself I’d worked so hard to achieve. A combination of the gym membership, regimentally visited three times a week, and a healthy, low-fat diet, had left me with a figure to be enviable of considering my age, and the fact I’d delivered five children out of four pregnancies in my years. And now I had access to Harry’s money, the clothes I wore were fitted, good quality, an utter contrast to the scruffy rags I’d previously worn due to poverty and hopelessness. I’d transformed into a handsome woman, and we were both enjoying our lives with each other.

With his new, comfortable routine, he took the broadsheet newspaper, which was delivered daily, to the living room, and settled peacefully in his armchair, languidly taking his time reading from cover to cover, a hot mug of tea sipped slowly. I busied myself in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal in advance, stopping only to answer the front door to the postman, who presented me with a package. I was curious, I glanced at the writing and it was addressed to Harry, but I noted the postmark:
Espaňa
. Excited, my heart almost ceasing to beat, I ran through to Harry, flourishing the parcel.

Hearing the news, he threw the newspaper on the floor, grabbing the brown paper and tearing at it. A bunch of photographs, wrapped neatly with an elastic band, toppled onto his lap, and he unfolded the enclosed letter. “Yes! It’s from Sophie.”

“What does she have to say? Oh, I can’t wait to tell Alan!” Although Alan and Steve were enjoying making up for lost time with their brotherly relationship, the latter had been irked with my obvious attempts to replace his mother in his former childhood home, and he had ceased to be a regular visitor, regardless that I made his father happy.