Dancing in the Dark (3 page)

Yet she’d been so lovely! I recalled the wedding photo on the mantelpiece in the lounge, the bride tall, willowy and girlish, the fitted lace dress clinging to her slim, perfect figure, though her face was wistful, rather sad, as if she’d been able to see into the future and knew what fate had in store for her. Her hair was long and straight, gleaming in the sunshine of her wedding day, turning under slightly at the ends as mine and Trudy’s did. Declan and Alison had curly hair. None of us had taken after our father, with his swarthy good looks and bitter chocolate eyes. Perhaps that’s why he’d never liked us much; four children and not one in his image.

The back door opened and my brother came in. “Hi, Sis. Long time no see.” He aimed a pretend punch at my stomach and I aimed one back. “That’s a nice frock. Dark colours suit you.” He fingered the material. “What would you call that green?”

Declan had always been interested in his sisters’ clothes, which infuriated our father who called him a cissy, and had done his brutal best to make a man out of him.

“Olive, I think. It was terribly cheap.”

“It was terribly cheap!”” Declan repeated, with an impish grin. “You don’t half talk posh these days, Mill. I’d be ashamed to take you to the pub.”

A shout came from the lounge. “Is that you, Declan?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“You’re only just in time,” the voice said pointedly.

Declan winked at me. He was twenty, a tall, lanky boy with a sensitive face and an infectious smile, always cheerful. He was currently working as a labourer on a demolition site, which seemed an entirely unsuitable job for someone who looked as if a feather would knock him down. I often wondered why he still lived at home and assumed it was for Mum’s sake. He shouted, “Scotty met this smashing bitch. I had a job getting him home. I forgot to take his lead.”

“Where is Scotty?”

“In the garden.”

I went outside to say hello to the little black dog that vaguely resembled a Scotch terrier. “You’re an oversexed ruffian.” I laughed as the rough hairy body bounced up and down to greet me.

A car stopped outside, and seconds later two small children came hurtling down the side of the house. I picked up Scotty and held him like a shield as Melanie and Jake launched themselves at me.

“Leave your aunt Millie alone!” Trudy shouted. “I’ve told you before, she doesn’t like kids.” She beamed. “Hi, Sis. I’ve painted you another bottle.”

“Hi, Trude. I’d love another bottle. Hello, Colin.”

Colin Daley was a stocky, quiet man, who worked long into the night six days a week in his one-man engineering company. He was doing well: he and Trudy had already sold their first house and bought a bigger one in Orrell Park. I sensed he didn’t like me much. He’d got on well with Gary and perhaps he thought I neglected my family, left too much to Trudy. During the week, she often came over to Kirkby with the children. He nodded in my direction. “Hello, there.”

“Do you really not like kids?” Jake enquired gravely

He was six, two years older than his sister, a happy little boy with Colin’s blue eyes. Both Trudy’s children were happy—she’d made sure of that.

“I like you two,” I lied. As kids went they weren’t bad, but talking to them got on my nerves. I hugged Scotty, who was licking my ear. I would have had a dog of my own if I hadn’t spent so much time at work.

Jake looked at me doubtfully. “Honest?”

“Cross my heart.”

We all went indoors. Mum shrieked, “C’mon, you little rascals, and give your gran a hug.” The children allowed themselves to be kissed, then they cried, “Where’s Grandad?”

“In the lounge.”

Mum looked wistful as Melanie and Jake whooped their way into the other room. She said, “They’ve got a thing about their grandad.”

“I know.” It was strange that Trudy’s children adored the man who’d once nearly killed their mother. She still bore a scar from his belt buckle above her left eyebrow.

When I went in Trudy was standing in the lounge, hovering near her children who were sitting on their grandad’s knee. I noticed her eyes flicker to the big hands, one resting on each child’s waist. We looked at each other in mutual understanding.

As usual, the meal was revolting. The mound of mashed potatoes, watery cabbage and stewing steak on my plate made me feel nauseous. “I’ll never eat all this, Mum,” I protested. “I asked you not to give me much.”

“You look as if you need a decent meal, luv. There’s a nice apple charlotte for afters.”

It’s a sin to waste good food,” my father said jovially.

I caught Trudy’s eye and Declan hid a grin. The final Sunday of the month was a day for catching eyes and making faces. Odd phrases brought back bitter memories: “It’s a sin to waste good food,” was not said so lightly in those days.

On the surface, it was a civilised gathering, occasionally merry, a family united for Sunday lunch, except for Alison, of course. But I always felt on tenterhooks, as if I were watching someone blowing up a balloon, bigger and bigger until it was about to burst. Perhaps it was just me. Perhaps no one else remembered how Colin detested his father-in-law, how nervous Mum was, what Sunday dinner used to be like when we were little. Even now, I was still terrified that I would drop food on the tablecloth and that a nicotine-stained hand would reach across and slap my face, so hard that tears would come to my eyes, even though I’d sworn at an early age never to let him see me cry.

The conversation had turned to Auntie Flo. “We were friendly for a while before I married your dad,” Mum said. “I went to her flat in Toxteth a few times, though your gran never knew.” She turned to me. “Actually, Millicent, that’s where you come in.”

“What’s Auntie Flo got to do with me?”

“Your gran wants her place cleared before the rent runs out, otherwise the landlord might chuck everything away.”

“Why ask me?” I could think of few less welcome things to do than clear out the belongings of an old lady I hadn’t known. “Why not you or Gran or Trudy? What about that woman you mentioned, the one who rang?”

Mum looked hurt. “It’s not much to ask, luv. I can’t do it because . . . ” she paused uncomfortably “ . . . well, your dad’s not very keen on the idea. Gran’s too upset, she’s taken Flo’s death hard. Anyroad, she never goes out nowadays.”

“And Trudy’s already got enough to do,” Colin growled.

“As for the woman who rang, she’s just someone who lives upstairs. We don’t want a stranger going through Auntie Flo’s precious things, do we?”

“What precious things?” I noticed my father’s fists clench. I reminded myself that he could do nothing to me now. I could say what I liked. “I don’t know what she did for a living, but I can’t imagine Auntie Flo having acquired many precious things.”

“She worked in a launderette till she retired.” For a moment, Mum looked nonplussed. Then she went on eagerly, “But there’ll be papers, luv, letters perhaps, odds and ends of jewellery your gran would like. The clothes can go to one of those charity shops, Oxfam. I’m sure you’ll find someone to take the furniture, and if there’s anything nice, I wouldn’t mind it meself. Declan knows a lad who has a van.”

I tried to think of a way of getting out of it. My mother was looking at me pleadingly, her pasty face slightly moist. She would probably thoroughly enjoy going through the flat, but Dad had put his foot down for some reason, not that he’d ever needed a reason in the past. The mere fact that Mum wanted to do something was enough. Maybe I could get it done in a few hours if I went armed with several cardboard boxes. I had one last try. “I’ve always avoided Toxteth like the plague. It’s full of drugs and crime. People get murdered there, shot.”

Mum looked concerned. “Oh, well, if that’s—” she began, but my father butted in, “Your auntie Flo lived there for over fifty years without coming to any harm.”

It seemed I had no choice. “Oh, all right,” I said reluctantly. “When’s the rent due?”

“I’ve no idea.” Mum looked relieved. “The woman upstairs will know. Mrs Smith, her name is, Charmian Smith.”

“Don’t forget to give me the address before I go.”

“I won’t, luv. I’ll ring and tell Gran later. She’ll be pleased.”

After the meal was over and the dishes washed, Trudy produced the bottle she’d painted for me. It was exquisite, an empty wine bottle transformed into a work of art.

The glass was covered with roses and dark green leaves edged with gold.

“It’s beautiful!” I breathed, holding it up to the light.

“I’m not sure where to put it. The other one’s in the bedroom.”

“I’ll do you another,” Trudy offered. “I’m running out of people to give them to.”

“I suggested she have a stall in a craft market,” Colin said proudly. “I could look after the kids if it was a Sunday.”

I waved the bottle in support. “That’s a great idea, Trude. You’d pay ten pounds for this in a shop.”

“Millicent.” Mum came sidling up. “Have you got much to do this afternoon?”

I was immediately wary. “I’m in the middle of a report.”

“It’s just I’d like to go and see Alison.”

“Can’t you go yourself?” The only reason she’d learned to drive was so she could visit Alison in the home.

“There’s something wrong with the car. Your dad promised to get it fixed but he never got round to it.”

He’d probably not got round to it deliberately. He would prefer to think his youngest child didn’t exist.

“Sorry, Mum. As I said, I’ve got this report to write.”

“We’ll take you, luv.” Colin must have overheard. “It’s a couple of weeks since we saw Alison.”

Mum looked grateful. “That’s nice of you, Colin, but there’s nothing for Melanie and Jake to do. They get fed up within the first five minutes.”

“You can leave the kids here with me,” my father offered.

“No, thanks,” Trudy said, much too quickly.

“I’ll take them for a walk once we get there, and you and Trudy can stay with Alison,” Colin said.

In the midst of this discussion, I went upstairs to the lavatory. The bathroom, like everywhere else in the house, reeked of poverty, the linoleum cracked and crumbling, the plastic curtains faded. I was well into my teens before I discovered we were relatively well-off—or should have been. My father’s wages as a toolmaker were high, but the family saw little of the money. He’d been a betting man all his life and a consistent loser.

As usual, I couldn’t wait to be back in my own place. I felt guilty for refusing to visit Alison, pity for my mother, angry that the pity made me turn up for the monthly get-togethers then guilty again, knowing that I would get out of coming if I could. When Stock Masterton had begun to open on Sundays, I’d hoped that would provide a good excuse, but George, a workaholic, insisted on looking after the office himself with the help of a part-timer.

After saying goodbye, I went outside to the car. Several boys were playing football in the road, and someone had written “Fuck off in black felt pen on the side of my yellow Polo. I was rubbing it off with my handkerchief when Trudy came out with the children. She ushered them into the back of the family’s old Sierra and came over to me. ‘Thank the Lord that’s over for another month.’

“You can say that again!”

“I can’t get me head round this kindly old grandfather shit.” Absent-mindedly she rubbed the scar over her left eyebrow.

“I suppose we should be thankful for small mercies.”

Trudy regarded me keenly. “You okay, Sis? You look a bit pale.”

“Mum said that. I’m fine, been working hard, that’s all.” I eyed the car. I’d got most of it off and what was left wasn’t legible. “Look, Sis, I’m sorry about Alison,” I said in a rush, “but I really have got work to do.”

Trudy pressed my arm. She glanced at the house where we’d grown up. “I feel as if I’d like to drive away and never have to see another member of me family again, but we’re trapped, aren’t we? I don’t know if I could bear it without Colin.”

As I started the car, I noticed that the house opposite had been boarded up, although children had broken down the door and were playing in the hallway. There was a rusty car without wheels in the front garden. As I drove away, the sun seemed to darken, although there wasn’t a cloud to be seen. Unexpectedly, I felt overwhelmed by a sense of alienation. Where do I belong? I wondered, frightened. Not here, please not here! Yet I’d been born in a tower block less than a mile from this spot, where nowadays Gran lived like a prisoner: Martha Colquitt rarely left home since she’d been mugged for her pension five years ago. My own flat in Blundellsands was a pretence, more like a stage set than a proper home, and I was a fake. I couldn’t understand what James saw in me, or why George Masterton was my friend. I was putting on an act, I wasn’t real.

And what would James think if he met my slovenly mother and chain-smoking father, and if I told him about my brutal childhood? What would he say if he knew I had a sister with severe learning difficulties who’d been in a home since she was three, safely out of my father’s way?

A scene flashed through my mind, of my father slapping Alison, knocking her pretty little face first one way then the other, trying to make her stop saying that same word over and over again. “Slippers,” Alison would mutter, in her dull monotone. “Slippers, slippers, slippers.” She said it still, when agitated, although she was seventeen now.

Even if I were in love with James, we could never marry, not with all the family baggage I had in tow. I reminded myself that I didn’t want to get married again, that I wasn’t capable of falling in love. I belonged nowhere and to nobody.

Nevertheless, I had an urgent desire to see James. He was calling for me at seven. I looked forward to losing myself in empty talk, good food, wine. He would bring me home and we would make love and all that business with my family would be forgotten, until the time came for me to go again. Except, that is, for the dreams, from which I would never escape.

It wasn’t until Thursday that I managed to get to Toxteth. James had tickets for a jazz concert at the Philharmonic Hall on Monday night, which I had forgotten about. Tuesday, I’d promised to go to dinner with Diana Riddick, a colleague from the office whom I’d never particularly got on with, but then few people did.