Dancing in the Dark (50 page)

On the way back to the office, Oliver said, “By the way, you mentioned the Naughtons. Mr Naughton rang this morning to say they’ve withdrawn from the house in Childwall. They parked outside for several nights. Apparently, there’s several teenagers next door, belting music out till all hours, which they find totally unacceptable—it would seem the neighbours they have now are darn near perfect.”

Despite everything, I couldn’t help laughing. The talk with Oliver had done me good. I even felt a tiny bit flattered. Diana might well have had the upper hand at the moment but, incredibly, it was me who had the power. If I wanted I could ruin everything. I was no good at flirting, but I knew how it was done, I could learn. I didn’t know I’d ever had George, but I could easily get him back. It was a challenge I might once have welcomed but, thinking about it now, it seemed rather demeaning.

“About the Naughtons,” I remarked, “it’s time someone suggested they stay put. They’re already in their ideal house, and they’ll never find another like it.”

“Someone already has—me. Mr Naughton said he’d never wanted to move, it was all his wife’s idea. He’s going to try to talk her out of it. If he’s successful, every estate agent on Merseyside will breathe a big sigh of relief

There was no tortuous Christmas dinner in Kirkby this year to bring back memories of the bleak dinners that had gone before. Norman Cameron had always nursed a decidedly unfestive spirit throughout the holiday, grim and bitter, his dark eyes searching for any signs of unwelcome gaiety from his children, rationing our time spent in front of the television or with our presents. For the first time, with a glimmer of understanding, I wondered if his own childhood Christmases had been so dark that he could see no other way, though I wasn’t convinced I would ever have the Christian charity to forgive.

This year, we had dinner at Flo’s without Norman.

The dining table was pulled out as far as it would go, so big that only a sheet would cover it. It was set for eight, and there was already a trifle laid out, mince pies, an iced cake from Charmian, the plates intertwined with tinsel.

Nightlights in delicately painted wine glasses were waiting to be lit when the meal began. Mum asked Trudy if she would bring her cutlery because there wasn’t enough, so Trudy bought her a set for Christmas. It wasn’t an expensive set, the handles were bright red plastic, but they looked perfect on the table with the red paper napkins.

There was a real tree in the window, the coloured lights shaped like pears, and new decorations strung from wall to wall. The flat—no longer Flo’s with its carpet, new curtains and pink-and-white-flowered wallpaper—was warm with the smell of roasting turkey and Christmas pudding. Melanie and Jake were persuaded that it was too cold to eat on the wooden table in the yard. “You can have a drink out there afterwards,” Trudy told them, “as long as you get well wrapped up first.”

Bel was there. She’d always had dinner with Flo on Christmas Day, ever since she’d come out of the forces, she’d hinted, and she wasn’t looking forward to eating alone for the first time in her life. “Mr Fritz always came.

Later I used to bring Edward, and Charmian would come down with her little ones. When she married Herbie, me and Flo used to have our dinner upstairs.” She turned up on the day in her leopardskin fur coat, a silver lame suit and high-heeled silver boots, her hair a magnificent halo of russet “waves and curls, and her lovely old face as shrivelled as one of the nuts in the bowl on the sideboard.

The first thing she did was grab my hand. “I’ve not seen much of you lately, girl. I thought we were friends.”

“I nearly called one night, but it was awfully late,” I explained. “I wanted someone to talk to, but I was worried you’d think I was stupid.”

“Jaysus, Millie. You’re talking to the stupidest woman in the world. I always welcome company, no matter what the hour. What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“I can’t remember now. I think I was missing Flo.”

“You never met her, but you miss her. Now, that really is stupid.” Bel’s beautiful eyes were wise. “Mind you, luv, I understand, I’ll never stop missing Flo.” The violet eyes searched the room. “Where’s your gran, by the way?

There’s something I’ve always wanted to ask Martha Colquitt.”

“She’s at an old-age pensioners” do in Kirkby.” Gran needed an operation, only minor, but her own prognosis was gloomy—she was convinced she’d die: The mam swore she’d never let a surgeon near her with a knife,” she’d said. “I don’t trust them doctors.”

I gave Bel her present, an unusual oval-shaped bottle that Trudy had painted various shades of blue and green.

Bel gave me an intricately patterned mosaic bracelet. “It’s not new, Flo bought it me in Spain. I thought you’d like it as a memento.”

“Oh, thank you,” I breathed. I fastened the bracelet on to my wrist. “I’ll treasure it all my life.”

Mum presided over the table. I could scarcely take my eyes off my new mother, and every now and then noticed the others glancing at her curiously, as if they, too, found it hard to believe that this Kate Cameron had been lurking behind the old one for so many years. She already looked thinner. Charmian had trimmed and silver-tinted her hair the day before, and the thick, straight fringe and feathery cut took years off her. For the first time in ages, she was wearing makeup, and had bought a new dress—the last new one had been for Trudy’s wedding ten years ago. It was plain dark green, emphasising the colour of her sparkling eyes. She already had my present, the gold chain with K for Kate, around her neck. Mum was reborn, confident, relaxed, with her children all around her, except for Alison who was coming to tea that afternoon. “As an experiment, like, to see how she gets on. See if she takes to the place.” It would be best if not too many people were around in case it frightened her. I was going to Southport to have tea with James’s family, the Daleys to Colin’s parents in Norris Green. Bel had been invited upstairs. Only Declan would be there to see if his sister felt at home in William Square.

Declan seemed perfectly content living in Kirkby with his father. They saw little of each other, Norman either at work or in the pub, and Declan deeply involved with helping the couple he’d met at the craft fair with their tie-dyed Tshirts. His own first attempts had been highly professional, and Melanie and Jake had been given one each as a present. Next September, he was starting a course in fabric design.

“What about that young feller from next door?” Bel said suddenly. “Flo always had him in for a drink on Christmas Day.”

I offered to fetch Peter Maxwell. It was a still, windless day, without a patch of blue in the sombre grey sky. The leathery leaves on the trees in the central garden shone dully, still wet with dew. Cars lined the square, but otherwise it was empty, no sign of Fiona or the other girls, who must be having a rare day off. Gran had once mentioned that Flo had spent her first Christmas in the flat entirely alone: Mrs Fritz had gone to Ireland. I wondered what it had looked like then, with only a few cars and a single family living in each house.

Peter was getting ready to have Christmas dinner with a colleague from school. There was just time for a drink with the Camerons.

“Did you enjoy the play?” he asked, as he walked around the plain room with its clean-cut furniture, so different from next door, turning of flights and testing locks.

“It was very cleverly written and ‘well acted,’ I said tactfully. It had been awful and I hoped he hadn’t any ambition to become a playwright. ‘I found it hard to talk to the other teachers, though. I kept expecting to get marks out often whenever I answered a question.’

“They liked you. Quite a few said next day what a cracking girl you were.” He took his coat off the rack, and dark eyes glinted at me mischievously. “They wanted to know when we were getting married.”

“What did you say?”

“What do you think I said?”

I stuck my finger under my chin and thought hard.

“Never?”

Peter laughed. “Precisely! There’s no spark, is there, Millie? I wish there were because I like you very much.

We know things about each other that would be hard to tell other people.” He looked at me quizzically. “Could you pretend I’m a woman so we could be best friends?”

“Oh, Peter!” He was right, there was no spark. If we went out together for long enough we might get married because it seemed the comfortable thing to do, but it wasn’t what I wanted—and neither did he. “You’d need to do something about your beard before I could remotely regard you as a woman, but there’s nothing wrong with having a man for a best friend.”

He kissed my forehead, as if to seal our friendship.

Friends it is, then. Now, where’s that drink? Has your mum got beer? I’m not a wine person.”

I was convinced that nowhere on earth could a family have enjoyed their Christmas dinner more than the Camerons. It was nothing to do with the food, though for the first time in months I ate a proper, three-course meal, and the skirt of my red-velvet dress felt tight when I’d finished. It was to do with a shared sense that the nightmare had ended. It had already faded, a little, for Trudy and me, but now it was well and truly over for Mum. As for Declan, he was coping. The only awkward moment came when Melanie, pulling a cracker with her father, said in surprise, “Where’s Grandad?”

“He couldn’t come, luv,” Mum said firmly. She looked anxiously at Declan “He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“Fine, Mam. He’ll have found a pub that’s open all day.

That’s where he’d have been, anyroad.”

“I suppose so.” A shadow almost cast itself over Mum’s face, but she blinked it away. “I’ll go round in a day or so, give the house a bit of a clean, like, take him some rations.”

Later, when Trudy and I were washing the dishes, Trudy said, a touch bitterly, “What a pity she couldn’t have brought herself to do this years ago. Think of all the misery it would have saved.”

“It was the money and the flat that gave her the courage, Trude.”

“I’d never have stood it for a minute. I’d have been off the first time he laid a finger on me, and once he’d touched me kids . . . ” Trudy shook her head. It was beyond her comprehension.

I reached for a fresh teatowel—the one I was using was sopping wet. “We’re a different generation, but there’s an even newer generation of kids roaming the streets of London and other cities who’ve run away from violent homes. Why didn’t we run away, Trude? He nearly killed you once, but you still stayed. You waited for Colin to rescue you, like I waited for Gary.”

Trudy stared at me blankly. “I think I felt paralysed,” she whispered.

“Maybe Mum did, too.” One day soon, despite my promise, I resolved to tell Trudy and Declan about the little boy locked in the cupboard. They had a right to know, and could be left to make their own judgement.

Melanie and Jake were aching to sit in the yard. Colin put their coats on, Kate supplied a glass of lemonade and a plate of mince pies and, giggling, they perched themselves on the bench in front of the wooden table. I watched through the window, bemused. It seemed such an uncomfortable thing to do on a cold day in December, and I marvelled at the children’s ability to turn it into a great adventure. Colin and Trudy came indoors, shivering.

“Perhaps we could get some garden furniture?”

Trudy suggested. They began to discuss the best sort to buy, wood or plastic. They would have preferred wrought-iron, but it was too expensive.

It was just such mundane, ordinary decisions that made the world go round, I thought wryly. Freed from the tensions and the dreary atmosphere of our old house, I became aware of the easy-going intimacy between Colin and my sister, the way they smiled at each other for no reason in particular, as if they were passing on an unspoken message or reading one another’s thoughts. I noticed the way they seemed to form a unit with their children, a little world of their own. I thought how satisfying it must be to have little human beings completely dependent upon you, loving you without question, the most important person in their lives. To my surprise, I felt envious of my sister.

Though I could have what she had, I thought later at the Athertons’, I could have it easily, straight away. I could be a “wife, possibly a mother, by next Christmas. All I had to do was say yes to James. I’d no longer have to worry about my job. I could share in some of this . . .

The difference between my mother’s Christmas table and the Athertons’ couldn’t have been greater. Cut-glass decanters, crystal glasses, heavy silver cutlery with embossed handles, beautifully laundered napkins in silver rings were laid with geometrical precision on a vast expanse of rich, gleaming mahogany, with a rather formal display of upright chrysanthemums in the centre.

The dining room was about half as big again as Flo’s entire flat, with only a fraction of the furniture. The curtains were ivory satin, drawn carefully to hang in smooth, symmetrical folds.

Mrs Atherton had kissed me coolly on the cheek. “It’s ages since we’ve seen you, dear. What have you been doing to my son?”

“Nothing that I know of,” I replied, startled. Had James told her about our problems? Or Mrs Atherton might have guessed. After all, she was his mother.

Anna, James’s sister, was up from London with her husband and two children. I’d never met her before and found it hard to believe that she’d been an anarchist at university. Her husband, Jonathan, was a dealer in the City, a hearty, fresh-faced man with neat brown hair and designer spectacles. The children, boys, were equally neat, in white shirts, grey pullovers and shorts. They were well behaved and said little, even when their parents encouraged them to talk. I found myself yearning for Melanie and Jake’s bright faces, their inability to keep quiet no matter how many times they were told. I longed to discuss garden furniture and tie-dyed Tshirts. Instead, I was forced to listen to Jonathan’s talk of bull markets and bear markets, shorts, longs and mediums, stocks and shares. He’d recently netted a cool hundred thou profit on a highly risky venture in Indonesia that everyone else I had been too afraid to touch. Anna, blonde hair swinging, pretty face glowing with admiration, leaned over and stroked his chin. “You’re so clever, darling!” she cooed.