Parallel Life (17 page)

He wove her a tale about giving a lift to a couple of old school pals who had needed to get to Birmingham. ‘I thought they were straight,' he said. ‘Supposed to be fetching a man from Brum to come and work up here. Well, they didn't find him.'

‘All lies?' Sal asked.

‘Absolutely. Then, when we got home, I found out they'd robbed a jewellery depot and put a bloke in a wheelchair. And they'd left the flaming gun in my car. I hid it in case they came back for it – they were big lads who likely wouldn't take no for an answer. Annie only went and found it, didn't she? And she's given it to the Compton-Milnes to hide.'

‘Why?' She dried his face with cotton wool. ‘Why would she do a terrible thing like that?'

Jimmy raised his shoulders. ‘Why do women do anything? It's for bargaining with. If I don't send money, if I try to see the kids, she's going to give that gun to the cops and I'll go down for something I didn't do. They'll load the gun and fire it, and you can bet your last halfpenny the bullet'll match the one that was lodged in that poor bloke's spine. I'd go down for years and years.'

‘What about them that really did do it?'

He shook his head. ‘South America, I should think. I'd forgotten I even had the bloody gun. Then, when I told her I was leaving her, she goes and gives the thing to the posh buggers.' He placed a hand on Sal's knee. ‘But I do have a confession, babe.' Babe? With a moustache like that, she looked like somebody's grandad.

‘Spit it out, then,' she answered.

He inhaled deeply. ‘Lisa Compton-Milne. I had an affair with her. She tells everybody she dumped me, but I left her because I could never get you out of my head, Sal. So you'd have to go careful, give her loads of respect, pretend you like her. When the lies about me come out, keep quiet. Just try and find that gun for me.'

‘I'd have to give up me other jobs, Jimmy. It says hours to suit, only I bet it's nearly every day. Did you say the old one's crippled?'

He nodded. ‘I think they call it MS. But she's got some daft Irishwoman looking after her, so you'd not be hauling the old girl from pillar to post every five minutes.' He touched his scar, a mark made by said daft Irishwoman. ‘Phone the number – you've nothing to lose. Phone from one of the houses you clean. Go on, Sal. Do it for me.'

As ever, Sal did exactly as she was told. She would go to the ends of the earth if Jimmy needed help. A few days later, having been awarded an interview, she rooted in the sideboard drawer for references. ‘I can get a couple of more recent ones,' she told him. ‘Only, the folk I work for won't want to lose me, none of them. I'm highly thought of as a housekeeper, you know.'

Jimmy smiled to himself. Housekeeper? She was a scrubber, and it showed. ‘You'll be the best,' he said, his mind still racing. What if Annie went and visited the Compton-Milne house? No, she'd never seen Sal, didn't even know her name. And the Compton-Milnes were a bit on the grand side for Annie. No. Annie would stick out in that house like a boil on the face of a baby. It would be all right, he told himself repeatedly. It was the best thing to do, and he congratulated himself on his cleverness. He had found the advert; he had persuaded Sal to apply. It would all work out for the best. And if Sal located that gun, he'd be in the clear.

So this was how the other half lived.

Sal adjusted her dark green beret and tugged at the buttons of a matching raincoat that only just fitted her. She had wanted to wear her best mac, but Jimmy had advised her to be dowdy, but clean. The shoes were worn, though polished to a bright sheen, while her bag was a plain, canvas holdall. She hoped she looked homely enough for these posh people.

The house was massive and built from local stone. There were dormers in the roof, and Sal guessed that there must be eight or ten bedrooms. She swallowed nervously, trying hard to remember all the coaching she had endured. She had to be polite, but not . . . What was the word? Subservient? She didn't really know what it meant, but she was ready for polite.

Lisa answered the door. Sal could tell it was Lisa because she was the wrong age for other women in the household. This was the woman Jimmy had slept with. She was beautiful – nails manicured, hair perfect, clothes understated and probably designer-labelled. But she didn't know how to hang on to her man, did she? Sal guessed that Lisa Compton-Milne had probably never cooked for him, comforted him, or bathed a wound. And beautiful women were often rubbish in bed because they thought beauty was enough. Well, it wasn't.

They went into a large family kitchen where Lisa sat and listed details of the job. ‘It's a big house,' she explained, ‘but my son has his own quarters on the first floor – he looks after himself – and my daughter and I work full-time. She will be going to university at the end of summer. She also has her own place – a bungalow at the end of the garden. If she wants anything done, you will be paid separately. Any questions?'

Sal swallowed. ‘Er . . . what's the hourly rate and will you pay bus fares? Only, I ride a bike to me jobs at the moment, but this would be a long way to pedal. It's two bus rides from where I live.' She had to start saying ‘my' instead of ‘me'. Jimmy had told her . . .

‘Seven pounds and fifty pence, and yes, bus fares would be paid.'

Sal tried not to gasp. Seven fifty an hour? For twenty hours a week? That was . . . that was a lot of money, especially if it was in cash.

‘Do you have children?' Lisa asked.

‘No. My husband died before we had any babies.' Jimmy had told her to be a widow. Widows, it seemed, were respectable and more likely to be offered a job. God, if she got this one, she hoped she would remember to carry on being a widow.

‘When could you start?'

‘Oh, in a week or two. I'll leave you them there photocopies of references, and, if you want letters of recommendation from my current employers, I will furnish you with them gladly.' She had remembered that bit of Jimmy's tutoring, at least. And she'd remembered the ‘my', though she should never have said ‘them there'. This was hard work already, but seven fifty? Brilliant.

‘Good. Now, show yourself round the house – I am sure you can be trusted, Mrs Potter.'

‘And you'll let me know?'

‘Of course. I have your address here. Thank you for coming.'

When the woman had left the room, Lisa sat and pondered for a few moments. There had been three applicants in total. One was waiting to go into hospital for an operation, so she might well be out of action for a month or more; the second had three children at school, and children had a tendency to become ill at the most inconvenient times. It would have to be Mrs Potter. Lisa didn't know why Mrs Potter made her uncomfortable, but that shouldn't matter, as there would be minimal contact between the two women. Still, there'd been something odd about the way Mrs Potter had looked at her prospective employer, as if she had been sizing her up. Perhaps that was a good thing, because an interview ought to be a two-way process.

Sal was walking around with her jaw hanging loose. These were good leather sofas, beautiful curtains with weights in the hems, excellent rugs on stripped-wood floors. There was real money in this place. Five bookcases, two sideboards, a couple of rooms big enough to need a fireplace at each end. Was there a gun, though?

She turned to leave the drawing room and almost collided with Lisa. ‘Sorry,' she exclaimed. ‘I didn't realize you were there.'

‘Would you like a month's trial?'

‘Ooh yes, please. I can't wait to get polishing that panelling. It's like something out of a film, isn't it?'

Lisa nodded absently. The applicant was almost too agreeable, too eager to please. ‘Work notice for your current employers, then telephone me if you can get to a phone. Your references are more than adequate.'

Lisa stood at a window and watched Mrs Sally Potter as she made her way back towards the lane. She was just an ordinary female carrying a little too much weight, a woman with a plain face and lank hair. After serving the public for over two decades, Lisa knew she had good instincts when it came to people. Within two or three minutes of a customer entering the shop, Lisa had him or her assessed. Annie had the same instinct, it seemed.

The woman had stopped to look at some bedding plants. Then she turned and surveyed the house like a prospective purchaser. Lisa was weighing up a woman who was weighing up everything else.
Let's just hope she's thorough
, she thought.
I don't have to fall in love with her, do I?

‘Is that to be the one, then?'

Lisa jumped, then turned to look at Eileen Eckersley's unlovely face. ‘Month's trial,' she answered.

‘She'll last a week,' foretold the oracle. ‘The legs'll go from under her when she has to knuckle to for one of your bridge evenings with three courses and the caviass to start with.'

Lisa smiled. ‘Caviar. I think I'm giving up bridge, Eileen.' She was giving up a lot of things. Bridge was one, fornication was another and, lower down the list, plastic surgery would also be given a miss.

‘Why?' asked Eileen.

‘I don't know.' That, at least, was the truth.

Love had opened Harrie's eyes. Bombarded all her life by songs and books about it, she'd been ill-prepared for the reality. Its power was immense, seemingly boundless. It was disturbing and wonderful and too much to cope with. Love made her see everything differently, though it had little to do with poetry or morning dew on flowers.

Love was staring into space while ignoring a customer; it was driving along in the wrong gear, smiling when there was nothing immediate to amuse her, feeling sorry for those who were not in love. It was also very annoying. She had given away a piece of herself. Her body didn't matter – that could cope with itself – but she wasn't the person she used to be. She was sometimes vague, distracted and forgetful. She had better pull herself together before the shop went bankrupt. Was this an illness?

She told him off frequently. ‘I don't own me any more,' she said. ‘Not completely. The Competition Commission should deal with this. There's been a takeover, and I wasn't even invited to the meeting.'

Will always had an answer to give the woman he loved. Someone else had done the bidding on the telephone, and he was just a figurehead standing in for some invisible foreign company with Swiss bank accounts and an urge to govern the whole world. Or he was an official receiver sent to pick up the pieces after the Harriet Compton-Milne meltdown. He adored her, and he wasn't even put off by her family any more. Even now, standing with her outside the central police station in Bolton, he was not particularly worried. He was concerned about Ben, yet he knew that his Harrie was perfect for him. She had her faults, but she made him laugh. Love and laughter were all he needed. He had been a serious boy born of a serious family, and Harrie had lifted him on to a different level.

She held his hand tightly. ‘I'm encouraged,' she said quietly. ‘He already phoned the police anonymously. He actually used a public telephone. And now he's in there.' She waved her other hand at the door. ‘Terrible thing to say, Will, but the guy who killed himself did a lot for my bro.'

Will agreed. ‘And he threw out all his bleach?'

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Harrie grinned. ‘Cognitive therapy does work. Only two sessions, and he's already dealing with the here and now rather than his past. He has OCD, but even that's going to be made easier.'

‘Your woman did this for him?'

‘No. She sent him to Manchester; Miriam knows her own limitations. Whoever is helping Ben is magic – he breaks down all Ben's problems and fixations into little bits. The bleach is just the beginning, Will.'

Will could not understand why the Compton-Milne parents had not dealt with this earlier, and he voiced that concern.

Harrie looked up to the sky as if seeking inspiration. ‘Difficult one. He was allowed his genius – that's how my father excuses Ben's oddity. My mother – well – she just wasn't around much. I look at her now and I know why. She married the wrong man, handed over her children to Gran and grabbed life by the throat. But she was only strangling herself. I'm watching her recovery now. She is, you know, a very clever woman. Underneath the facelifts, there's a decent brain.'

Will looked at his watch, glanced at the Town Hall clock. ‘Over half an hour, Harrie.'

‘Oh, well. Ben will be thorough. He says he's hiding nothing, because he wants sites like that one to be closed. It took some guts for him to come here.'

‘Especially with me.'

She laughed. ‘He likes you. He's got over the don't-take-away-my-big-sister thing. It's like watching him come alive, you know. I hope the improvement continues.'

Ben emerged at last. ‘Bloody hell,' he cursed. ‘That was some interview. But the good news is that my name will be kept out of it. After all, we can't have the Compton-Milnes dragged through the mud. Think of Father's wonderful reputation.'

They drove home in Ben's camper van to find a large rear sticking out of the under-sink cupboard in the kitchen.

‘Erm . . . do we know that face?' Harrie asked.

The rest of the woman backed into the room. ‘Hello,' she said as she struggled to her feet, face the colour of beetroot. ‘I'm Sal Potter, and I was looking at your U-bend.'

Harrie managed to contain her glee. ‘I've never had my U-bend examined before. Have you?' she asked Will.

‘Only under a general anaesthetic and by the best surgeons,' he replied gravely. ‘What's the diagnosis?' he asked the stranger.

‘Peelings,' she announced. ‘And fat.'

Ben nodded. ‘That would do it every time. Try Syrup of Figs.' He left the scene.

Harrie continued to play the game. ‘Are you Corgi registered?'