That'll Be the Day (2007) (10 page)

‘But you won’t say what it was. I don’t even
know
him, me own dad.’

‘Do you want me to box your ears, because you’re not too old for a cluttering, no matter what Constable Nuttall might say to the contrary?’

‘Mam, calm down!’ Lynda hastily intervened, fearing the squabble might deteriorate into fisticuffs. ‘Jake does have a point though. You’ve never allowed us to so much as mention Dad’s name.’

Betty winced. ‘Don’t call him that.’

‘I can quite understand that you weren’t getting on and you did what you thought best at the time, but
we
should at least both be given a say in any decision made about him in the future. Have you considered that we might actually want to meet him at last?’

For a moment she thought her mother might be about to collapse, or explode with fury as her face went purple, then white to the lips. Lynda made her sit down, draw in deep breaths while she sent Jake scuttling to put the kettle on.

Only when Betty had a mug of strong sweet tea in her hands did Lynda begin, very gently, to press home her case, kneeling on the rug to cradle her mother’s hands between her own.

‘I’m twenty-five Mam, twenty-six next month. Even Jake will be twenty soon, nearly a grown man. We don’t need your protection any longer. We’re not children any more and can look after ourselves.’

Betty gazed into her daughter’s face and felt her entire world slipping away from her. She tried to speak calmly, to be reasonable and objective but a small sob escaped her throat as she said, ‘You know nothing. You certainly don’t know
him
. Listen to me, Lynda. He’s a hard, selfish man, a complete wastrel. He took every penny I had, even broke your piggy-bank to put a bet on a horse. You don’t know what he’s like. I won’t have him come anywhere near either one of you.’

‘Don’t upset yourself, Mam. We won’t let him touch our money, not that we have much anyway.’ They both instinctively glanced at the green rug under which their small savings were hidden, beneath a broken floorboard.

Panic rose in Betty, hot and sour. Was she going to be forced to tell them everything? Dear heaven but she hoped not. What would that do to Jake? ‘Aye, but it’s not just about money. There’s other things too . . . things I don’t like to talk about . . . things best forgotten. Just take my word for it, he’s bad news.’

‘What things?’

‘All sorts of stuff that you won’t remember, praise the Lord . . .’

Lynda was plumping up cushions, patting her mother on the shoulder, trying to make her lean back upon them and relax. ‘There always is a lot of bad feeling left after a divorce, I can understand that, Mam, but you must stop fretting. It’ll be all right. Look, I’ll go and find him, he can’t be far away, and we’ll have him in to lunch in a sensible, civilised fashion.

‘And it’ll give us all a chance to talk things through as adults. I hope it will help Jake and me to get to know our father at last and make up our own minds about him. Where’s the harm in that? You too will probably feel much better if things can be put on a better footing between us. Jake might even start forgiving you for messing up his life,’ giving a little chuckle, as if to make light of her brother’s neurosis.

‘Oh, Lynda. Oh, love. I’m begging you not to do this.’

But Betty could tell by the obstinate expression on her daughter’s face, by the way she smiled and patted her hand, that she was wasting her breath.

Ewan Hemley had won just by turning up. He would get his revenge, and all she could do was sit back and watch the tragedy unfold.
 

It was exactly the kind of Saturday Helen loathed. Taking tea with her in-laws in their boring little bungalow with lace doilies on every polished surface and the ubiquitous flight of ducks up the flock-papered wall. Even her own parents, living behind the cheese shop hadn’t been quite so predictable. Worse, she would be compelled to listen to her husband pandering to their every whim.

Determined to have him all to herself for once, Helen did her utmost to persuade Leo to cancel. ‘Ring and say something has come up.’

‘But it isn’t true. Something hasn’t come up, and Ma and Pa so look forward to my visit.’

‘You’ve had a tiring week at the warehouse. You deserve a rest. We both do. We need some time together.’ She leaned against him, sliding her hand down his inner thigh as he sat beside her in the driving seat of the Jag. ‘We could be at Ashton in less than an hour. We need some time alone.’

Her voice was heavy with promise and yet all he could feel was sadness that she couldn’t find it in her heart to care about his old parents. ‘We’ll go next weekend, I promise.’

Helen flounced back in her seat, her tone with a bitter edge to it. ‘You never can make time for me, only for work and those floosies of yours. I suppose you’re sleeping with that Lynda woman.’

Leo sighed. ‘This isn’t helping, Helen. I love only you. How many times must I say it?’

He had a great urge to shake her but was far too much the gentleman to do any such thing. Why did she always want things her own way? Why couldn’t she find some small sympathy, some warmth and consideration for others in that cool, logical heart of hers? Even her porcelain skin which he had once so admired, bore an ice-like coldness. Did he really still love her, or was he simply used to having her around? If only she would relax and laugh a little then everything might be different between them.

‘I don’t think I shall come.’

He looked at her with infuriating patience. ‘They would be sorry if you didn’t. They always like to see you.’

‘No, they don’t. Your mother will start dropping heavy hints about my failure as a baby machine, and your father will endlessly cross-question you over the business. I really can’t stand it. Nor would
you
care. if I didn’t come. It would give you the perfect opportunity to call and see this Lynda person on your way home.’

‘Stop it, Helen. You’re becoming ridiculous. And what would you do all on your own here for the entire day? Come with me, darling. We’ll walk on the sands, take a tram ride, perhaps stay overnight and enjoy a leisurely drive home tomorrow. Stop off for Sunday lunch at some tucked away pub in the Ribble Valley. It could be fun.’

‘You think it
fun
to sleep in your mother’s guest room with those dreadful candlewick bedspreads, listening to your father snoring through the paper-thin walls?’

In the end she’d been unable to get out of it. She simply couldn’t bear the thought of what Leo might get up to by himself, even in Lytham St Anne’s. Much safer if she go with him, and grin and bear the dreaded in-laws, as always.

It certainly wasn’t that she couldn’t find some other way to amuse herself over the weekend. With a husband like Leo you had to learn to play the man at his own game. She’d decided upon that little strategy at a very early stage in their marriage. As the song said, anything you can do, I can do better.

And if her first transgression had been out of a need for petty revenge, to her surprise Helen had discovered that no matter how much she loved Leo, a little excitement on the side really quite spiced up her life. It seemed to satisfy a deep craving within. Rather like reading
Peyton Place
, which she loved to do in quiet moments when no one was around.

Helen had more sense, however, than to allow these little treats with which she indulged herself to intrude upon their life together, nor to flaunt them in her husband’s face. She was nothing if not discreet.

As Helen had predicted, they hadn’t been in his parents’ house five minutes before Leo’s father was finding fault. Even before Dulcie had poured the Earl Grey from her silver teapot, Jonty was barking orders and questions at his son. Today he was interrogating Leo about the accounts, wanting to be sure that he was keeping the business up to scratch.

‘I hope you’re looking after the Kenyons, they’re one of our oldest customers.’

‘Of course I am, Pa.’ Leo painstakingly and with immeasurable patience answered every question, trying to make allowances for his father, knowing how the state of his health had deteriorated, making him more irascible than ever.

Old John Catlow, Leo’s grandfather, had started the distribution business back in the days of the industrial revolution by building the warehouse on Potato Wharf. Leo’s own father Jonty had expanded it still further by adding a second depot, building it right in the heart of Salford Docks. He’d bought large delivery vans and acquired more accounts in the way of shipping companies who used the firm regularly, importing and exporting goods along the Manchester Ship Canal.

Jonty had lived for the business, spent every waking hour at the docks and, being quite unable to delegate, had never allowed his only son to take much of the load from him. He’d paid for this obstinacy with his health and had suffered two minor strokes and finally a heart attack which even he had been forced to take seriously. Yet he continued to be critical of anything and everything his son did.

‘I hope you haven’t lost the Whittaker account. You were slow making those deliveries last month.’

Leo frowned. ‘There was a slight hiccup at the depot over the paperwork but how would you know about that, Pa?’

Jonty Catlow tapped his nose. ‘Nothing slips by me. I make it my business to keep myself informed. I can still use a telephone to speak to those useless warehouse managers you insist on employing.’

‘You really shouldn’t be concerning yourself about such details,’ Leo said, irritated almost beyond his patience.

‘I’m still a major shareholder, I’ll concern myself as much as I damn well choose, boy.’

‘Pa, I’m not a boy and . . .’

Leo’s mother, ever the pacifier, hastily intervened and attempted to change the subject. ‘Do have some Battenburg cake, Leo, I bought it especially for you, knowing it’s your favourite, dear. I’m sure you work far too hard, just as your father did, so you deserve a few treats. We’ll go for a nice walk later, on the sands, to blow the cobwebs away. And what have you been up to recently, Helen? What good works are you involved with at the moment, I’m afraid I lose track.’

Helen stared at her mother-in-law with cold distaste, hating her composure, her security in the love of her son. ‘As you do of everything these days, Dulcie.’

The older woman looked slightly startled and then gave a trilling little laugh. ‘Well, I can’t deny that none of us are getting any younger, are we? Our brains become rather tired, I dare say.’

‘Assuming we had one in the first place,’ Helen said.

‘Ah, yes, I suppose you are right there too.’

‘The clock is ticking for all of us, which is why we should take our family duties more seriously.’ Jonty snapped, leaping to the defence of his wife.

Helen flushed, only too aware of her father-in-law’s disapproval of her socialising and ‘gadding about’, as he called it, which in his opinion detracted from her main role which should be to provide his son with an heir.

Leo handed his plate to his mother. ‘I think I will have another slice of Battenburg, it’s delicious, Ma.’

‘Oh good, yes it is, isn’t it? Helen?’

Helen set down her half-eaten cake. ‘No thank you. It’s rather too sweet for me.’

In Helen’s view, Dulcie was a rather silly woman with no education and fewer brains, always happy to do whatever her husband asked. Sitting there in her twin-set and pearls with her white hair curling neatly about her round smiling face she had never known a moment’s worry in all of her sheltered, spoiled life, save for a couple of miscarriages before she had Leo, and what did they signify? Quiet and unassuming, sweetly compliant, she was adored by her husband and fussed over by her son
ad nauseum
.

Yet whenever her mother-in-law and she were alone Dulcie would rest a gentle hand upon Helen’s arm and whisper, ‘Any sign yet? I do hate to intrude upon your personal affairs, dear, but time is of the essence, is it not? How old are you now, dear, thirty-one, thirty-two?’

‘No, thirty.’

And she would shake her head with deep sadness. ‘It is so much more difficult to get pregnant once you are past thirty. I can confirm that from my own experience. I tried so hard for more children, as I’m sure you are trying.’

‘It really doesn’t trouble me in the slightest.’

‘No dear, that is exactly the line to take,’ accompanied by another comforting pat on the hand. ‘Relax, and who knows, it could just happen. Better luck next month, I hope.’

Helen hated her.

Chapter Eleven

There was no sign of the yellow roses when Ewan arrived in good time for his Sunday lunch. He knew better than to be late, of course, or to ask what she had done with her gift. But if there was one place Betty had never wished to see her ex-husband ever again, it was seated at the head of her table. When he made a move to do so, she quickly stopped him. ‘Jake sits there, you can sit to one side, opposite our Lynda.’

‘Rightio, Betty love. Whatever you say.’

‘Let’s have matters clear from the start, shall we? I’m not your love and this is a one-off. You’ll get Sunday lunch and nothing more. You eat up, see the kids like you wanted, then make yourself scarce. There won’t be a repeat performance, not ever.’

‘Mam, don’t start,’ Jake said, all too familiar with that sleeves-rolled-up tone of voice.