That'll Be the Day (2007) (13 page)

‘If she goes on like this she’ll be up the duff again, you mark my words,’ Molly mourned.

‘I’m sure she’ll take better care of herself in future,’ Betty commented.

Molly was less mealy mouthed. ‘I’d say serve the little tart right if I didn’t love the bones of her.’

Touched by her old friend’s genuine distress, Betty presented her with a begonia in a pot as a free gift, just to cheer her up. Sometimes she thought she gave away more profit than she actually made, soft fool that she was.

And all the while her gaze was fixed on a small drama unfolding across the street. She could tell by the way young Judy was standing so defensively before her husband that the conversation was not going well. She seemed to be drooping, her head bent and submissive as a blue harebell, every bit of her as fragile and as delicate. The more robust Betty pulled her thick cardigan tight about her plump breasts and worried for the girl.

She’d clip Sam Beckett round the ear if he ever hurt Judy, big bully that he was.

What could the problem be, she wondered? Was she asking him for something? Begging more like. Pity it wasn’t for a divorce. There was one young lady who’d do far better on her own. Betty could only pray that the poor lass had more strength in her blood than was evident in the anaemic quality of her tired skin.
 

Course, he should be the one begging for mercy. Didn’t Betty recognise a lying man when she saw one? She could spot a straying husband at twenty paces, even without her specs on. Being cock-of-the-hoop was what they enjoyed most, and it usually cost women dear.

By heck, but if she could put a rod of iron in that girl’s spine she’d do it. The lass was certainly going to need it, if she was any judge.

To Betty, the night her ex-husband stayed on had seemed like the longest in her life. She’d adamantly refused to allow Ewan up the stairs or to go anywhere near either her son or her daughter’s rooms. He could sleep on the sofa, if he must, but it would be for one night only. She insisted he wash in the kitchen and as the lavvy was down the yard that wasn’t a problem, or so she imagined.
 

The next morning, and to her great relief, he was gone when she came down to make breakfast. By the end of the day, when he still hadn’t materialised, Jake was complaining that his father had abandoned him yet again, Lynda was sulking and Betty was almost smiling with relief. But her happiness was short-lived. By night-fall when hunger struck there he was again, expecting to be fed and watered and lay his weary head on her comfy green moquette sofa.

Betty confronted him, plump arms folded. ‘Whatever little game you’re playing, it’s got to stop. In case you’ve forgotten, you and me are history. We’re divorced. This can’t go on.’

‘It’ll go on as long I say it’ll go on.’

‘This is
my
house, not yours, so I’ll thank you to go back to whatever miserable little hole you crawled out of.’

 
As Ewan eased himself into Jake’s chair he smiled with the easy confidence of a man who believed himself in control of his own destiny. ‘You always were one for the fighting talk, Betty. I loved that in you. Lynda, chuck, fetch your dad a cuppa, and a pair of slippers would be good if you can find any to fit me. A pair of Jake’s will do nicely. These old boots of mine have seen better days and me poor old meat plates are frozen. You can wash me socks overnight at the same time. What a little treasure you are. Oh, and three sugars don’t forget.’

And so it began.

Day after day he would sit in the chair issuing orders as if he owned the place, and Lynda and Jake would carry out his every bidding without a murmur. They even sat at his feet to talk to him and ask questions. None of which he answered with truth, Betty noticed.

It turned her stomach just to have him near. He’d fart and belch at the dinner table, slurp up his tea out of the saucer and throw bits of bread at the poor cat, laughing and telling raucous jokes to Jake as he did so.

He’d come home roaring drunk, often with Jake in tow every bit as much the worse for wear. Then pee just outside the kitchen door in the back yard because he couldn’t be bothered walk the length of it to the privy. The living room stank of tobacco smoke and he’d hawk and spit in the fire, leaving gobbets of brown juice on her shiny brass fender. He’d even blow his nose without a hanky.

It made Betty want to vomit just to watch him and hatred simmered inside her to boiling point, searing her throat and making her fingers itch. She’d strangle him with her own bare hands if he didn’t leave soon, she would really.

‘What sort of an example is this to set for the lad, coming home drunk every night? Don’t you think I’ve had enough bother trying to keep him on the straight and narrow, and here you are making him ten times worse.’

‘You sound like a flaming Methodist. Shut your noise, woman, and get t’supper on the table.’

‘Get it your flaming self,’ she would shout back, then Lynda would be beside her, urging her to hold on to her patience, saying it was hard for them all but they had to try to get on, and that Jake was only sowing a few wild oats.

‘Where is the harm if he gets a bit tight occasionally? At least he’s got the chance now to spend some time with his father. It certainly doesn’t help, Mam, if you and Ewan are at each other’s throats the whole time. We’re just trying to get to know each other a bit better, that’s all, and to be a family.’

‘Family? He’s not in our family any longer. I divorced the miserable old...’

Lynda momentarily pressed her lips together in annoyance, her longing for a quiet normal family life seeming to be further away than ever. She drew her mother to one side to whisper fiercely in her ear. ‘He’s still my dad, so lets just try to get along, shall we? I don’t suppose he’ll stay long but while he’s in the area Jake and me want to see him, right?’

Betty felt helpless, caught in a trap, alienated not only from her ex-husband whom she loathed and feared with a venom, but also now from her own children as well. She tried her best to understand their point of view but it felt as if they’d turned against her.

Worst of all was Ewan’s behaviour towards Lynda. ‘Come and sit on Daddy’s knee, pet,’ he would say to her, a leering smile curling his ferret-like mouth.

‘Leave her alone, she’s too big for such nonsense. She’s not a child any more, she’s a grown woman,’ Betty would protest, but to no avail. Even Lynda herself would argue against her.

‘Don’t be so prickly, Mam. Why shouldn’t I have a bit of a cuddle with me dad?’

So Lynda would sit on Ewan’s knee and lean her head on his shoulder, and Betty would watch his bony hands stroke her soft curls, smooth her slim young back or pat her firm round bottom. Betty would see the look of triumph in his black beady eyes as he smirked at her over his daughter’s shoulder, making Betty want to retch.

Oh, she’d make him sorry for this, she would really.

Lynda was too caught up in the excitement of the new love in her life to take her mother’s concerns over having Ewan Hemley back in her life too seriously. Night after night she’d doll herself up, put on the lipstick, fold her abundant hair into a French pleat or tease it into bouncing curls falling loose about her shoulders. Then she’d slip into her tightest raglan sleeved sweater with a deep slashed neckline, her sexiest trews or jeans, and take great delight in making young Terry’s heart pound and his blood pressure go up.

They couldn’t afford to go to the pictures every night, so much of the time they’d spend snogging up back alleys, or sitting on freezing park benches while they went in for a bit of heavy petting. Lynda was determined that this time she’d hang on to her virtue, such of it as she had left, she would tell herself wryly.

She was no virgin, having given her all in the fond belief that marriage would surely follow, only to be betrayed. Now Lynda was more cautious. If this was just some silly fling, she’d make sure she was in the same condition at the end of it as she was at the start. No shotgun wedding or unwanted pregnancy for her. He’d get nothing more than necking without a ring on her finger first.

Oh, but it was hard. Terry was a dreamboat and they really got on well.

He’d kiss her till her lips were all pink and swollen, her face sore from friction burns, and she’d tease him to shave a bit closer next time. Then Terry would gently caress her breasts and it would be Lynda urging him on to do more, Lynda who would unbutton her blouse so he could slip his hand inside and press bare soft flesh.

‘God, Lynda, I want you so much.’

They’d both get very heated and flustered, breathing hard and desperate to take things further, and they would, going just as far as she dare, touching and caressing, stroking and teasing, each exploring the other with fresh and thrilling delight. But after a while she’d call a halt and Terry would have to leap up and pace about for a bit till he’d calmed down.

It would be so easy, Lynda thought, to succumb.

The argument with his wife had given Sam a raging headache, which left him in a foul mood for days. Judy had turned stubborn over this stupid notion of hers to sell her pictures on a stall, a request he’d paid little attention to when she’d first mentioned it. And to make matters worse Fran had had a row with her mother and taken herself off some place. She’d be back of course, daft cow, but it left Sam kicking his heels with frustration.

But then he was a man with more than one iron in the fire. He certainly had no intention of being dependant upon the likes of Fran Poulson, or his silly wife.

Later that afternoon he met up with his latest lady friend and he was more than ready for her. He needed to expel his aggravation on someone. Sam had known, of course, that she would be waiting for him up the back alley, as she always was around tea time.

No time was wasted on social chit-chat, but then being such a classy lady she no doubt had enough of that sort of nonsense in her everyday life. Nor was she much of a one for fore-play which suited Sam perfectly. From him she obviously expected something more earthy and fundamental than her usual diet of politely amorous encounters, something dirty and exciting, and Sam had no intention of disappointing her. He slammed her up against a back-yard wall, lifted her skirt and, finding her naked and ready for him beneath, as always, was pounding into her within seconds.

Some greasy tar from the wall came off on to her fine wool skirt which fired the blood in his veins to an even greater heat. There was nothing Sam liked more than seeing her pale skin bruised, her immaculate clothes marred by their fevered passion. Didn’t it prove that he was a man, the one in control as she whimpered and begged for more, only too willing to debase herself. And who knew what she might agree to do for him in the future?

When they were done to their mutual satisfaction, she kissed him lightly on the nose by way of thanks. Then adjusting her skirt and swing-backed jacket, somewhat creased and grubby after their hasty coupling, she retrieved her basket from where she’d abandoned it on the cobbles and coolly walked away to resume her shopping as if they’d done nothing more than pass the time of day. What style!

Chapter Fourteen

‘You wouldn’t mind if I took a little job, would you, darling?’ Judy asked her daughter.

Ruth appeared taken aback, as if the thought of her mother actually working was the craziest thing she’d ever heard of, then screwed up her small face in disgust. ‘Why would you want to? Anyway, what sort of a job could
you
do?’

The child was so like her father Judy found herself smiling even as she stifled a weary sigh. She explained about her paintings and Lynda’s idea that she should try to sell them on a market stall.

Ruth considered this for a moment, looking mildly interested but then frowned. ‘Would it mean I have to baby-sit Tom?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Or do more chores in the house? I do far more than Tom already. Boys are hopeless at washing up
and
setting the table, but I’m not doing it all by myself. He’ll just have to learn even if he is only a baby.’

‘Tom isn’t a baby, he’s a big boy and of course you won’t be asked to do any more chores. This isn’t about my wanting to escape what I do for you as your mother,’ Judy told her, not too accurately.

‘What is it for then? Are we hard up? Do we need more money?’

‘No, Daddy earns plenty for us all, but . . .’ Judy was fumbling for an explanation. How did you explain the need for independence, that desperate searching for who you once were, to seeking an identity, to a nine year old? ‘The stall will only be open while you two are at school. I shall still pick you up on the dot of four, so it will make absolutely no difference to your lives at all. I just want something of my own, something for
me
. Can you understand that?’

Ruth’s frown deepened as she struggled to see her mother’s point of view. ‘What does Daddy think? Won’t he mind your not being here?’

How astute the child was. Of course Sam would mind. They both knew that. ‘Daddy is thinking about it, but I’d like your opinion too. I don’t want to do anything that would upset you.’

‘What if Tom gets a cold on his chest like he did last winter, or measles or something and has to stay home?’

‘Then I wouldn’t be able to open the stall that day, would I? It’s my stall, I can please myself. I think it would be fun.’