‘How’s things going at work?’
‘All right now the pikeys have gone,’ Chris informed his dad. ‘Feel sorry for Kieran Murphy; he came over and asked again for a job. I spoke to Rob but I knew what his answer would be: there’s not enough in the contract to warrant another pay packet. Anyhow, the lads would never have stopped moaning; they’re all after overtime, and again Rob says there’s nothing doing on that score.’ He paused. ‘We got a good day in today though and are back on schedule. What’s for tea? I’m starving.’
‘Doin’ a mince ’n’ onion pie.’ Stevie turned awkwardly on his healing leg to watch his son plonk down at the kitchen table and unfold his newspaper.
‘You not getting in the bath?’ He ran an eye over Chris’s mucky appearance.
‘Yeah … in a bit.’ Chris carried on reading the midweek football scores. ‘Fancy coming down the Arsenal Saturday?’ he asked his father.
‘Yeah … don’t mind …’ Stevie continued spearing sideways glances at Christopher while rolling pastry. ‘Going out tonight?’
‘Nah … gonna listen to the wireless and get an early night.’
Stevie didn’t keep tabs on his son’s social life, but he was beginning to suspect that Chris hadn’t seen Grace for a couple of months. At first he hadn’t given it much thought because sometimes a tiff, or family circumstances, just made it work out that way. But now he suspected it was something far more serious than that.
‘You used to see Grace most Thursday evenings.’ It sounded like an idle observation.
‘Don’t now,’ Christopher said, standing up. ‘I’ll run me bath. How long’s that gonna be?’
‘About an hour.’ Stevie patted the pastry lid on his pie and started crimping it. ‘Grace was right for you, y’know. You want to tell me what’s gone wrong?’ he asked quietly.
‘No,’ Chris said and strolled off into the hallway.
Sighing, Stevie shoved the pie in the oven. He wasn’t fooled for a moment by Chris’s nonchalance. If he were over the girl he’d be out on the pull with his mates, or boozing it up at weekends. The fact that he wasn’t, and had spent the past couple of months moping around at home, made Stevie think that his son was behaving himself because he hoped to get her back. But he seemed to be taking his time about doing it for some reason.
When he’d first got discharged, Chris had been like a mother hen, but once his son had realised that, apart from being slow on his pins, he was quite healthy, he’d eased off fussing and they’d fallen back into their old routines.
Stevie reflected on the evening that he had waited up for Chris to come home so he could tell him the news about his plans for a caff. His son had come in looking shell-shocked and had gone to bed without saying a word. Stevie had guessed immediately he’d got woman troubles; he recalled seeing that vacant expression gazing back at him in the mirror a few times in his life. During his divorce from Pam he’d walked round like a staring-eyed zombie for months.
Having put the potatoes to boil Stevie sat down at the table and frowned sightlessly at the newspaper. He regretted bringing his ex-wife to mind. The thought of the horrible tension he’d caused to exist between him and Chris, just before his accident, now made him feel uneasy and ashamed.
He knew he’d cheated death, and whether it was that humbling knowledge or the hefty bang on the head that had knocked some sense in to him, he couldn’t be sure.
While in hospital he’d had ample time to reflect. He couldn’t escape his conscience, or the fact that Matilda had been right – as she usually was. He shouldn’t have been so hard on his son because he wanted to find his mum. Stevie knew the shock of hearing Matilda’s news that day had made his mouth work faster than his brain, but there’d been no excuse for carrying on being stubborn and resentful.
Any proper father would have talked things through like an adult with his only child; instead he’d made both their lives hell with his sullen silences. He understood now that Christopher had the right to know about his past, whether it were good or bad, and it was no longer his job to sift out the stuff that might upset him, because he wasn’t a kid any more.
Christopher was a man and he’d fallen in love with a nice girl. Stevie realised he wished things would come right for Chris and Grace. He wished his son might soon be a father himself. But most of all he wished he’d told Chris he was sorry for what he’d done, and if he still wanted to find his mother, he wouldn’t stand in his way.
Since he’d got out of hospital nobody had mentioned Pam, not even Matilda. Having mulled things over in his mind Stevie had come to the conclusion that it would be unwise to dredge it up, even to apologise. Many months had passed since it all blew up so the best thing might be to let sleeping dogs lie and in that way Chris might put all his efforts into getting back with Grace …
‘Smells good … make the gravy, shall I?’ Chris came into the kitchen towelling his hair. He pulled a box of Bisto out of the cupboard, dropped it on the table then wandered off into the front room to turn on the wireless.
‘Oi! That gravy won’t make itself, y’know …’
Chris’s contribution to the gravy making was always limited to finding the box, leaving it on the table, then disappearing.
Stevie heard his stomach grumble and he realised he was hungry. Pushing aside his troubles, he got stiffly to his feet and opened the oven door. Inside he could see a crisp golden crust, from which was coming a rich, savoury aroma. He smiled wryly wondering why it had only just occurred to him how good it was to be back home.
Chris stopped drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and started tapping his feet instead. Suddenly he thrust back against the seat, dropping his eyes to study his fists clenched on his thighs. Abruptly he hauled open the van door and jumped out. Having carefully locked the vehicle he strode away. He swung about, came back to test the door. It didn’t budge. He rubbed a hand across his mouth as he quickly turned to enter an un-gated garden path. He rapped on the door, then clasped his hands behind his back. There was no answer but a middle-aged woman two doors along, sweeping up fallen autumn leaves, straightened wearily from her task and stared at him.
‘D’you want me?’
‘Er … no … I’m after Mrs Riley.’
‘That’s me …’ She smiled at Chris. ‘You’ve come about the gate, have you? I saw you sitting in your van and wondered if you were the builder I called yesterday. Managed to get here sooner than you thought, did you?’
Chris licked his lips; his voice seemed trapped deep in his throat. Carefully he planted a hand on her red-tiled windowsill to steady himself as he felt his head swim. From his father’s, and Matilda’s, descriptions of Pam Plummer’s looks and character he’d built up an image of his mother now being a blowsy old bottle blonde, about Shirley’s age, and with a similar tendency to appear as mutton dressed as lamb. He couldn’t have been more wrong. The woman getting slowly to her feet was thin and dowdily dressed in a shapeless cardigan and pleated skirt, her lank, greying hair scraped back into hairgrips fastened either side of her head.
‘Oh … you’re wondering what I’m doing over here.’ The woman was now brushing together her palms to get dirt off them. ‘It’s Mrs Lockley’s garden, not mine. She’s almost eighty and widowed, you see, and isn’t up to a job like this.’ She came out onto the pavement, latching her neighbour’s gate behind her. ‘She had a bit of a tumble on wet leaves last year. Done her hip in, poor old girl.’ She was rolling down her cardigan sleeves as she approached. ‘Don’t mind helping out ’cos we’re all gonna be old someday. ’Course you’ve got a way to go, by the looks of it, but it’s catching up on me, I can tell you …’ She halted by the opening to her property, grimacing at the space where a gate should be. ‘So, how much d’you reckon? Doesn’t need to be fancy; a plain wooden one with fastenings will do, and I’ll paint it myself.’
‘I’m not here about the gate.’ Christopher barely recognised his own voice and his knuckles showed white against the red tiles.
‘Oh? Who are you then?’ She looked him up and down. She’d wondered why a builder would turn up in his best clothes to price a job, unless he was going straight out on the razzle, of course. It was only mid-afternoon but he looked the sort of handsome young man who would have a full social life.
‘Christopher …’ Chris ejected his name hoarsely. ‘I’m Christopher Wild …’
She was still smiling faintly at him, but when her features froze in shock, and she sagged at the knees, he simply watched his mother crumple to the ground. Jerking into action Chris rushed forward with his arms outstretched to help her up. She flapped both hands at him, her eyes screwing shut as though he were an abomination she couldn’t bear to gaze upon.
‘Go away,’ she gritted through her teeth and lowered her head so her chin rested on her chest.
‘I just came here … wanted to say hello … see you … that’s all,’ Chris stuttered quietly. ‘Please let me help you up …’
‘Go away … go away and never come back!’ his mother hissed into her muffling cardigan.
‘I just … I’m sorry … I just wanted to say …’
‘Go away!’ she screamed, her small hands balling into quivering fists.
Chris stumbled past her cowering figure and hovered on the pavement for a moment, staring at her. He strode to the van, then returned, his hands alternately plunging into his pockets and ripping free again. ‘I’m sorry. Let me help you up …’ His voice was raw with pleading. He glanced to his right and saw that a neighbour was peering out of a window. A moment later the woman was opening her front door and staring open-mouthed at the scene.
‘You alright, Pam?’ the woman called urgently. ‘You got trouble with him? Do you want me to call the police?’ Gladys Rathbone came further down her path but halted behind the protection of her gate. ‘What’s happened to her?’ she demanded of Christopher. ‘What in God’s name have you done to her? I’ll get the police on you.’
Pamela Riley slowly hauled herself to her feet, using the privet hedge as support. ‘It’s nothing,’ she told her neighbour. She tottered quickly towards her front door, searching in a pocket. ‘My fault … Just had a trip, that’s all. It’s nothing.’ Her voice was so low it was virtually inaudible yet it held an unmistakable demand for privacy. A moment later she’d found her key and thrust it into the lock. She barely opened the door but managed to squeeze herself through a tiny aperture, before closing it.
As soon as Christopher found an area that seemed deserted he pulled up and jumped out of the van. He prowled to and fro on weed-strewn concrete outside an ugly brick building that resembled a warehouse. As though comforting himself had just occurred to him he jammed a shaking hand in a pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. He smoked one while pacing then lit another from its butt before halting and remaining motionless till the cigarette clamped between his lips had had the life sucked out of it, and the stub had been shredded beneath his foot. Like a drunk, he weaved a path to the brick wall of the building, turning his back to it for support. Squeezing shut his burning eyes he sank to his haunches then gripped his scalp with both hands as the first sob tore out of him.