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Armitage woke in a sweat. Porridge slumbered on beside him. His father and Donna were downstairs, arguing ferociously. Their loud voices had woken him. In the darkness Armitage sat up and glanced at his Toy Town clock. It ticked on merrily, oblivious to the boy’s worries. The luminous hands signalled out their message. The small man was pointing towards the twelve, the big man toward the three. Armitage yawned.
Still they yelled at one another downstairs. He couldn’t make out what they were saying; hearing only the muffled rumbling discontent that floated up through the plaster, floorboards, and the carpet. It sounded spiteful. It sounded frightening. In the darkness, Armitage grimaced terribly. They had been arguing more often, sometimes every night, disturbing the boy’s sleep and dreams. He boasted black rings around his eyes, though he was unaware of that, he hadn’t noticed, but the teachers at school had, and so had Mrs Greenaway.
As the days and weeks and months had slipped away, so his hatred for Donna Deary had increased. It was mutual; that dislike, for she had taken to slapping him when his father was missing, or in another part of the house. She’d admonish Army and clip his ear for the slightest misdemeanour, real or imaginary. Afterwards she would say, ‘And don’t go running and whining to your father! He’s not interested, and if you do, I’ll take that wooden ruler of yours and thrash your legs to shreds!’
Armitage valued his legs, and whether the threat was real or bluster, he didn’t know, though he wasn’t about to test it. She frightened him, and he remained silent. His father never noticed a thing, for he had troubles of his own.
A moment later Armitage did manage to make out what they were saying. They must have stepped up the volume; perhaps the dispute was reaching a climax.
She yelled: ‘If you don’t take me to see the pyramids this year, we’re finished, understand? Finished! You promised to take me, and you can fucking well take me!’
‘Why can’t you understand I don’t have the bloody cash!’ his father screamed back.
‘Then sell something! What about that money you’ve put aside for the kid? You could use some of that! He’s not interested in money. You only have to look at him to tell that. Use that if you have to!’
‘I will not touch Armitage’s inheritance. That’s Kay’s money. She set it aside especially for him.’
‘Wake up and open your bloody eyes! Kay’s dead, you barmpot! In case you haven’t noticed, it’s me you should be looking after. You’re not living in the real world, you useless article!’
‘We can’t use that money and that’s the end of it. I won’t do it!’
‘Use what the hell you bloody well like, but you understand this, Donald Shelbourne, if you don’t take me to Egypt this year as you promised, we are finished. Understand me? Finished!’
‘We are not going to Egypt! And that’s final!’
‘We’ll see about that! And another thing, you can sleep in the spare room tonight, I don’t want you anywhere near me! You give me the creeps!’
Immediately after that, Armitage heard the sound of a heavy slap, echoing through the house, magnified by the after midnight stillness.
Then silence returned.
In his mind Army imagined that she had slapped him, for his father would never slap anyone, and certainly not a lady. Though thinking about it later, perhaps it might do her some good. Armitage would admit that occasionally he had imagined slapping her himself, if only he could find the courage. Perhaps his father felt the same way.
If only she would disappear. If only.
Army turned over, pulled the pillow down over his head, kissed the bear, hugged the creature to his shaking chest, closed his eyes, and tried to sleep. Tomorrow was dancing day. It was important there was a spring in his step. There wouldn’t be, if he didn’t sleep.
All through the following week rows and fights disturbed his nights. During mealtimes they would glare at one another and say almost nothing. They’d glare at Army too, and bite his head off over any tiny thing. Living in the house became hell. He couldn’t help comparing it to how it was when his angelic mother ruled the roost.
Unbeknown to Armitage the economy had taken a hefty lurch away from prosperity. People were no longer buying cars, worse still; they were selling them, chasing the cash like everyone else. The Shelbourne Motor Company had been in financial trouble for some time, everyone worked hard but there was never any money in the bank, and the situation had become critical.
For one brief moment Donna considered using a small proportion of her Swiss bank savings to help the business over the lean times, perhaps £10,000 or so, that would certainly help, and it wouldn’t make too much of a dent in her £180,000 nest egg. Recently she had stepped up Laddon’s invoices, keen as she was to break the £200,000 barrier, and her greediness had worsened Shelbourne’s plight.
She decided against it, of helping anyone, and especially Donald Shelbourne, after he had actually hit her. Slapped her across the face, the cheeky git. She could still feel the stinging sensation on the cheek. No, she wouldn’t help a living soul, not Donald, not that hopeless queer son of his, nor the floundering company. They could all take a run and jump. She wasn’t going to touch any of her savings.
The following day when Donald was at work, Armitage at school, and she ostensibly at a dental appointment, she hurried home, packed her two cases, wrote a hurried note: Sorry Donald, It is obvious we have come to the end of the road, you clearly don’t love me, and please don’t try to follow me, I am out of here, Donna.
She called a cab and ordered it to the railway station and boarded a train for Bristol. Sitting waiting in the hairdressers one day she had read grand things of the West Country. She would visit all the big towns, Bath, Cheltenham, Bristol, Gloucester, Wells, Taunton, Exeter, and settle in the one that suited her best. She was now a lady of means, though she had no intention of squandering her hard earned wealth.
No, she would find another man. She was still young and desirable, so she told herself, so she witnessed, as she stared into the mirror, painting. She would take up golf, act the damsel in distress, book some lessons, seek out company, a rich widower would be perfect, a handsome golf pro on the side, anyone who could show her the ropes, take her into their circle, provide her with everything she wanted, just so long as he was a decent looking man, and solvent.
She knew well enough how to foster interest, how to find a patron, and there must be thousands of businesses in the West Country looking for a good bookkeeper.
She might change her name too, Donna Trowbridge, she decided after staring at the map for an hour, she had never liked Deary, What’s up Deary? She was young and carefree with no ties to restrict her. More than that, she was a great catch for someone, and already she had visions of handsome beaus from Bath to Bristol begging for her hand.
Donald and the squirt could go to hell.
Armitage was thrilled at the news.
He began sleeping better, he began dancing better, he began looking better, and Mrs Greenaway could guess the reason why, when she heard the welcome news that Donna Deary had fled the town. Not before time, she muttered, not before time.
This newfound sense of wellbeing did not spread to his father. Things lurched from bad to worse. The Shelbourne Motor Company failed to pay for the latest batch of cars. The wholesalers were furious and immediately descended on the forecourt and repossessed everything that hadn’t been paid for. The Shelbourne Motor Company had entered its death throes. Donald wasn’t thinking straight. He had even used Armitage’s inheritance, Kay’s money; that she had so clearly earmarked for her only son. He hated doing it, and now Armitage would never see a penny.
One week later the business went bust. It owed just shy of a million pounds. An Official Receiver was appointed to wind up the company’s affairs. Donald was out of a job. He was broke, and he was broken.
Armitage had no understanding what all that meant. He had always hated the garage and the cars and the filthy mechanics and the stink. He was pleased to see it go, and pleased to be free of being taken there on a Saturday morning. Now he could go straight to the florists and for a short while life was heaven.
But it hit home when the house was put up for sale. Donald had mortgaged everything. The equity had fled as quickly as Donna. His father told him they would be moving out.
‘Where are we going to live?’ moped Army.
He adored the house, his room, and the garden where his mother had chased and played and laughed with him, such happy, sunny days that now seemed so long ago, days that would never return.
‘I have found a little flat for us,’ said his father. ‘On Kenneally drive.’
‘On Kenneally drive?’ said Army, imagining he was hearing things.
‘Yes. We are moving there on Saturday.’
‘But that’s...’
‘Yes, I know... it’s on the council estate.’
Armitage pulled a face and then said: ‘Will I be able to take Porridge?’
‘Yes, son, of course, Porridge is coming too.’
So they moved into a small two bedroom flat on the second floor at number 39 Kenneally Drive on the same council estate that Donald had always been so sniffy about. As it turned out, the residents seemed quite friendly, even to the dancing freak with the plummy voice.
Donald was soon making friends. It was as if a mighty weight had been chipped from his shoulders. He’d met a young widow by the name of Janet Everrit who lived in the house on the corner. She had taken a shine to the upright well-dressed bloke who’d moved in up the road.
Donald and Army began taking tea there. Donald fixed up her old car and he would drive them all to the supermarket on the Saturday morning to buy provisions. It was sure as hell better than taking the public bus. They began spending evenings at the Everrit house too, and the following week they even had a sleepover. Armitage was forced to share a room with Smelly Everrit. Army had never shared a room before, with anyone, other than Porridge.
He didn’t like it much, but his dad seemed happy.