A Whisper to the Living (29 page)

David leaned back expansively. ‘Oh, several things. She has patience, humour, kindness – oh and a fine brain too. The latter does come in handy on the odd occasion.’ He held out his cup. ‘More tea please, dear.’

Eddie Higson had spent three months in comparative heaven, so when the trouble started, it hit him doubly hard. It was as if everything was being taken at once – his health, his stamina and most of all, his Dolly.

He had found satisfaction in an unexpected quarter, the last place on earth he would have looked for it. Dolly Nelson was short and fat, had a plain face and frizzled brown hair – to say that she was not attractive would have been a kindness, because Dolly, even on her best days, was little short of downright ugly. He had collected her window money for years and never passed the time of day, never given her a second glance. It was common knowledge that her husband had left her with four kids and that she worked as an usherette at the Odeon, but until the day she called him in and asked him to mend a tap, he’d never had much to do with her.

‘Your pipe needs fixing.’ He turned to look at her – God, she was fat and all, stood there in her dressing gown with great blobs of white flesh bulging out at the top, nearly meeting her double chin.

‘I’ll pay you if you can mend it.’ There was a knowing look in her eyes. ‘Would you like a brew?’

‘Aye, go on then.’ He walked to the scullery door and she turned sideways to allow him through to the kitchen, giggling and exclaiming ‘oops!’ as he brushed against her. She made a great fuss of him, gave him a thick wedge of toast which he didn’t eat, brewed him a second mug and all the time she leaned over him so that he could look into the deep valley between her breasts.

It was plain what she wanted and he had her there and then on the peg rug in front of the range. She’d no shame, hadn’t Dolly, didn’t bother when he ripped at the gown to get at her, didn’t seem to care about being such a big ‘un. She wasn’t good-looking by a long stretch, but by hell she knew how to go about pleasing a man. It was like sinking into a feather mattress or drowning in warm cream. Her breasts, too big for his hands, were huge soft pillows and the enormous brown nipples excited him to fever pitch, made him forget her face. And she liked it. He’d never had a woman before that liked it.

As time went on, he visited her two, sometimes three times a day, amazed at his own staying power. Not that she was hard work, oh no. Sometimes he’d just lie there while she did the lot and not always in the usual way. She had imagination, did Dolly and she was always ready for it. She could be up to the elbows in washing or baking and he could just go up to her, open her frock and take what he wanted.

He felt smug, wore the air of a man who has made a voyage of discovery and has stumbled on a secret too precious to impart to any other living soul. Nobody looked at fat women – he’d never have looked at one himself at one time, but now he knew different, didn’t he? And the more time he spent with Dolly, the less ugly she looked, partly because he got used to her appearance, but mostly because she seemed to improve, as if she needed a lot of loving. Aye, they were two of a kind, him and Dolly.

But no matter how many times he visited Dolly, it was never enough. Even when he’d seen her twice in one day, he’d wake up at two or three in the morning, ready for more, urging Nancy onto her back so that he could get at her. It wasn’t right and he knew it. It was like a fever driving him on, pushing him beyond all endurance.

There was only one thing for it – he’d have to leave Nancy and move in with Dolly, bugger what the neighbours thought. ‘Course, the priest would be on him quick as a flash, but Eddie had never been more than a paper Catholic, so he’d tell that lot where to go and all. It would be worth it just to know that Dolly would be there all the time, in the same house, the same bed, ready for him whenever he wanted her.

He’d say nothing to Nancy. He’d just pack his bag and bugger off, wouldn’t even leave a note. As for that young cow who’d nearly cut his arm off, well he’d show her good and proper. They’d never manage on Nancy’s money. Oh aye, that one would have to leave her posh school and get in the mill like the rest.

Then, just when his plans were laid, the bother started. He’d always had a cough, especially in winter, but this was different. The blood frightened him, but he told nobody – it would likely clear up in a week or two anyroad. But it didn’t and the night sweats were getting worse, leaving him drained and useless, so he cut down his visits to Dolly because he was terrified of not coming up to scratch when it mattered. At times, he was back to what he considered normal and he would see her more often, pleased when she complained about missing him so badly. He had to save his strength for the one who would appreciate it.

Just one regret lingered in his sweltering brain and that was that he’d never given it to her upstairs. There was something about her – she needed showing that she was no different to the others. And however good Dolly was, he still hankered after some young stuff, a bit of uncharted territory to explore. Mind, he’d shown flaming Annie what was what, hadn’t he? Oh aye, he’d given her some time and attention over the years, got her ready for the one thing a woman was fit for. Now some other bloody sod would be the first to dip his wick. No, he’d no chance now with that bastard Pritchard knowing so much. He should go and see him about this sweating, but he wouldn’t, couldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Still, he’d get better, wouldn’t he? He had to for his Dolly. Christ, you could get lost in a woman like that, sink into her and not care whether you lived or died.

He looked at the dark shape beside him in the bed. Thin mean stick, she was, bothered more about her daughter than she ever did about him. She’d been going on for days now about some tests and X-rays the girl had been for and wasn’t it great to know that Annie hadn’t got TB. As if he bloody cared. He turned on to his side to try to sleep, but the heat was coming over him in waves, he was drenched with sweat – even the sheets were wet through.

The cough rumbled like a threatening storm deep in his chest, gathering force then rising up suddenly to explode wetly onto the pillow. He knew his eyes were bulging from his head as he fought to breathe. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth, shooting with great force across the bed and splashing onto the floor. Wildly, he kicked out at her until she woke, then, as light flooded the room, he sank into his own merciful darkness.

Whatever was wrong, it couldn’t be her fault, thought Edna Pritchard, self-righteousness outweighing the misery she carried like a solid mass inside her body. She’d always done her best, kept a beautiful home, served meals that were nourishing and well-presented, taken good care of her appearance, brought Simon up carefully and properly.

Her bridge party had just finished and, as always, she felt a degree of dissatisfaction after her friends had left. Olive Mallinson with a complexion to suit her name and more diamonds on her hands than they had in Preston’s window. Alice Barton-Bates who, after casting a last scathing glance at Edna’s pathetically small front garden, had stepped into the brand new chauffeur-driven Rolls to be whisked back to her country mansion with its semi-circular driveway and acres of formal garden. Lastly, Sarah Pennington, a war widow whose husband had left half a million pounds to help her endure the heartbreaking loss.

Edna whisked lace doyleys from china plates while she nibbled at the last of the cheese straws. She had been eating too much of late, especially when nervous or worried. She would have to cut down, or she might become as fat as that Dolly Nelson woman who had been at surgery this morning.

If only she could put her finger on whatever was wrong; if only Daddy were here to smooth things over like he used to. She sat gloomily at the window, watching the world go by through the lace barrier that separated her from the situation she despised so much. Perhaps David had another woman, someone more earthy and worldly-wise, someone with whom he might discuss politics and medicine, a partner who enjoyed his virility. But no, he had no time for that sort of thing – the practice kept him far too busy. Of course, they hadn’t been really close since Simon was born. It wasn’t her fault that she was frail. Hadn’t she almost died giving birth and hadn’t the specialist warned against further pregnancies? David must appreciate that – after all, he was a medical man.

Her pride had been hurt, though, when he had moved into another bedroom. Although she didn’t want to be touched she felt, perversely, that he should still find her desirable, should want her even though her condition prevented it. And now, he treated her . . . how did he treat her? Not like a housekeeper, because he always had a smile and a kind word for the woman who came in daily. Not even like one of his patients, that silly flock of sheep who seemed to idolize him and hang on his every word. Oh no. His own wife might as well not be here at all, might be just another piece of furniture for all the notice he took of her. They talked at the table sometimes, but, more often than not of late, he would switch on the Home Service or worse still, read his paper during the meal, a habit Edna considered to be working-class and out of place in a doctor’s home.

It was plain enough that Simon was on his father’s side. He never said much, but when he did offer a few words, they were usually for David, seldom for her. Yes, Simon would probably turn out like his father, would copy his low-life habits and careless speech. It would happen, she was sure of it. Three times now she’d seen her son walking down the road to that dreadful Milk Bar with Anne Byrne and Martin Cullen. And there was another thing that hurt, though she could scarcely admit it. Martin Cullen and Anne Byrne hand in hand while Simon tagged along like a grateful puppy. Not that she wanted Simon to associate with the girl, but to think that she had the effrontery to prefer that awful boy, that the young madam could pick and choose between the two of them . . .

She gathered the dishes on to a trolley and wheeled it towards the door. She knew how Simon felt about the girl, his face lighting up whenever David mentioned her name. It was humiliating, it really was, she thought as she rinsed translucent china cups and Waterford sherry glasses.

As she was finishing the task, David entered by the back door, a bulky parcel under his arm.

‘What’s that?’ she asked.

‘It’s a Dansette – a portable gramophone for Simon and his friends.’

She stiffened. ‘Which friends in particular?’

‘Oh, Martin, Anne, one or two others from the Milk Bar. They’ve nowhere to go when the bar closes, so I thought I’d give them that large bedroom at the back.’

‘No, David.’ Her voice was quiet but firm. ‘I will not have people of that type in my house.’

He banged the parcel on to the table. ‘People of what type? God, woman – we’re all the same type. We all have blood in our veins, guts in our bellies, bones in our backs – at least, most of us do. What makes you so different, eh? Come on, you tell me, Edna. I’m sure the answer will be fascinating and very educational.’

She flinched. He had never shouted like this before. She found herself almost whispering in the face of such rage. ‘I only want what’s best for Simon. He should mix with the right class, boys from his own school. I don’t want him wasting his life, David. And yes, I am different from these people.’ She began to feel braver, more sure of her ground. ‘My father educated me to be a lady. I am not used to . . .’ she waved her hand towards the outer door, ‘this kind of thing and have no desire to become a part of it.’

‘Have you finished?’ His voice was quieter now.

‘Yes.’

He sat at the table, fingertips pressed together in an attitude of patience that thoroughly infuriated her. ‘Simon has much to learn. Your attempts to shelter him from the world – yes, I know your intentions were good – have resulted in him developing into a shy and possibly emotionally retarded boy with a very poor self-image. You are not alone in your guilt. I too have tried to influence him, hoping he would follow in my footsteps. But why the hell should he? I would be indulging my pride were I to push him towards a profession for which he is not suited. You, Edna, are indulging your conceit by trying to turn our son into what you have become – a snob.’

She suddenly realized that he hated her. No, perhaps hatred was too strong a word for what he felt, perhaps contempt or even indifference would be more accurate. In her frustration, she began to weep. ‘I’m not having them here. This is my house . . .’

‘You can turn off the tap, Edna. And no, this is not your house – it is mine.’

The crying ceased immediately and a look of shock invaded her face.

‘It’s your home, but not your house. My name is on the deeds and your money is in the bank. Now, if you wish to continue living here, please feel free. If, on the other hand, you would prefer to find another house, one with a better address, I shall not stand in your way. However, I must warn you that in such circumstances Simon would doubtless opt to remain here with me. Meanwhile, I shall have whoever I like, whenever I please, in whichever room is available. After all, you have your bridge parties on my premises – why shouldn’t Simon have friends in his own home?’

She was lost for words, yet more angry than she had ever been in her life. She picked up a glass and smashed it into the wall behind his head, then a cup, a saucer, a plate, another cup. When she found her voice, she heard herself using words she’d never uttered before, words she had never had occasion to use. And he was laughing, the bloody man was laughing! Enraged and out of ammunition, she ran to him, pounding her fists against his chest, screaming names, filthy names at him.

He grabbed her wrists and held her easily. ‘So the old man did teach you something after all? Do you know what he was, Edna? A snotty-nosed kid with the arse hanging out of his trousers who had the wit and cunning to get out and make good. He broke backs in this town, walked over decent working folk and flogged them till they dropped. And he got rich, very rich. But you must never forget your roots, Edna. That’s a terrible mistake. Because your roots will find you in the end and either let you down or pull you up. You can never pull them up, so don’t try. You are working-class just like Anne Byrne, Bertha Cullen and the rest. The only difference is a few thousand in the bank. Remember that.’