Living in the Shadows (8 page)

She hoped Jack wasn’t at home. There was no doubt he’d seen her and Nicki in the Wine Lodge. Well, hopefully she’d be able to beat him at his own game; she’d tell her mother first. With a bit of luck her father would be out as usual.

No such luck, she thought when she walked into the living room; Jack and he were on the settee in front of the television. Her mother was in her chair, knitting.

‘Hi,’ Jackie said.

‘Shut up.’ Jack glared round at her before turning his attention back to the screen.

Her father didn’t speak.

Her mother nodded warningly towards the television and mouthed, ‘Ireland.’

Jackie waited a moment and then went through the dining-room to the kitchen and, finding a glass, filled it with water, listening to the voice of the newscaster as she drank.

‘The August riots were the most sustained violence that Northern Ireland has seen since the early nineteen-twenties. Both Catholic andProtestant families were forced to flee their homes and The Royal Regiment of Wales is still in the Falls/Shankill area in a limited operation to restore law and order…’

Jackie sat at the dining room table watching her family through the door. Her father slumped, his belly straining the buttons of his shirt, his arm across Jack’s shoulder, still staring at the television. Her mother had dropped her knitting needles onto her lap, her hand to her throat.

‘So that’s it then,’ she said, turning to look at Jackie. ‘You know what this means?’

‘Shut up.’ Patrick and Jack spoke simultaneously. Patrick glowered at his wife.

‘The Prime Minister of the Irish Republic, Jack Lynch, has called for Anglo-Irish talks on the future of Northern Ireland. But this is deemed unnecessary by theNorthern Ireland Prime Minister, James Chichester-Clark, who has stated in the House of Commons that the riots are not the agitation of a minority seeking by lawful means the assertion of political rights. He believes it is the conspiracy of forces seeking to overthrow a government democratically elected by a large majority.

‘Further troops will be deployed there in the next week.’

‘I knew it,’ her mother said, ‘I knew it.’

‘That’s it, then.’ Jack stood up, rubbing his hands together. ‘That’s us, at long last. I’ll give my mate, Charlie Pearson, a call to see when he’s going back to barracks.’

‘You sound as though you want to go,’ Jackie said, putting the glass down and going to stand by the living room door.

‘Course I do … I’ll sort those bastards out—’

‘There are a lot of decent people over there.’

‘Well, Charlie says if they’re not bloody terrorists they’re bloody weird. And he should know, he’s been over there twice.’

‘And he’s an expert? A psychiatrist? Sounds to me like he’s the weirdo.’

‘Yeah, well, you should know.’ He smirked. ‘Shouldn’t you, sis?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Anger boiled up inside Jackie and she felt like slapping him.

‘You know…’

‘No I don’t.’

‘Now, now, you two, don’t start. Don’t start.’ Her mother pushed herself out of the chair with a groan. ‘My knees are killing me today.’ She hobbled towards the door. ‘I’ll put a brew on.’ As she passed Jackie she said, ‘Our Jack’s going to that godforsaken place, so don’t start one of your arguments at a time like this.’

‘I’m starting nothing; I just want to know what he means.’ It was now or never – she had to tell her parents about Nicki, it wasn’t as though she was ashamed. Even so, she was relieved when her father spoke.

‘I’ve had enough of this.’ He swept his hair over his head with his fingers, went into the hall and took his overcoat and trilby off the stand. ‘I’m going for a pint. Coming, son?’

‘Yeah, the air in here suddenly feels all
queer.
’ Jack sniggered as he followed his father.

‘You little shit,’ Jackie hissed. That was it; she knew he wouldn’t be able to resist telling her parents. She would have to do it now. At least there was only her mother to face first.

She went into the kitchen. ‘You go and sit down, Mum, I’ll finish making the tea.’ Anything to make this easier, Jackie thought.

Jackie slowly stirred two sugars into her mother’s tea and put the spoon into the sink, thinking about how to approach the subject of her and Nicki. She picked up the spoon and rinsed it under the tap, dried it, put it into the cutlery drawer. Everything had its place in the kitchen. Except for a tray of scones covered by a tea towel, there was nothing on the worktops, no clutter anywhere. Her mother had always been house-proud; Jackie couldn’t remember her without either a duster or a dishcloth in her hand or her apron pocket. She even had a saying about it: something about ‘work in the morning, play in the afternoon.’ Not that Jackie could remember much playing here, only at Linda’s house.

She stared out of the window; the sun was still quite high, the trees at the end of the garden barely shifted in the wind. Yellow and orange marigolds edged the flowerbeds at either side of the path; behind them white and soft orange dahlias were staked and fastened upright. Jackie sighed; even the bloody flowers had to measure up to her mother’s idea of order and neatness. ‘Everything in its place and a place for everything’; the words were suddenly there in her mind, another of her mother’s sayings. Where would she fit in after this? With her mother’s narrow outlook on life how the hell would she ever accept the way she and Nicki were living?

Jackie knew she was putting off going back into the living room. Coward, she thought, bloody coward. Standing upright she pulled her shoulders back and picked up the tea. The cups rattled in their saucers.

Jean had taken up her knitting again. ‘Thanks,’ she said when Jackie pulled out one of the nest of tables and put both teas on it. ‘I made some scones, if you want one?’

‘No, I’m okay, thanks, Mum.’ Jackie knelt on the floor by her mother’s chair.

‘Not like you to turn down a scone, Jacqueline.’ Jean put her knitting down. ‘Not like you, at all. Aren’t you feeling well?’

‘I’m fine.’ Where to start? Jackie took the cup of the saucer and held it to her lips. Her hand was shaking.

‘Something on your mind, then? I can always tell. Come on, what is it? What is it?’

For a moment Jackie thought of telling her mother about Victoria running away. The predictions of the trouble that her cousin would get herself into would occupy her mother for days.

Coward, she berated herself. Coward. ‘It’s about me and Nicki—’

‘Nice girl,’ Jean interrupted and took up her knitting again. ‘Do you know, love, I think I’ll have a scone, if you don’t mind buttering one for me?’

Jackie clenched her jaw. ‘Just the one?’

‘Oh, yes, got to watch my waistline.’ Jean patted her ample midriff.

In the kitchen Jackie took one of the scones off the baking tray and quickly cut and buttered it. Usually she couldn’t resist the smell of fresh baking but today it turned her stomach.

‘Here.’ She handed the plate to her mother. Taking in a deep breath, she started again. ‘It’s about me and Nicki—’

‘You haven’t fallen out, have you?’ The words were muffled as Jean chewed on the scone. ‘She’s been such a good friend to you. I hope you haven’t fallen out?’

‘That’s just it, Mum,’ Jackie blurted, ‘she is a good friend… In fact, she’s more than a friend … she’s my girlfriend.’ She watched as her mother slowly stopped chewing.

Jean swallowed, her face reddening. Then she coughed, spluttered out crumbs. Dabbing her mouth with her handkerchief she reached for her cup and gulped at the tea. ‘What exactly do you mean?’ she asked, when she could speak.

Jackie moved to the settee opposite her mother and clasped her hands. This was going to be as bad as she thought it would be. She noticed her knuckles were white and loosened her fingers. ‘I mean,’ she gave each word emphasis, ‘Nicki and me … we’re not just friends … we’re lovers.’

There was a long dragging pause. Then: ‘No.’ Jean clashed the cup into the saucer, pushed herself from her chair. She fluttered her hands, rejecting Jackie’s words. ‘No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. What you’re saying … what you’re saying … it’s disgusting. Disgusting.’ She left the room, bumping into the door-frame as she went.

Jackie waited, wondering what to do. Unable to keep still, she stood up, massaging the back of one hand, listening for any sound from the kitchen. Eventually, hearing nothing she followed her mother.

Jean was watching the next-door neighbour taking in her washing. ‘That woman has never spoken to me, you know,’ she said. ‘Not once. She doesn’t even acknowledge I’m on the other side of the fence when I’m in the garden.’ Her tone was bitter. ‘I asked your father years ago to put a higher one up but he never did. Too much like hard work, I suppose. Too much like hard work.’

‘Mum.’ Jackie touched her back.

‘No.’ Jean moved away into the dining room. ‘No.’ She stood in front of the mirror over the sideboard and tugged at a curl by her temple. ‘See? More grey hairs? I need a visit to the hairdressers, I think.’

‘Mum—’

‘No.’ Jean swung around, faced Jackie. ‘I don’t want to hear any more of that talk. Ever.’

Jackie kept steady eye-contact with her mother. ‘I think it’s a bit late for that. Jack knows.’

‘Your brother knows? How can he?’ Jean’s mouth opened, closed and opened again. ‘How?’ Holding on to the table and the backs of the chairs as though she would otherwise fall, she walked towards Jackie.

‘Half-brother.’ Jackie couldn’t stop herself. ‘Jack is only my half-brother and he’s always resented me.’ Even though, as a child, she’d adored him. ‘You know that.’ The way Jean idolised Jack, she sometimes thought her mother didn’t remember that he wasn’t her natural son: that she’d been forced to take on the child of one of her husband’s many affairs. ‘He knows because he saw me and Nicki together.’

She waited but Jean ignored Jackie’s last words. ‘He wouldn’t think anything of that.’ Jean pushed her lips out. ‘He knows … thinks you’re just flatmates.’

‘We were holding hands.’ They’d actually been kissing, believing they wouldn’t be seen in the small booth concealed from the bar, celebrating Nicki’s promotion to legal administrator at the solicitors’ firm where she worked.

Jean flinched and closed her eyes. ‘You mustn’t tell your father. He must never know anything about … what you’ve just said.’

‘That I’m a lesbian, Mother?’

‘Don’t use such disgusting words.’ Jean slapped Jackie, hard, across the face. Breathing heavily she said, ‘He mustn’t ever find out… he must never find out what you are.’ Her lip curled. ‘It’s been bad enough with you going into the police force. You haven’t a clue what I’ve had to put up with from him about that. But this…’

Jackie held her cheek. ‘I’m a lesbian, Mother. Jack knows. And, before long, so will Dad. Jack won’t be able to resist telling him. And there’s nothing you – or I – can do about it.’

Chapter 15: Mary & Peter Schormann

Llamroth, morning: Friday, September 19th

‘There has to be something to tell us where she’s gone.’ Mary pulled open the last drawer of Victoria’s desk and emptied it on the bed. ‘Something. A letter, a photo of somewhere, someone. Something….’ She ended on a wail, sweeping the pile of papers, files, drawings onto the floor.

Downstairs, Gelert barked.

‘Mary.’ Peter stopped her, pulled her into his embrace. ‘Look at this room. See what you have done. And yet we have found nothing. Victoria has made sure we do not know where she has gone.’

‘Why? Why?’ She leaned back to gaze into his face, searching for an answer. ‘Have we been such dreadful parents…? So awful she’s had to escape from us?’

‘No,
meine Liebe
. But she has always been the strongest, the most determined.’

‘Spoiled, you mean.’ Mary flung herself out of his arms and sat on the bed, scattering the remains of the papers.

‘
Nein.
No. You don’t mean that, Mary.’ Peter sat down alongside her, holding her hand. ‘Victoria has her own mind.’

‘We have to find out… We have to know she is safe.’ Mary’s face was blotched and puffy; she began to shake, the ashy taste of fear in her mouth. ‘We have to find her.’

‘She doesn’t want us to find her,
Liebling.’

‘I don’t care,’ Mary said. ‘She’s too young to be out there on her own. Anything could happen to her.’ She pulled away from him, her eyes flitting over the rest of the room, frantic to find something, anything, that would tell her where her daughter had gone. ‘There must be something.’ A thought crossed her mind. She jumped up, excited, pleased that she knew what to do. ‘We can go to her college, find out who she’s friends with there. See if they know anything.’

‘And then what? What can we do?’

‘We can bring her home.’ She didn’t understand his reticence. What was wrong with him?

Peter shook his head. ‘No. She is not a child, Mary.’

‘She is. She’s our child.’

Peter voiced his oldest fear. ‘Perhaps that is the problem,
Liebling
. Perhaps that has always been the problem.’

So that was it. ‘No, I won’t have you saying that.’ Mary held him to her; she’d always known the fear he held for his children, for her, just because of his nationality. But she couldn’t stand the thought of him mithering. That heart attack two years ago might only have been a slight one, but it was a warning, and she’d tried so hard since then to be the barrier between him and the worries. ‘You have been – you
are –
a good father.’

‘Still … it has not been easy for them.’

The minutes ticked by in the silence that followed.

In the end Peter sighed. ‘We can only wait,
Liebling.
Perhaps, soon, she will let us know where she is.’

Chapter 16: Richard Schormann & Karen Worth

Ashford, evening: Friday, September 19th

Richard was furious with Victoria for driving Mum and Dad mad. She always caused trouble when things weren’t going her way, kicking against everything, taking anyone and everyone on just for the fun of it: at home, in school.
Mae hi’n dwp.
Stupid. Always jealous of him. And she didn’t need to be, she was welcome to all the attention – leave him out of it.