Women of a Dangerous Age (24 page)

‘Help you?' Eric put a hand on Sergeant's head as his expression changed to one of sadness, as his faded blue eyes blinked once, twice. ‘Al, you shouldn't need help to talk to me.'

‘I know, Dad. And I don't about anything else. But this is the one subject that we always skirt around, frightened of hurting each other's feelings. I'm not going to think the
worse of you or of her now, whatever happened. I just need to know the truth.'

‘Sometimes the truth is best kept hidden.' He spoke so quietly that they could hardly hear him.

Ali thought of Hooker, of the lies and deceptions that had surrounded their relationship and of all the relationships she'd had before him. She thought of Lou. ‘I don't agree. It must be better to have things in the open.'

Eric looked at Don in appeal. ‘Do you really agree with that? Do you agree that it's better, no matter who's hurt? That's what you're asking for.'

Ali didn't wait for Don to reply. ‘Dad, we should clear the air at last. For both our sakes.'

‘I never thought I'd hear you talk to me like that.' He shook his head.

Ali didn't move. She just sat, nervous, waiting for whatever came next. Eric stood up and paced the length of the room. Sergeant retreated to ‘barracks', his button black eyes fixed on his master.

‘All right,' Eric said at last. ‘All right.' He hooked his stick on the back of his chair.

‘I think I should leave you to it now. I'll be outside if you need me.' As Don passed behind her, he put his hand on Ali's shoulder and squeezed. The gesture gave her courage.

Eric watched him leave the room. Ali could see the approval in her father's eyes. He sat down, then pushed the pudding plates out of the way so he could lean on his elbows. He steepled his fingers as he deliberated. Eventually he began to speak in the same tone he had used when
they last talked about her mother. ‘I haven't been honest with you. You're right. Perhaps I should have explained everything when it all happened but I thought you were too young to understand. Then, when you were older, you seemed to be getting on with your own life and I didn't want to spoil things. There was never a right time.'

‘But I never forgot her,' Ali protested, alarmed by what Eric was saying. ‘I never accepted that she could just leave without a goodbye, without coming back.'

‘I know you didn't. But I did everything I could to protect you. No one round here knew the truth.'

‘Dad, please.' She couldn't imagine where this was all leading.

‘Your mother was ill.'

‘What do you mean, ill?' She hadn't expected this.

He sighed. ‘She was a manic depressive, bipolar they call it now. I didn't want you to know because I didn't want you any more upset than you already were or to think that there was any risk that you might have inherited the same problem.'

Ali sat looking at him, dumbstruck. She twisted her mother's rings around and around her finger while she waited for him to go on.

‘The medicine they gave her meant she hadn't had an attack for years, but she stopped taking her pills. I tried to dissuade her but she wouldn't listen. Not long afterwards, all the signs began again. You won't remember them, but she couldn't get out of bed, couldn't stop crying. She couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. I didn't know what to do.' He looked up at Ali as if pleading for her understanding. ‘In
the end the doctors sent her to Udlington psychiatric hospital. We told you she'd gone to stay with her Aunt Annie in Scotland.' He paused.

Ali couldn't believe what she was hearing. She watched the tremor in his right hand that had worsened as he spoke. ‘And then?' she murmured.

‘And then …' He stopped again. ‘And then, when they thought she was better she was allowed home. Sometimes the dangerous stage, they told me afterwards. As the pills they prescribed took over and the depression began to lift, she felt in control again. Then, just when I thought we had our Moira back with us, she went off without telling me where she was going. All she left was the note that you've read and her rings.'

‘But where did she go to?' Ali felt like screaming at him to finish the story, despite the obvious difficulty he was having telling her everything.

‘She caught a train to Galloway and turned up on her Aunt Annie's doorstep. This time, that really was where she went. Annie was in her eighties then, still living on her own, though she went into the home soon afterwards.'

There was a long silence.

‘Dad, please go on!' Ali sat, twisting and untwisting her paper napkin until it began to disintegrate. Eric looked up at her with an expression that made her dread what he was about to say.

He bowed his head, patting the air with his hand to tell her to be patient. ‘She phoned me to let me know Moira was there. She said if I could drive up first thing in the morning to collect her, she would calm her down that night.
But …' He sniffed loudly. ‘When she went in to wake her in the morning, Moira was dead.'

Ali gasped. ‘Dead!'

He carried on as if she hadn't spoken. ‘She'd taken all her antidepressants and downed them with a bottle of whisky. She'd planned the whole thing. The doctors told me there was nothing we could have done.' He separated his palms, buried his head in his hands and gave a muffled sob.

‘And you said nothing to me?' She felt as if she was deep underwater, her lungs straining for breath, her heart pounding, head throbbing.

‘I didn't tell anyone,' he went on. ‘We buried her up there, and soon afterwards Annie went into the home where she died a year later. No one else needed to know. You least of all. As far as anyone was concerned, she had run away to a new life.'

‘Me least of all?' Ali heard herself shouting. ‘I can't believe you said that. I was the one person you should have told. I've spent my life wondering if she'd come back, where she was, why she left, whether I was to blame.'

Of all the things she might have expected, this was not it. Never once, over all this time, had she imagined her mother dead. She had accepted her disappearance by inventing a fiction in which she had gone off with another man, or in search of her independence. Over time, her initial puzzlement and devastation became an unforgiving anger. Hope that her mother might return gradually disappeared. Instead she built a shell around herself to protect her from further hurt.

But not suicide. Not that.

Eric looked up. ‘I couldn't bear the idea of anyone knowing. I thought you'd blame me.' He pulled a folded white handkerchief from his breast pocket and loudly blew his nose before stuffing it back. His military bearing had deserted him.

‘Of course I blame you.'

He flinched as if she had hit him.

‘Who else is there to blame?' Knowing what had really happened to her mother felt as if a physical burden had been removed from her, but it had been replaced by a terrible sadness mixed with a fierce anger. There was to be no rose-tinted reunion, no making up for lost time.

‘But, Al, we got through.' He tried to justify himself. ‘Then, once you had Don, and seemed so happy, I thought it was better just to forget. And I thought you had.'

‘Of course I didn't forget. She was my mother. My mother,' she repeated more quietly as she began to cry.

Eric reached out to her. ‘I'm so sorry. I did what I thought was best for you.'

She swatted his hand away, pushing her chair back from the table. ‘Best? You stupid man. You had no idea.'

There was a tap at the door, before Don put his head round with a tentative ‘Everything all right?'

‘No.' Ali got to her feet. ‘It's not all right at all. We're leaving.'

‘Ali. Please.' Her father struggled to his feet, looking the old man he was.

‘Are you sure?' asked Don, looking worried as he came into the room. ‘Wouldn't it be better to calm down and sort things out?'

‘I don't want to talk to either of you,' Ali said, her jaw clenched. ‘I'm leaving.'

‘But you'll come again?' The hope in Eric's voice was painful to hear.

‘I don't know. Maybe. Probably. I can't think.' Ali left the room, the two men staring after her, and ran upstairs to collect her overnight bag.

Within fifteen minutes, she and Don were on the road home.

Hooker took a tangerine taffeta dress off the rail, held it up against himself and gave a twirl in front of the mirror, pulling a face. ‘What do you think, Rory?' He sucked in his cheeks, put his hand on his hip, and strutted across the shop trying to get a laugh from the boy who half-heartedly obliged but then looked away, embarrassed. Lou looked on, not allowing herself more than the briefest smile.

‘And here's just the thing for you, birdbrain.' Hooker picked a wide-brimmed hat decorated with pheasant feathers and flipped it onto Rory's head where it sat at an angle, obscuring his eyes.

‘Careful!' Lou lunged for the hat as Rory's fingers reached upwards. She removed it from his head before any harm could be done. ‘I don't want it damaged.'

‘Can't think who'd want to wear that dead duck anyway,' said Hooker, hanging up the dress, checking his devoted audience of one was still amused. He wasn't.

‘Pheasant,' corrected Lou. ‘And it's beautiful.' Balancing the hat with her hand in the crown, she stroked the brim along the lie of the feathers.

‘To you maybe,' said Hooker, continuing to explore the rest of the rail, but without really looking at what he touched. ‘Not to us, though. Eh, Rory?'

But Rory had lost interest in Hooker's games and was beginning to unpack his rucksack on the floor: an iPod Touch, a well-thumbed copy of a Harry Potter paperback, a map of the London Underground, a pack of cards and the obligatory Nintendo DS. On his hands and knees, he corralled them into a pile. Lou couldn't help but notice that the easy-going lad of Saturday had transformed into a different, less outgoing child, apparently unhappy about today's arrangement. They were at least at one on that.

‘Perhaps not right in the middle of the shop, Rory. You'll be interrupted.' She gestured to a space behind the counter. ‘Why don't you take them to the cutting table at the back?'

‘Come on, Lou. You can't make him disappear,' Hooker mocked her.

‘I'm not trying to.' She was not going to let him under her skin. ‘I'm just trying to find somewhere he'll be undisturbed and to make room for the customers at the same time. How many times do I have to tell you, Hooker? This is my business, and I want it to work.'

‘Depends on your definition of business.' He tapped the end of his nose with his index finger before squatting by his young son who had already ensconced himself beneath the table.

She refused to rise to the bait. How she loathed his superiority, the smug self-satisfaction that oozed from him sometimes. But as he bent over the computer game, a snapshot memory of him doing the same with Jamie and
Tom when they were on holiday in Wales momentarily took her breath away. There had been good times. These were only qualities that emerged when he needed to cover up how ill at ease he was.

He straightened up, mussing the boy's hair. ‘Now, don't give Lou any trouble. And I'm expecting to see this finished by the time Tom and I see you this evening. Tomorrow we'll do something together to make up. Right?'

But Rory's attention was already involved in a fast-moving shoot-‘em-up, thumbs moving swiftly over the console, iPod Touch on, earphones in. He didn't look up.

Hooker shrugged his shoulders and gave Lou a look that conveyed both indulgence and pride in the fruit of his loins. ‘I owe you a thank-you, you know. He and I would never have had the chance to get to know each other like this, if it weren't for your insisting. Having him around has taken me back to the old days. You and I were quite a team.'

‘Quite a lopsided one, as it turned out,' Lou snapped, acid tongued, at the same time registering that Rory's enjoyment of this new relationship wasn't quite as obvious as Hooker's. Why should he get away with rewriting history in his favour? ‘Being good with the children is only part of being a decent parent. I've told you that before.'

‘Oh, loosen up, Lou. We were. And there's no reason why we shouldn't be again. Did you have a chance to speak to Nic?' The question was almost throwaway but Lou heard how much her answer mattered. She decided to ignore what he'd said before that.

‘Not yet.'

His face fell. He traced a pattern on the counter with his
finger. His disappointment was obvious. However, he quickly recovered himself. ‘Having Rory here has really made me think about us.' He picked up his briefcase, smart in his navy blue cashmere coat, and directed one of his most winning smiles at her. ‘I want you to think again too. Seriously. About us getting back together.' He mouthed the last words so Rory wouldn't hear. Without giving her a chance to reply, he left the shop, turning just to say, ‘Back at seven. See you then.'

She stared after him in disbelief, wanting to laugh at the preposterousness of his suggestion and the extraordinary degree of self-belief that it betrayed. Were they provoked by his knowledge that she had another man somewhere in her life? Was the idea that she might have found someone to replace him too hard for his ego to accept? Or was there something more genuine there? She returned to the table and switched on the iron. ‘Well, Rory, this may not be the most exciting day ever, but we'll just have to make the best of it.' Her words fell on deaf ears. His mood communicated itself through the deafening silence punctuated only by the odd tinny snatch of music that escaped his headphones. To lighten the mood, she put on her old Fred and Ginger collection. Humming to the soundtrack of
Top Hat
, she unfolded the dress that she'd completed at home the previous day and laid it on the ironing board. This was a new style inspired by something she had seen online: a floral cotton lawn short-sleeved wrapover dress with pockets on the bodice.

The day stretched grimly ahead of them. Her normal pleasure in being at the shop was disturbed by having Rory
at the other end of the table. She hadn't the first idea how she would entertain him when he got bored, as he inevitably would. The iron hissed steam and she began to work it over the fabric.

‘Morning!' Ali burst through the door, armed with carrier bags that she dropped in front of the counter. ‘I've got some stuff for you.'

Lou looked up, surprised by the earliness of the visit. ‘God, narrow escape. You've just missed Hooker.'

‘Shit!' Ali noticed Rory and put her hand over her mouth.

‘Don't worry, he can't hear a thing. How did the weekend go? Tell me while I finish this off, then we can have a proper look at what you've got.' As she ironed into the bodice, carefully arranging the fabric as she went, inhaling the comforting smell of hot damp new fabric, Lou heard out the story of Ali and Don's visit to Eric.

By the time she'd finished, Ali's earlier sunniness had vanished. ‘Why wasn't I enough for her? I'll never be able to find out now. And my bloody father won't be able to tell me. I'll never forgive him.'

‘But you must.' The firmness in Lou's voice made Ali glance at her.

‘You're joking? After what he's done? When I think of the teasing I went through at school ‘cause my mum had run away. I cut myself off from my friends, stopped asking them round to the house, just so I wouldn't have to listen to it. I couldn't look for her because I knew that if she'd wanted me, she would have stayed, but there was always the smallest chance that she'd come back, that she'd discover
that whatever she'd gone to wasn't as good as what she'd left behind. If he'd told me …'

‘He's your only family though. That's important. Try and put yourself in his shoes.' Lou ignored Ali's defiant expression. ‘He made those decisions for your sake, however wrong-headed they were.' She stuck a pin into the pincushion on the back of her wrist, trying but unable to imagine the dark place in which Ali's mother must have found herself. As a mother, the idea of abandoning a child was unthinkable. Lou's children were what had always kept her going, even when at their most unspeakable. In between the teenage strops and tantrums, there were periods – albeit they were sometimes very short indeed – of unalloyed happiness, worth every moment.

‘He was thinking of himself too.' Ali went on the defensive. ‘He said as much.'

‘Maybe. But times were different then. Mental illness and suicide carried a stigma they don't have today. The letter said that she'd tried before, didn't it?'

Ali nodded.

‘Think what it must have been like for him, then. How difficult it must have been as well as trying to keep his family together. He must have been desperate. And then having to look after his daughter on his own – and you weren't exactly easy, you told me yourself. It must have been incredibly difficult.'

‘Well, if he hadn't shut everyone else out …' muttered Ali.

‘He is who he is. You can't change that. But why don't you at least go back and talk to him again. Find out more
about her, her illness. Then you might understand a little better and feel less angry.'

‘Why are you so damn sensible? You sound just like Don.' However, Ali sounded as if she might be beginning to come round.

‘Years of children and being a parent. And years of hearing other parents' chat. We all do what we think is best and more often than not, it isn't. God, listen to me! I'll get off the soapbox.' Hanging up the dress, Lou stood back to consider her handiwork. The quality was as good as anything on the high street, but the style and fabric were much more interesting. ‘Just think about it anyway.'

‘OK. I'll do that. But I'm not promising anything else. End of.'

With the discussion closed, Lou changed the subject. ‘Now, if you're really sure you want to offload her stuff, let's have a look.'

Still looking thoughtful, Ali bent down to pick up her bag. ‘There's nothing designer, but some nice retro-cool stuff.' She took out a jewellery roll and lay it on the counter. ‘But what I really wanted to show you first were these. A couple of new pieces from me, but more importantly …' She pulled out a sketchpad and opened it. ‘In silver.'

Lou studied the drawings. At the top of each page was the sketch of a flower – sweet pea, iris, violet, orchid – in precise detail. Beneath each one were sketches to illustrate the development into a necklace, earrings or a bracelet from the original. ‘These are exquisite. But they're not your style. Who made them?'

‘Rick, the guy I share my studio with. I was thinking that
you needed a bigger selection here and some people do prefer silver. His work's fantastic. He's started working on a technique that makes the silver curve into the shapes he wants. It's …' She stopped. Lou wasn't listening but was studying the drawings. ‘He hasn't had much luck recently, so I thought he could do a few drawings for you to see. The workmanship will be fantastic, I guarantee.'

‘But I couldn't commission them.' Her budget was stretched enough as it was.

‘No, no. Same deal as we have. He makes, you sell and cream off a percentage.'

‘We … ell.' Lou hesitated.

‘Come on, Lou. You know you want to. I didn't suggest it before because I wanted to see how my own stuff went. But this makes sense. I tell you what: I'll take Rory to get a coffee and some of those Italian biscuit things that Stefano does. You have a rummage and a think. We'll come back and I'll take away what you don't want, including the drawings.'

Lou agreed. The scent of the chase was in her nostrils, and she was grateful to have Rory taken care of by someone else even if only for a few minutes.

By the time the two of them returned, she had been through everything. A neat pile of four jumpers and a couple of blouses sat on the counter next to several dresses and a couple of fitted jackets. She was studying Rick's designs again when the door clicked open. ‘OK,' she said, looking up. ‘Let's give him a try. I've marked the ones that I think will go best – to start with anyway. What did you get, Rory?'

‘Lemonade and chocolate cake,' he muttered as he slid by her, back to the table. She looked questioningly at Ali.

‘No harm in spoiling him,' Ali justified herself. ‘It must be difficult. Anyway, Rick …' She threw her arms around Lou. ‘I knew you'd like them. And you don't want these?' She indicated the few items Lou had put back in the bags.

‘It's not that I don't like them, but they're not in as good nick as this lot. I'll have to put the jumpers in the freezer just in case of moths but otherwise everything's perfect. Stitching good, linings undamaged, buttons all there. I'm photographing some stuff for the website tomorrow so I'll include them.'

‘Excellent. My work is done, then.' Ali gathered everything up and headed for the door. ‘I'll give you a call to let you know when Rick can deliver. Let's catch up later.'

The rest of the morning passed slowly. Eventually Rory got bored and emerged from under the table. Then the talking began. He wanted to know which station came after Bounds Green on the Piccadilly line, then to be tested on all the stations on the Central line, then the Bakerloo line. Playing along meant she couldn't fully concentrate on her sewing. Then he went into a long explanation about the Transport for London rolling stock, how it had been transferred from one line to another and how the sizes of the tunnels change depending on the line. Just as she was beginning to lose the ability to pretend interest not to mention the will to live, her prayers were answered and a customer appeared. For about an hour, the woman tried on almost everything from the vintage-inspired rail, turning in front of the mirror, asking Lou's opinion. Lou watched as the
dresses she made were put under intense scrutiny, one after another. Her role was simply to comment or offer a brooch, a belt or a bag. Eventually, just as she was beginning to think the time totally wasted and to wonder whether she should order a pizza for Rory, a decision was made: one dress sold and one commissioned in a size up from the display sample.