Fly in the Ointment Read online

  Now my brief tangle with Janie Gay had shredded it, the worries spun like feathers round my head.

  I had ignored the problem long enough. Something would have to be done.

  14

  EASY THINGS FIRST. Over the next few days I filled a large plastic laundry tub with second-hand toys just right for a child of his age. I rummaged happily through charity shops each lunch time and on Saturday morning. There were some real finds. I was continually astonished at the high quality of things I managed to unearth, and their low prices. I bought a bear on wheels, a complicated but sturdy garage with ramps and a carwash area, an inspection pit and even a little working wind-up lift to the car park on top. I found a set of jigsaws on a farm-animal theme. Someone had taken the trouble to draw a symbol on the back of each little wooden piece so, though the colours of all three pictures were similarly bright, it would be easy to sort the bits into the right boxes whenever they got muddled.

  Just in case, I threw in a small selection of the sort of toys that any baby in a normal home would have already: an interesting rattle, a cuddly owl, a box of bricks and bright plastic rings stacked on a cone. I found a good jack-in-the-box, and even bought one of those flat plastic affairs designed to hang in the cot that offer a fat round mirror and various buttons to flick or twirl or press to make things spin, or set a nursery tune playing.

  That evening, I wrote a note: Dear Janie Gay, I was just chucking things out and thought you might be able to use these. After a bit of thought, I signed it ‘M’. Janie Gay might scratch her head, but no doubt like the rest of us she lived in a world of Margarets and Michelles, of Megans and Marys, and was unlikely to be suspicious.

  Next morning I got up an hour before dawn, loaded the car, and drove to Forth Hill. I parked as close to Janie Gay’s house as I dared. There wasn’t a soul about, and not a sound, except for odd scatterings of birdsong. First I slid out the large and unwieldy garage. I took great care with Janie Gay’s broken gate for fear it would creak and wake her or the baby. Propping the garage against it to hold it open, I went back for the plastic basket, then tiptoed up the path. Not overly trusting her neighbours, I went round the side, out of sight of the street. A motorbike festooned with chains made it quite awkward to get past, and at the back the crumbling concrete path gave way to the scuffed earth of a pocket-handkerchief garden. I put the basket down a step or two before my shadow fell across the window. Suppose she was up? I tucked the note I’d written under one wing of the furry owl, and hurried back to fetch the garage. Then I slipped away, feeling as cheery and triumphant as any bank-robber after the perfect heist.

  Flushed with success, I went back to the charity shop the following week. I can’t really say what I was after this time. More toys? A sailor hat? Some bedtime-story books? But from the moment I walked through the door I saw what I wanted. It was propping open the door to the stockroom: a padded child’s safety seat – one of the sort that fits in any make of car.

  I lugged it over to the woman behind the sales desk. ‘How much is this?’

  She said she couldn’t sell it. It was their policy, she explained. No second-hand electrical goods, no helmets and no car seats. ‘Just in case.’

  ‘Just in case what?’

  ‘In case they don’t work properly.’ Her tone of voice made her contempt for such a jobsworth policy perfectly plain. ‘In case they’re “compromised”, they tell us. No longer “fit for the purpose”.’

  ‘So what’s it doing here,’ I asked her, ‘tempting a browser like me?’

  ‘It was left in the doorway along with a heap of other stuff that was there when we opened.’

  ‘Oh, right.’

  The other Lois would have left the matter there – felt a bit irritated as she walked away, and forgotten before she reached the corner. But there was a new Lois now – a bold, uncaring Lois who could be conjured out of me as easily as a wig can be lifted from a box. I drove straight home, and changed out of my blouse and skirt into a pair of slacks and a smart sweater. I tugged on the wig, put on the glasses that I’d worn to the funeral, and drove straight back.

  Here was a test. This time I wasn’t sneaking into a shadowy chapel at the last minute. I stood in the full light of the charity-shop window facing a woman I’d talked to less than an hour before.

  She didn’t blink.

  Neither did I. ‘I am so sorry!’ I gushed. ‘You see, this morning, by mistake, my husband left our grandchild’s car seat with a heap of stuff I’d asked him to drop off on his way to—’

  I didn’t even finish. Already she’d interrupted, expressing her delight that the car seat had found its way home. She threaded her way between the overstuffed racks towards the storeroom at the back, still cheerfully chatting. ‘We couldn’t have sold it anyhow. And it’s not as if the things are cheap. My daughter-in-law recently had to buy one, and I was shocked at how much she had to pay.’

  She handed it over, not looking in the least bit puzzled by anything about me. Clearly, once I was in the wig, even my voice became some unobtrusive part of me that wasn’t noticed. From sheer relief (not to mention a stab of guilt at getting a perfectly good car seat for nothing) I pressed some money into the donation box and walked out, glowing with triumph.

  It was so easy, I had realized. Nobody ever looked twice. Curly red hair worked like a mask. It was the only thing that people saw, so you could be a whole new self without a tremor. Is that what gave me the confidence to make the first little visit? For that is how I thought of it: ‘the little visit’. That’s even what I called it as I prepared. On the drive to and from work, and in the shower, and wiping down the surfaces after my supper, I would run practice conversations through my head, imagine all sorts of scenarios. I faced the fact that Janie Gay might be in any sort of mood from indifferent to virulent. (I somehow couldn’t imagine her being nice.) I tried to think how I would deal with any line she took. I worked out all the lies I might be pushed to tell. And, bearing in mind the temper that caused her to lash out at Malachy under the bridge all that long time ago, I even warned myself over and over to make sure that, whatever happened, I had the sense to stay between her and the door.

  And then I took an afternoon off work. (‘Good on you, Lois. Doing something nice?’) I drove halfway, pulled on the wig in the privacy of a church car park, then drove on to the estate and walked with confidence up the short pitted path to Janie Gay’s front door.

  I pressed the doorbell. There was a shuffling noise. I pictured Janie Gay burying her feet into a pair of furry high-heeled mules and scowling (‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! What is it now?’), and nearly lost my nerve. But it was too late to turn back.

  The door was opened by the very same floppy-haired lad who’d led the way to this same house after the funeral.

  ‘Sssh! Don’t wake Larry.’

  At last! If I did nothing more than turn and flee I would have managed something. I would have learned the baby’s name. Larry.

  The boy was eyeing me rather as if he too might be remembering that we’d seen one another before. I felt a stab of nerves, but even before I had the time to say another word he’d opened the door wider. ‘Janie Gay’s not here. But I suppose you’d better come in.’

  It sounded a good deal more fatalistic than welcoming, but still I stepped in the hallway. He put out a hand to push open the door to the living room, then clearly thought better of that and went on to the kitchen. It was a whole lot cleaner and brighter than I’d imagined – tidy even, apart from a mouldering armchair jammed in the corner and the clutter of toys on the floor. I recognized the stacking bricks and loops of different colours, and felt my first ever wash of warmth for Janie Gay. At least she hadn’t thrown them out.

  And then I heard the squawk and noticed the cot in the corner. ‘Oh!’

  The boy was grinning. ‘Nobody sees him till he makes a noise. But it’s a whole lot warmer down here than in that bedroom. I put that board up so he can’t get splashed from the oven. But sometimes, when he�
��s asleep, even I can forget that he’s in here.’

  The squawk had turned into a determined wail. The boy reached over to scoop up the baby. Larry.

  Instantly the wailing stopped, and with the baby nestling against him, the young man temporarily seemed to forget that I was there as he soothed Larry. ‘Had a good long nap? Want some milk? Course you do. There’s my boy. Who’s a clever old thing?’ The whole time he was chuntering away, he was using his free hand to dig in a cupboard for a saucepan, then reach in the fridge. He discarded one carton. ‘No, that’s not your milk, is it, Larry boy? Yours is the proper stuff, isn’t it? There we go. Not long now. Just hang on a moment while Daddy warms it.’

  Daddy? Could that be true? Of course it was always possible, knowing what little I did of people Janie Gay’s age and their lives. And what a great relief that would turn out to be. But on the other hand, the word might mean nothing. I thought back to something one of Malachy’s teachers told me once, in an attempt to console me after some misdemeanour of my son’s that had filled me with shame: ‘He’s in with a challenging bunch of boys, Mrs Henderson. A lot of them lack stability. Do you know, walking behind a pair of them yesterday, I even heard one saying to the other, as casually as you like, “You’ve got my old dad now, haven’t you?” What do you think about that?’

  So maybe this was indeed my real and only grandson, and this was his very first ‘new dad’ so deftly pouring the milk one-handed into the pan, and lighting the gas by striking the match along the edge of the box tucked under his chin. I watched him dip in a finger to check the chill was off the milk, hold up the empty bottle against the light to make sure it was clean, then pour.

  Before the bottle was even halfway full, the baby was reaching to grab it. ‘You need three hands,’ I told him. ‘Can I help?’ He held out the bottle and I twisted the top in place. The baby snatched it with both hands, and together they fell in the armchair, looking the picture of comfort, the boy with his feet sprawled and Larry curled in his arms.

  And then the boy turned towards me. His whole demeanour changed.

  ‘So,’ he said coldly. ‘Who are you after? Me – or Janie Gay?’

  ‘After?’

  ‘Oh, don’t play games! I’m good on faces. I recognize you from poor old Mally’s funeral. We had you sussed even back then. You have to be some sort of police nark.’

  I don’t know what came over me, I really don’t. I’d wasted all those hours inventing stories about starting a local playgroup, wanting to know if Janie Gay would answer a survey on shopping patterns, or asking if she had seen my missing dog.

  And what came out?

  ‘Nonsense!’ I snapped. ‘I’m not a police officer. Nor some undercover agent or part of the drug squad. I was at Malachy’s funeral because I’m a social worker and Malachy was on my files. Now I’ve moved areas, into child health, and so I’m here to check that Laurence has reached his first-year developmental milestones.’

  ‘Milestones?’

  ‘You know. What he can do. And what he can’t.’

  Was the defensive look clearing? ‘Really? That’s all you’re here for?’

  Oh, I was on a roll. ‘Didn’t you get the appointment card? That tells you what it’s all about.’

  He looked a little shamefaced. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see that.’

  ‘Well, never mind. It’s perfectly simple. If Janie Gay’s not here, I’ll just go through things with you.’ I started scrabbling in my bag for a pen. ‘So, just to get things straight, you’re . . .?’

  ‘Me? My name’s Guy.’

  Who would have thought I had it in me?

  ‘And I’m Mrs Kuperschmidt.’

  15

  YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE what you can learn in half an hour when you’ve a smiling and cooperative baby and a relieved young man. I must have left that house the most satisfied grandmother on earth. Laurence could walk. He could say ‘Dada’ and ‘milk’ and ‘more’ and ‘no’ and ‘munny’ (for monkey; there was no sign of my cuddly owl). With lots of encouragement he could do a fairly neat job of clapping his hands together and waving goodbye. He could run cars up and down the plastic ramps of his garage.

  And he was cosy as toast with his new Dada. When I was leaving (‘Well, that’s all splendid, Guy. Nothing to worry about at all’) he clung to his protector’s legs and stared at me with those enormous eyes.

  ‘Will you be back?’

  I hedged my bets. ‘Somebody will,’ I said. ‘For the next milestone check. It might not be me, of course.’

  ‘Shame,’ he said, with only the statutory tinge of sarcasm I guessed a young man of his sort would feel obliged to show to anyone in authority. I walked out with that feeling of exhilaration you get from realizing you’ve done exactly the right thing at the exact right time. The child was fit and happy. The boy was a born father – better, I had to admit to myself, than Malachy would ever have been. During our unofficial interview I had found out that he was born in Dover, had a string of sisters younger than himself, a mother with three separate jobs, and he’d moved north to work in a stables. (In spite of the motorbike cluttering the side path, it was, it seemed, horses that were his passion.) Then he’d been sacked. I didn’t learn the details, but sensed it might be something to do with petty theft. He had run into Janie Gay on a night out, and though he never said as much, I had the feeling he’d been on the scene before my Malachy. Now he was back again.

  And I was grateful. Frankly, I could have turned and hugged him at the door. Now I could walk away, shrug off the pall of worry hanging over me, and get on with my life. I could –

  But what, exactly? Water the plants in my arbour? Sit at my desk and stare out at herons and swallows? No. Something about the rush of relief that I’d been feeling must have taken hold. Restlessness spread. Instead of going home, I drove to the canal and walked along the path – not to where Malachy drowned; I went the other way, through the park scarred with signs and past converted mills. Something was shifting inside me. I felt different. It was a growing sense of freedom, yes; but much, much stronger than the mere shelving of responsibility.

  And then I realized. It was the end of my old life. My long, long convalescence from living with Stuart and raising Malachy was over.

  Time to stop sleepwalking and start again.

  The things I did. Ceramics. Salsa dancing. Italian classes. It was a massive change. I wasn’t used to going out, or having fun, or even throwing myself into things with enthusiasm. Always before, there had been something eating away at my soul’s edge that spoiled things like that. I probably inherited the feeling. When I looked back, I realized that my parents had never belonged to any clubs or societies – even avoided going to other people’s homes. If there was any excuse to turn down an invitation, they wouldn’t hesitate to use it. When it was hard to refuse, they put on brave faces but took no pleasure in the prospect. All of my mother’s concern fell on to what she should wear, what time they should arrive, how long it would be best to stay and whether or not they should take something with them. (If so, what?) She wouldn’t talk about these deep anxieties, but I’d drift home from school and, going up the stairs, see her forlornly staring into her closets, and guess what was on her mind.

  By the time the day came, the problem had loomed over her so long she was exhausted. She’d put on whichever skirt and top she had decided was the least unsuitable, and inspect herself in the mirror. There’d be no satisfaction in this appraisal. She might as well have been – and probably was – checking for stains and pulled threads. The faintest sigh would give me to understand she’d passed her own unsmiling test. Then she would turn to my father, and carp at him until he finally looked as close to what she called ‘right’ as they could manage between them. Then off they’d go, as if to their own child’s funeral. Brave. Hopeless. This must be endured.

  When they came back the only mood was of relief. ‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’ ‘No,’ – and this added in a tone of guarded astonishment – ‘I q
uite enjoyed it. They were very nice.’

  In my own marriage, things weren’t all that different. Unlike my parents, Stuart wasn’t ill at ease on social occasions; he simply couldn’t be bothered to get involved in them. Throughout the month I might make a string of suggestions. ‘Shall we invite some people round for a drink?’ ‘Want to go out to eat tonight?’ ‘Perhaps on Friday we could see a film?’ He’d shrug. And, rather than face the fact that his sheer lack of response had cast a pall over the notion, I’d tell myself I hadn’t been that keen in any case, and let the matter drop. The very few times I did complain that he’d ignored a suggestion, he turned defensive. ‘I never said I wouldn’t.’ Or, ‘All right, so I didn’t bring it up again. But neither did you.’

  It’s not till things change that you realize how they were before. I didn’t tell myself, ‘Lois, it’s time to loosen up,’ but that’s what happened. Everything about my life became more cheerful. The people at work noticed the difference in me. Instead of keeping up their habit of discretion, one by one they cracked. ‘You’re looking very merry, Lois. Had a nice weekend?’

  And I would tell them. One day I came in cheerful because the Italian lesson of the evening before had done no more than cover trodden ground and I had realized just how far we’d come. The very next morning I heard myself bewailing the fact that for the second week in a row the salsa class lottery had landed me with the partner I’d privately dubbed ‘Clumsy Claud’. I wasn’t just more chatty about day-to-day matters. Now I began to let things drop about myself and my life. I wasn’t fully honest. But I did gradually let it be known I had a marriage behind me, and a divorce, and mentioned Stuart’s cousins in South Africa often enough for Dana and Audrey to assume that’s where my husband had gone. I even told them that we’d had a son (they were quite shocked) and left them with the half-truth, ‘There was a horrible accident and he was drowned.’ I’m sure they came to think that when I’d first joined them in the office I’d still been eaten up with grief and only now was coming to life again.