The Winners, page 5
It is now a whole week since Joan died, the worst week of my life and indeed of my wife’s and son’s lives. The police came in the early morning for Mary, three uniformed officers and one detective, four strapping men to take away one tiny woman. They cautioned and arrested her on a charge of unlawful killing. I could hardly believe it when they put handcuffs on her bony wrists.
Were they afraid this shadow of a woman would escape or fight them off? She looked so frail, almost skin and bone now, with unhealthy sallow skin, but she tried to smile as they took her. Malcolm had heard the doorbell and came downstairs, sobbing as he watched his mother being led away. How can you explain such events to a child? But I was all he had left; there was no indication of how long Mary would be gone, and I was utterly ignorant of such matters.
The detective advised me to employ the services of a solicitor, a task which must be done as soon as possible for Mary’s sake. Surely, they would let her come home; it was apparent how ill she was. Taking Malcolm with me, I made my way to the only firm of solicitors I knew in Liverpool, Jenkins, Smith and Wilson, who had handled Joan’s will. They were very kind and efficient, a receptionist finding a drink and biscuits for Malcolm while I spoke with Mr Jenkins, a thin, wiry man with a long face and pointed chin, who advised me to be truthful, so I related every detail I could recall.
The solicitor sat silent and solemn behind a massive oak desk, elbows spaced on the leather top, hands clasped, and forefingers steepled.
Nodding encouragingly, Mr Jenkins did not interrupt and allowed me to finish my story, after which he stood and walked around to my side of the desk, put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently. I saw empathy in his eyes as he returned to be seated again, pulled a notepad towards him and started to ask questions. When these were answered to the best of my ability, I asked some of my own, anxious to know what would happen to Mary, mainly whether the police would allow her home.
The answers were reassuring; he was almost sure Mary would be allowed home on bail due to the circumstances of the charges and her illness, but there was no time to waste. He would go to the police station immediately, advising me to take Malcolm home to await news. It was not quite midday when we set off home, but the day had already seemed endless, with still more hours stretching before me into an unknown destiny.
It was almost an impossible task to console Malcolm. He asked questions I had no answers to, yet I tried to be as truthful as possible, urging patience, which I could barely find within myself.
At four in the afternoon, the doorbell chimed for the second time that day, and my heart leapt. Surely it could only be good news? It was; Mr Jenkins stood with Mary, all but propping her up as he helped her over the doorstep. The relief I felt soon turned to apprehension as I asked about the charges, bail and the dozens of other things swimming through my mind.
Mr Jenkins was patient and informative and talked us through the following process. Mary was bailed to report to the police station daily, with instructions not to leave the city. Having her home was such a relief. We could truthfully tell Malcolm that his mother would not be taken away in such a manner again.
I hoped we could spare our son the details of the ‘crime’ his mother was accused of, but bad news travels fast. The very next day, he came home from school at midday, face streaked with dirt and tears, trousers ripped at the knee, and several bruises on his arms and legs. Through the sobbing, he told us of the bullying and taunts which had occurred, and we comforted him as best as we could.
Feelings of guilt descended upon me; how could I have been so stupid as to think the news wouldn’t have reached our son’s school? I decided to keep him at home until things settled down, without actually knowing if the situation would improve at all, but I couldn’t let my son suffer at the hands of school bullies. Whatever is to become of us?
Bill Grainger had broken the news of Joan’s death as gently as possible but it was still a significant blow to the young boy, a blow Malcolm remembered all too well, even now all these years later.
For a few days, life continued as usual. However, a heavy sadness hung over the house and Malcolm could sense the anxiety of both his parents without fully understanding the complexities of the situation. Today, he could only vaguely remember the police taking away his mother and the trip into the city with his father to see a man in a dusty old office. The first intimation that his grandmother had not died an entirely natural death came cruelly in the school playground at the hands of Phillip Rapier, the school bully. Malcolm remembered the blows, physical and emotional. Rapier repeated over and over that his mother was a murderer, and others blindly joined in with the accusations! Malcolm had run home from school even though it was only lunchtime and had never returned.
The sound of the front door opening jolted Malcolm back to the present. Looking at the clock, he realised it was long past lunchtime. Julie was home and certainly did not expect him to be there.
‘Hi, Julie,’ he tried to steady his voice as he descended from the attic.
‘Whatever are you doing home… and in the attic again?’
He kissed her on the cheek; it was time for some serious talking. ‘Let me make you some tea and then I need to tell you something.’
Julie’s brow furrowed at this comment; her husband wasn’t a great one for talking, and this sounded rather ominous.
‘Is everything okay, with the kids, I mean?’
‘Yes, everyone’s fine. There’s something I need to tell you about, something I should have told you years ago.’ Malcolm’s heavy sigh hinted at the seriousness of what he wanted to say as he led his wife into the lounge to commence his story.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Julie sat frozen; her face drained of colour. The tea beside her had long gone cold, forgotten, as she stared into Malcolm’s eyes, struggling to absorb the story he had just unravelled.
‘Your mother was charged with murdering your grandmother?’ Her voice came out in a whisper, but the weight of her disbelief hung heavy in the air.
Malcolm gave a slow nod. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
Julie’s breath hitched. ‘And you didn’t tell me… because?’
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘It’s not exactly something I’m proud of, Julie. I thought… maybe you wouldn’t want to marry me if you knew.’
Her stomach twisted. ‘So our marriage started with a lie. And not just a little white one!’
‘Don’t say that, love…’ Malcolm’s voice was gentle, almost pleading, but it only fuelled the fire raging inside her.
Julie shot to her feet so suddenly that the teacup toppled, shattering against the floor. The sharp sound barely registered. Snatching up her coat and bag, she stormed to the door, flung it open, and slammed it shut behind her.
From the window, she felt Malcolm’s gaze on her as she marched down the garden path. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered that she should have stayed, that they should have talked this through. But fury drowned out reason. No wonder he had always been so evasive about his past. She had never pressed him, never wanted to open up old wounds, but this? His mother had killed his grandmother? It was unthinkable.
The rain lashed against her coat as she wrapped it tighter around herself, hurrying to the bus stop. As if on cue, the bus screeched to a halt, and she stepped aboard, barely registering her surroundings.
Twenty minutes later, she sat curled in the corner of a quiet Costa, her hands wrapped around a steaming coffee. The warmth seeped into her fingers, but inside, she was still cold. Her head bowed, her mind raced. What else hadn’t he told her?
‘Penny for them!’ A voice broke into her reverie, and she looked up to see Sean standing before her.
‘Oh, hi. Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘D’you mind if I join you, or do you need some space?’
‘Please, sit down.’ Julie forced a smile. Had she come here hoping to see Sean? Surely not, but it was good to see a friendly face. ‘How are things with your mum?’
‘Pretty much the same. She says there’s a tree growing in the corner of her room and the birds wake her up too early – and then the staff are stealing her clothes and selling them to M&S.’ He grinned and Julie laughed, despite her glum mood.
‘That’s better. You looked as if you had the cares of the world on your shoulders when I first saw you, and I’d pegged you for a glass-half-full person.’ His smile was infectious.
‘Sorry. I’ve nothing to grumble about; in fact, life’s been rather good to me lately, but then typically, along comes something to take the shine off it all.’
‘Life can throw bricks and bubbles in the same day.’
‘Yes, what a lovely way to look at it. I think I’ll have to try harder to dodge the bricks.’
‘If talking about it helps, I’ve been told I’m a good listener, and you listened to my moans and groans last week. I owe you one.’ That smile again. Julie found herself warming to him.
‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’ She grinned.
‘Try me.’ He took a sip of his coffee and leaned back in the chair.
‘Well, I’ve recently won the lottery.’ Julie paused to watch his reaction.
Sean frowned at first, then raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes, twenty-two million pounds serious.’ Again, she watched his face as a mixture of expressions travelled across it.
He half laughed and shook his head. ‘I’ve never met a millionaire before. Why so sad when you have the world at your feet?’
Julie drew a deep breath. ‘Initially, it was a dream come true. You know how everyone talks about what they would do if they won millions? Well, we have, but things have been quite bizarre since, which is probably my fault… You wouldn’t believe the begging letters we’ve had, parents pleading for cash to take their sick children abroad for treatment, men telling us they’re dying and their families will be left penniless. Even people who say they run animal shelters and the bailiffs are after them, and they’ve no money to feed the animals. People are so cunning; I’m afraid I’ve become rather sceptical of such letters. I almost expect them to be lies but to be fair, the lottery people warned us about this sort of unwanted attention.’ Julie paused for a moment, reflecting on recent experiences.
Sean took the opportunity to ask, ‘Why do you say it’s probably your fault?’
‘Well, I agreed to do an interview with the local paper, which, with hindsight, was maybe a stupid thing to do. Mal, my husband, was against it, but I was so happy, living on a cloud and naively expecting everyone to be pleased for us. Many of them are, but the reaction of others has been a real eye-opener. We’ve got neighbours who would hardly give us the time of day before suddenly acting like our best friends. I don’t think I’m gullible, but you start to wonder. Some of our real friends, though, have gone the other way, almost cutting us off in case we think they’re after our money. It’s quite surreal and turns your whole world upside down. Then there are the hate letters. They’re the worst of all. Strangers who don’t know us from Adam say the most appalling things, telling us we don’t deserve the money, and they hope it kills us! I can’t understand the motive for such behaviour. And I’m amazed at how easily they can find our address.’
‘Hmm, I can see how upsetting it could be. Is that what was getting you down today?’ Sean’s blue eyes stared into hers, and for a moment, Julie thought she might cry.
‘Not only that.’ She sniffed back her tears. ‘My husband’s told me something from his past, which is quite upsetting. I could have understood it, but I can’t accept him keeping it a secret for so long.’
‘Julie, you don’t have to tell me any more if it’s painful for you.’ Sean reached over the table and covered her hand with his. She snatched her hand away, and the hurt look in his eyes made her regret her reaction.
‘Sorry. I’ll not bore you with the details. It’s a problem I have to work out with Malcolm. You must think me a right grouch. I’ve had the most wonderful win, something most people would kill for, and I’m moaning about a petty argument.’
‘No. I think you’re a very lovely and sensitive woman. Money doesn’t guarantee happiness and isn’t the most important thing in life. Having people who love you is far better than great wealth. Your Malcolm is a lucky man.’ There was a sadness in his eyes, which Julie hoped she hadn’t caused. ‘Look, I’m off to see a solicitor about the sale of Mum’s house. Let me give you my mobile number, and if you want to talk again, I’ll be happy to listen. I’m staying in Burnbridge for at least another week.’ Sean scribbled his number on a serviette and passed it to Julie.
‘Thank you.’ She smiled at him. ‘I must get off home too.’
The physical contact with Sean both troubled and excited Julie. On the bus, she found herself fantasising about his touch, wondering what it would be like to kiss him. She’d never kissed anyone since meeting Malcolm and the thought was both thrilling and disturbing.
‘Excuse me.’ The lady next to her wanted to leave her seat, and as she stood to allow her to pass, her face flushed as if the woman could read her mind. Sitting back down, Julie scolded herself for such foolish daydreams. Sean probably just felt sorry for her, but the look in his eyes had suggested otherwise.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When she returned home, Julie barely spoke to Malcolm, and as he didn’t ask where she’d been, the information was not volunteered.
The cool atmosphere prevailed throughout the evening. ‘I’m taking Trixie out now. Do you want to come?’ Mal asked. Julie shook her head. Often, they took the dog together for her last evening walk; it was an opportunity to talk and catch up with the day’s events and they usually slept better for the exercise. Malcolm was disappointed to go alone, but Trixie’s excitement made him smile. He put her harness on and scratched behind her ears. ‘Come on then, girl, let’s go.’
The tension was as thick when Mal returned. At around 9pm, Julie disappeared upstairs, announcing she was having an early night.
The atmosphere was equally strained in the morning. ‘Are you going to work?’ Julie asked, barely glancing at her husband.
‘Yes, perhaps we can talk when I come home? I know this has been a shock, but we need to discuss it. I’m truly sorry I didn’t tell you about my mother before. It was wrong of me… Can we move on or at least talk about it? Julie, please. We’ve always managed to sort out our problems before…’ No reply was forthcoming, so Malcolm silently gathered his things for work and left without Julie’s customary goodbye kiss.
Julie banged about in the kitchen, cleaning an already spotless oven and sweeping the floor of imaginary crumbs. When there were no more tasks to complete, she slumped at the kitchen table with a mug of tea, rested her head in her hands and sighed. Malcolm’s attitude to their win and the resulting publicity was beginning to make sense now.
If only he’d explained, she would never have agreed to speak to the reporter, but Malcolm wasn’t one for cosy heart-to-hearts, the strong silent type she’d always joked, but perhaps not so strong now? The lottery win brought excitement and delight; their children’s futures looked so much more positive, and there was security for their old age and money to enjoy some of the good things in life. Yet now, it was wholly overshadowed by something as distasteful and ugly as her husband keeping secrets.
Julie was trying hard to come to terms with her disappointment with Malcolm. He’d never been a strong character; even when the children were little and misbehaved, it fell to her to discipline them. Sometimes, she wished he’d be more decisive and not so easily swayed, but then his easy-going nature was a part of his character she’d fallen in love with.
A sudden memory surfaced, catching Julie off guard – one that reminded her of Malcolm’s rarely seen softer side. One evening, he had come home looking unusually hesitant, cradling something small in his arms. It was a tiny, shivering puppy. His workmate, who bred dogs as a hobby, had recently welcomed a litter of toy poodles. But one of the pups had been born with a deformed leg. Considered unsellable and not worth the cost of surgery, the breeder had decided to have the pup put to sleep.
It was exactly the kind of story that would tug at Malcolm’s heart. Without a second thought, he had offered to take the puppy, bringing her home without so much as considering Julie’s reaction.
At first, she had been exasperated. They hadn’t discussed getting a dog, let alone one that would need expensive veterinary care. But all her protests dissolved the moment the tiny creature licked her face, her tail wagging frantically as if she somehow knew she had been saved.
They named her Trixie, and before long, she had stolen both their hearts. When the vet confirmed that her leg needed amputation, Julie and Malcolm didn’t hesitate. The money they had been saving for a holiday went toward the surgery instead. And they never regretted it. Trixie adapted effortlessly, her three-legged gait a charming mix of a wobble and a skip. She never seemed to notice she was different and became Malcolm’s shadow, trailing him everywhere, her bright eyes full of unwavering devotion. Now, as Julie sat reminiscing, she smiled, reaching down to stroke Trixie’s soft fur. The little dog looked up at her with that same trusting gaze. She couldn’t imagine life without her.
Reaching for one of the holiday brochures from the growing pile on the dresser, Julie flicked through it thoughtfully. Images of ecstatic families enjoying the luxurious resorts filled every page, images she’d assumed could be them in the not-too-distant future. They’d almost agreed on which hotel to stay in, and the family was getting together that evening to finalise their travel plans. But first, they needed to be told of Malcolm’s past, and perhaps the knowledge of what their grandfather and father had gone through would help them understand why their dad was reluctant to broadcast their good fortune.
Another pile of letters sat on the dresser, and Julie opened a few before Mal came home. She couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer variety of requests – everything from heartbreaking sob stories to outright begging and, in some cases, downright spiteful hate mail. The first letter was immediately torn up after just a few words – one of the nastier ones that was best ignored. The second, however, made her laugh.
