‘I don’t have a mistress. I have never had a mistress. I am content simply to have a lovely wife.’ Leo was wearily asking himself, not for the first time, why he bothered. There were times when he thought he might as well acquire a mistress since he was presumed to be guilty of having one anyway. His fidelity and loyalty were neither recognised nor appreciated.

  But how could he do that to Helen? Despite all her insecurities and flaws, he still cared about her and wanted to make their marriage work. He wanted a normal family life, was that so wrong? Perhaps he didn’t feel quite the white heat of their early passion, but he was her husband and would remain loyal and loving.

  When they’d first met he’d been bowled over by her elegance, her serenity which was so utterly beguiling, and by her very evident fascination with himself. He’d found her intensity immensely flattering, her long thoughtful silences intriguing. She had fine blond hair cropped very short with a feathery fringe, and neatly trimmed eyebrows that winged upwards over cool clear grey eyes.

  Once safely ensconced within the bounds of marriage the coolness had soon thawed and she’d proved to be an ardent and passionate lover. Even now, after eleven years, she was always eager for sex, making it abundantly clear that she was readily available. Almost too available. As a young newly wedded husband her response had thrilled and excited him. Now he found it very slightly disturbing and far from satisfying, in fact almost shallow and insincere. There were times when he would have enjoyed more mystery and have her play a little hard-to-get.

  Marriage to Helen had seemed to offer peace and tranquillity. He’d hoped for warmth and affection, and the kind of family life he yearned for. Unfortunately it had turned out to be anything but tranquil, and with precious little in the way of affection. The reverse side of this delightfully robust sexual appetite was a cool and unemotional personality.

  Leo had always sought to physically show his love for her with warm smiles, a touch to the cheek, a kiss on the lips, and huge bear hugs. None of this was ever forthcoming from Helen and, little by little, she had managed to curb this desire in him too, indicating that it was really rather childish on his part to need such demonstrative proof of her affection.

  Helen seemed to see emotion as weakness, and the slightest conversation he might exchange with another woman as evidence of flirtation at the very least, and more likely adultery.

  A crippling loneliness was creeping over him, as if by not being allowed to mar her lipstick or disturb her expensive coiffure, to touch or to hug her, he was becoming imprisoned in a cold and isolated shell. He was only allowed out when she needed him to satisfy these constant cravings of hers, this passion that could suddenly explode all over him, as if that was the only way she could prove how important he was to her.

  Perhaps it might have been different if they’d been blessed with children but although Helen insisted she wanted them too, she kept putting off the moment for starting a family, and Leo was growing increasingly frustrated.

  ‘If there’s a problem let’s get it looked at and sorted out,’ he’d offered, more than once.

  But she always resisted, refused even to see a doctor. ‘There isn’t a problem. I’ve only just turned thirty so where’s the rush? I’m sure it will happen when the time is right.’

  Leo was less sure, beginning to wonder if indeed it would be right to bring children into such a shaky marriage. He surely needed to somehow solve the problem of her terrible jealousy first.

  Lynda was staring at her mother, fork poised mid-air in shocked surprise. It wasn’t like Mam to be so adamant and difficult. Soft hearted to a fault where her children were concerned, she’d always been the sort to keep open house should any of their friends feel like popping in. ‘I can’t just break my promise to Terry, and let him down like that. It would be rude. What’s got into you, Mam? Not having another of your funny turns, are you?’

  ‘I just fancied a day out with me own family. Nothing wrong in that, is there?’ A shiver rippled down Betty’s spine, as if she heard the distant chuckle of her ex-husband enjoying her discomfiture.

  Lynda’s pretty mouth fell into its habitual sulk. ‘Now you’re making me feel guilty. Oh, Mam, I’m sorry, I really am, only it’s all fixed up. It’s one of those club outings, a sort of rally, and I’ve promised Terry faithfully I’ll go with him. All the other guys will have their girl friends with them and it wouldn’t be fair to stand him up at the last minute. Besides, like I say, I’ve promised him a Sunday lunch. His mother’s dead don’t forget, and his dad’s a dreadful cook so he’s really looking forward to it. Look, I’ll do the cooking if you’re still not feeling well, and we could go next Sunday to Southport instead. How would that do? As you quite rightly say, I do love Lord Street. And for once little brother here could make the effort to come with us. A real family outing, eh?’ She dug him in the ribs. ‘Couldn’t you?’

  ‘Next Sunday’s no good,’ Betty said, before Jake had time to do more than glower, difficult as that was through a mouthful of steak and kidney pudding.

  ‘Why isn’t it? What difference does it make?’

  ‘Because I feel like a break now, not next week, that’s why. I’d set me heart on us going out tomorrow,’ Betty repeated, and once more glanced nervously about her.

  ‘What’s got into you? You’re like a cat on hot bricks, constantly looking around as if you expect the devil himself to emerge like a puff of smoke out of the cobbles.’

  ‘The demon king you mean,’ Betty mumbled, before she could stop herself.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Nothing! Just tell Terry Hall it’s all off tomorrow. You’re coming with me to Southport!’

  ‘Mam! Stop this. I’ve said I’ll cook the flamin’ lunch. I really don’t understand why . . .’ Lynda stopped talking and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘This hasn’t anything to do with that old friend of yours, has it? The one who brought you those roses? You haven’t made plans for him to come with us tomorrow, have you?’

  Jake made a retching sound at the back of his throat. ‘Hells bells, I refuse to be seen out with me own mother and one of her boy friends.’

  ‘Don’t talk daft, I don’t have any boy friends,’ Betty sharply retorted. ‘And no, I haven’t planned anything of the sort, the very idea.’

  ‘Who is he then? What’s his name? Why do I feel as if I’ve met him bef . . . Oh, my God, it can’t be!’

  ‘What?’ Jake said, momentarily putting down his knife and fork to watch the colour drain from his sister’s face.

  ‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

  ‘Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Yes you do. It’s Ewan. It’s me dad, isn’t it?’ Realisation was bringing excitement to Lynda’s voice, in contrast to her earlier annoyance. ‘That’s why you want to rush us off to Southport tomorrow. He’s coming to the house isn’t he and you don’t want us to meet him? That’s it, isn’t it? No, don’t bother denying it, I can tell by the expression on your face that I’m right. And you weren’t even going to tell us, were you? Oh, Mam, how could you be so cruel? Shame on you.’

  And having heard all she needed, Winnie went back to her stall, well satisfied.

  Chapter Ten

  Lynda spent the rest of that Saturday afternoon looking for her father. The flower stall had been packed away for the weekend, what was left of the stock put into cold storage in the lock-up they rented at the back of Champion Street. She washed the duck boards and locked them away too, together with her mam’s folding chair, baskets, buckets and pot plants.

  Normally Lynda would be revelling in her freedom and going round the shops, to Lewis’s or Kendals, trying on clothes and testing the make-up on the big cosmetic counters. She fancied one of those new chemise style frocks with the low slung waistline and flounced skirt, one with a low V in the back. But instead she was filled with only one desire: to find Ewan Hemley, her father.

  She couldn’t believe her mother’s attitude. They’d had a big row when they’d got back home after their Saturday dinner at the pub, with Lynda insisting that surely enough time had passed for her to at least act civilised towards him. Betty had yelled that hell would freeze over before she allowed that man ever to step over her doorstep again.

  ‘It’s only Sunday lunch for God’s sake! No one’s asking you to sleep with him.’

  ‘I should hope not!’ Betty had retorted, forgetting her disapproval of swearing.

  Betty was feeling utterly desperate, blaming herself entirely for this mess. She should have moved them farther away, emigrated to Australia, anywhere but Manchester. If it weren’t for her, Ewan would never have popped up like a bad smell out of the drains looking for them. ‘Give that man an inch and he’ll take a flaming mile!’

  ‘Well, maybe you should at least have asked our opinion on the matter. We can’t go on never being allowed to so much as mention his name, never seeing him or having the chance to talk things through. He’s still our father, after all.’

  ‘No he’s not, we’re divorced.’

  At which point Jake had joined in the heated debate. ‘You divorced him. We were given no say in the matter.’

  ‘You were too young to understand. You still are. You know nowt about it.’

  There was nothing Jake hated more than being told he was too young or too stupid to understand, even if it was true. ‘I know we have rights too, and when I’m being deprived of them.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, don’t talk to me about rights. What rights did I have when he was making all our lives a misery and nobody to help. Everything I’ve done has been for your benefit.’ Why couldn’t they see that?

  ‘So you say, but you never even let me see him, never let me write to him. You said me dad had abandoned us, gone off with another woman, but I think you chucked him out.’

  ‘Aye, well, you might be right there, son, and I might’ve had good reason.’

  ‘But you won’t say what it was. I don’t even know him, me own dad.’

  ‘Do you want me to box your ears, because you’re not too old for a cluttering, no matter what Constable Nuttall might say to the contrary?’

  ‘Mam, calm down!’ Lynda hastily intervened, fearing the squabble might deteriorate into fisticuffs. ‘Jake does have a point though. You’ve never allowed us to so much as mention Dad’s name.’

  Betty winced. ‘Don’t call him that.’

  ‘I can quite understand that you weren’t getting on and you did what you thought best at the time, but we should at least both be given a say in any decision made about him in the future. Have you considered that we might actually want to meet him at last?’

  For a moment she thought her mother might be about to collapse, or explode with fury as her face went purple, then white to the lips. Lynda made her sit down, draw in deep breaths while she sent Jake scuttling to put the kettle on.

  Only when Betty had a mug of strong sweet tea in her hands did Lynda begin, very gently, to press home her case, kneeling on the rug to cradle her mother’s hands between her own.

  ‘I’m twenty-five Mam, twenty-six next month. Even Jake will be twenty soon, nearly a grown man. We don’t need your protection any longer. We’re not children any more and can look after ourselves.’

  Betty gazed into her daughter’s face and felt her entire world slipping away from her. She tried to speak calmly, to be reasonable and objective but a small sob escaped her throat as she said, ‘You know nothing. You certainly don’t know him. Listen to me, Lynda. He’s a hard, selfish man, a complete wastrel. He took every penny I had, even broke your piggy-bank to put a bet on a horse. You don’t know what he’s like. I won’t have him come anywhere near either one of you.’

  ‘Don’t upset yourself, Mam. We won’t let him touch our money, not that we have much anyway.’ They both instinctively glanced at the green rug under which their small savings were hidden, beneath a broken floorboard.

  Panic rose in Betty, hot and sour. Was she going to be forced to tell them everything? Dear heaven but she hoped not. What would that do to Jake? ‘Aye, but it’s not just about money. There’s other things too . . . things I don’t like to talk about . . . things best forgotten. Just take my word for it, he’s bad news.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘All sorts of stuff that you won’t remember, praise the Lord . . .’

  Lynda was plumping up cushions, patting her mother on the shoulder, trying to make her lean back upon them and relax. ‘There always is a lot of bad feeling left after a divorce, I can understand that, Mam, but you must stop fretting. It’ll be all right. Look, I’ll go and find him, he can’t be far away, and we’ll have him in to lunch in a sensible, civilised fashion.

  ‘And it’ll give us all a chance to talk things through as adults. I hope it will help Jake and me to get to know our father at last and make up our own minds about him. Where’s the harm in that? You too will probably feel much better if things can be put on a better footing between us. Jake might even start forgiving you for messing up his life,’ giving a little chuckle, as if to make light of her brother’s neurosis.

  ‘Oh, Lynda. Oh, love. I’m begging you not to do this.’

  But Betty could tell by the obstinate expression on her daughter’s face, by the way she smiled and patted her hand, that she was wasting her breath.

  Ewan Hemley had won just by turning up. He would get his revenge, and all she could do was sit back and watch the tragedy unfold.

  It was exactly the kind of Saturday Helen loathed. Taking tea with her in-laws in their boring little bungalow with lace doilies on every polished surface and the ubiquitous flight of ducks up the flock-papered wall. Even her own parents, living behind the cheese shop hadn’t been quite so predictable. Worse, she would be compelled to listen to her husband pandering to their every whim.

  Determined to have him all to herself for once, Helen did her utmost to persuade Leo to cancel. ‘Ring and say something has come up.’

  ‘But it isn’t true. Something hasn’t come up, and Ma and Pa so look forward to my visit.’

  ‘You’ve had a tiring week at the warehouse. You deserve a rest. We both do. We need some time together.’ She leaned against him, sliding her hand down his inner thigh as he sat beside her in the driving seat of the Jag. ‘We could be at Ashton in less than an hour. We need some time alone.’

  Her voice was heavy with promise and yet all he could feel was sadness that she couldn’t find it in her heart to care about his old parents. ‘We’ll go next weekend, I promise.’

  Helen flounced back in her seat, her tone with a bitter edge to it. ‘You never can make time for me, only for work and those floosies of yours. I suppose you’re sleeping with that Lynda woman.’

  Leo sighed. ‘This isn’t helping, Helen. I love only you. How many times must I say it?’

  He had a great urge to shake her but was far too much the gentleman to do any such thing. Why did she always want things her own way? Why couldn’t she find some small sympathy, some warmth and consideration for others in that cool, logical heart of hers? Even her porcelain skin which he had once so admired, bore an ice-like coldness. Did he really still love her, or was he simply used to having her around? If only she would relax and laugh a little then everything might be different between them.

  ‘I don’t think I shall come.’

  He looked at her with infuriating patience. ‘They would be sorry if you didn’t. They always like to see you.’

  ‘No, they don’t. Your mother will start dropping heavy hints about my failure as a baby machine, and your father will endlessly cross-question you over the business. I really can’t stand it. Nor would you care. if I didn’t come. It would give you the perfect opportunity to call and see this Lynda person on your way home.’

  ‘Stop it, Helen. You’re becoming ridiculous. And what would you do all on your own here for the entire day? Come with me, darling. We’ll walk on the sands, take a tram ride, perhaps stay overnight and enjoy a leisurely drive home tomorrow. Stop off for Sunday lunch at some tucked away pub in the Ribble Valley. It could be fun.’

  ‘You think it fun to sleep in your mother’s guest room with those dreadful candlewick bedspreads, listening to your father snoring through the paper-thin walls?’

  In the end she’d been unable to get out of it. She simply couldn’t bear the thought of what Leo might get up to by himself, even in Lytham St Anne’s. Much safer if she go with him, and grin and bear the dreaded in-laws, as always.

  It certainly wasn’t that she couldn’t find some other way to amuse herself over the weekend. With a husband like Leo you had to learn to play the man at his own game. She’d decided upon that little strategy at a very early stage in their marriage. As the song said, anything you can do, I can do better.

  And if her first transgression had been out of a need for petty revenge, to her surprise Helen had discovered that no matter how much she loved Leo, a little excitement on the side really quite spiced up her life. It seemed to satisfy a deep craving within. Rather like reading Peyton Place, which she loved to do in quiet moments when no one was around.

  Helen had more sense, however, than to allow these little treats with which she indulged herself to intrude upon their life together, nor to flaunt them in her husband’s face. She was nothing if not discreet.

  As Helen had predicted, they hadn’t been in his parents’ house five minutes before Leo’s father was finding fault. Even before Dulcie had poured the Earl Grey from her silver teapot, Jonty was barking orders and questions at his son. Today he was interrogating Leo about the accounts, wanting to be sure that he was keeping the business up to scratch.

  ‘I hope you’re looking after the Kenyons, they’re one of our oldest customers.’

  ‘Of course I am, Pa.’ Leo painstakingly and with immeasurable patience answered every question, trying to make allowances for his father, knowing how the state of his health had deteriorated, making him more irascible than ever.

  Old John Catlow, Leo’s grandfather, had started the distribution business back in the days of the industrial revolution by building the warehouse on Potato Wharf. Leo’s own father Jonty had expanded it still further by adding a second depot, building it right in the heart of Salford Docks. He’d bought large delivery vans and acquired more accounts in the way of shipping companies who used the firm regularly, importing and exporting goods along the Manchester Ship Canal.

 

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