Trio - [87]

Maybe it was best Claire had not tried again, after all, Aidan wasn’t exactly an advert for happy family life. He wouldn’t be home for Christmas. He wouldn’t be home for another eighteen months and how long he’d manage to stay out of trouble then was anybody’s guess. When she visited him she could see the place was only making him worse. Not borstal but good as.

He’d been scared at first, she’d seen it in those first few visits: licking his lips, his knee twitching, signs a mother recognised. She was devastated. She’d still no idea why it had all gone wrong. She wanted to cuddle him better but he was a gawky fifteen-year-old and when she put her arms about him he wriggled free. As the weeks went by he started playing the hard man, growing a skin of disaffection.

The last time she’d been, his first words were, How many fags did you bring us? Not Hi, Mam or Thanks for coming. She wanted to shake him, to tell him that how he dealt with this place, and what he did after, would set the course for the rest of his life, that there weren’t any more chances. She could give him love and help but you couldn’t give a thing to someone who was turning away from you. She told him, without the shaking, and he sighed and shuffled on his chair and gave her a dead look with his eyes.

She checked her Christmas list. Francine wanted a watch. There were a couple of jewellers on Shude Hill she could try.

Francine had started her nursery nursing course. Megan had tried to talk Francine into staying on and going for A levels if she did all right in her exams but the girl didn't want to.

‘Keep your options open,’ Megan had said. ‘If you got more qualifications you’d have a chance of more jobs, better money. There’s two million people out of work, you know. A piece of paper will go a long way to getting something.’

‘I want to do the nursing,’ Francine insisted. ‘I’ve had enough of school.’

Well, if it didn’t work out for her with the nursing she could always work at the shop. Bit boring really but she was good with people.

Francine was courting. She and Shane seemed serious. He was a mechanic. They were saving for a deposit on a flat – rent, not buy. Megan had told her not to rush anything but Francine told her to stop fussing. ‘Frightened I’ll make you a Grandma too soon? You needn’t worry, I’m on the Pill.’

Megan had looked at her. The Church still banned Catholics from any form of artificial contraception and sex before marriage was forbidden. The bishop sent letters round every so often reminding his parishioners of the edict. But the bishop hadn’t got a sixteen-year-old daughter, had he?

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget to take it.’

Francine beamed, pleased that her Mam was understanding and hadn’t gone all religious on her.

At least if she was protected, Megan thought, and things didn’t work out for her and Shane, there wouldn’t be a baby in the middle of it all to consider.

Marjorie

The doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone but it could be a door-to-door salesman. There seemed to be more and more of them; wanting to demonstrate the latest vacuum cleaner or sell you household insurance or tarmac the drive. A sign of the times. Rising unemployment. The winter of discontent they called it and it had been awful, with countless strikes. People will always need glasses, Robert said, though they might patch the frames with sellotape if times were hard. More and more people were trying contact lenses and he’d started stocking those too.

‘Mrs Underwood?’ Two police officers in uniform, a man and a woman.

‘Yes?’ She held her breath.

‘Stephen Underwood’s your son?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, her throat suddenly dry and her chest tight.

‘Can we come in a moment? It’s about Stephen.’

‘No.’ She tried to shut the door, they moved into the way. She pushed harder. ‘No,’ she repeated, her voice cracking. ‘No.’

‘Mrs Underwood, we need to come inside and talk to you.’ The man eased the door back. She moved away. The woman stepped inside, took her elbow. Marjorie twisted aside. ‘No.’ Her thoughts scrambling to get away.

‘Come on, now.’

She let them lead her into the lounge. Her heart was galloping. She sat down, her belly heavy with dread.

She watched them mouth words, silly little words: car, roundabout, passenger, revive, failure. Silly, little words, each tearing a bit of her soul. The dread rose, flooding her throat, full of love and anger and breathtaking pain. She opened her mouth hoping that if the roar of it were loud enough it would drown out the man and the woman and bury the stupid, little words. Force them away, back down, anywhere. Stephen. Into the past, into another time, another place. Oh, Stephen. ‘No-no-no-no!’ she howled. ‘No-no-no-God-no!’

The words floated free, too strong to be shouted down. Once spoken they soared above like balloons cut free. And burst like her heart. Stephen. Dead.

Nina

She couldn’t believe it. Even now. It was like some gross practical joke. Like God had looked down and seen what a mess she was in and how bloody fed-up she was. He knew how when she looked in the mirror this ugly, fat cow was there and when she looked inside herself there was just a black hole. Everyone hated her. And then God had looked at Stephen, last year of university, studying chemistry, lots of friends, popular and hardworking, even a steady girlfriend, attractive now he’d grown his blond hair longer. And God had decided to take Stephen. Not her. Or maybe he’d gone eenie-meenie-miney-mo. And Stephen was dead. When it should have been her. They all thought that. Even she did, for heaven’s sake. ’Course, no one said a word, but you’d have to be mental not to think it. And she’d been such a bitch to him. Teasing him for being boring and goody-goody when he was just a boy, just a nice boy who’d learnt his manners and didn’t have to put up with everyone hating him. He was dead and it was like they all were.