CHAPTER NINE
“What do you want, Steve? Why are you here?” Anne surprised even herself by her directness. It was a while before he answered but kept staring at her as if she were some kind of antique in a shop window and he was trying to guess its age and value Stay calm, she kept telling herself, You never know what a man might do when he’s drunk, especially a jealous one. She was in no doubt that Steve Taylor resented her friendship with his wife, although it did not occur to her to consider why she was so certain.
“Stay away from my family,” he growled at last, “Stay away from me, Cathy and Lynette. Do I make myself clear?”
“Hardly clear,” Anne retorted, “You sound like a bad telephone connection. But I get the gist. May I ask why?”
“You know damn well why,” he slurred, “I can’t quite work out what you’re up to, but keep your hands off my family, understand? Cathy’s fucked up enough already without some loony like you making things worse. As for Lynette, she’s not your kid and never will be. She’s mine, so you keep away. Keep well away from both of them. Whatever your game is, go and pick on someone else to play with. Do I make myself clear?” he repeated.
“Perfectly,” said Anne, “but I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I’m not ‘after’ anything or anyone, and I am certainly not playing any game. Cathy and I get along well and Lynette is a sweet child. I enjoy their company and they appear to enjoy mine. Who am I to stop them seeking me out? I just want us to be the best of friends, that’s all.”
“Over my dead body,” Taylor shouted.
“Are you okay Anne? Is this man bothering you?” Joe Harvey appeared out of nowhere.
“I’m fine, Joe, thank you. But Mr Taylor, I think, could use some more coffee.” She rose to leave.
“Over my dead body,” Steve Taylor said again, glaring at Anne then at Joe then back at Anne who was already walking towards the lift.
Anne paused, considered returning to try and talk some sense into Taylor, thought better of it and walked on.
“Come on, mate. It’s high time you were on your way,” she heard Joe say but had entered the lift, its doors already closing before she heard Taylor yell something in reply. She didn’t catch what he said but was in no doubt he was being abusive. How on earth Cathy could live with a man like that was beyond her understanding.
Her contretemps with Taylor had so unnerved Anne, that it was a good while before she realized she was hungry and descended to the restaurant only just in time got dinner.
Charley Briggs spotted Anne as soon as the swing doors spun her into the restairant. “Look, there’s Anne,” she whispered across the table to Spence. “Now, we can find out who that awful man was that you were telling me about although it beats me why you couldn’t have stayed and found out more for yourself.” She raised her voice and called, “Anne, over here. Do join us, won’t you? Spence has been telling me all about your little flirtation this afternoon.”
“Flirtation, what flirtation…? Whatever do you mean?” Anne was indignant and steeled herself to refuse the other’s invitation.
“I’m only teasing!” Charley chortled before adding, “But don’t think I’m jealous, I’m not. Everyone flirts with Spence. Can you blame them? I mean to say, if he isn’t a dead ringer for a Greek god my name isn’t Charley Briggs. If I were the jealous type, why, I’d never sleep a wink at night. As it is, I trust him. We’re solid, you see, Spence and me. Isn’t that so, darling?”
“Anything you say, my sweet,” Spence mumbled, his mouth full of Mel Harvey’s homemade jam roly-poly.
Anne felt irresistibly drawn by an empty chair at their tabe.
“Where are your manners Spence?” Charley demanded, “Don’t young men stand up and pull out a chair for their elders and betters any more?”
“Stay right where you are Spence,” Anne told him laughing. “As for elders and betters, I suspect they, too, belong to mythology.” She sat down and picked up a menu.
“Mythology…?” Spence was curious.
“Greek darling,” Charley lightly admonished him, “As in Greek gods and the likes of…yes?”
Spence shook his head. “It’s all Greek to me,” he muttered and took another mouthful of roly-poly, but not before tossing Anne a mischievous wink.
Everyone laughed. Anne made her choice from the menu and ordered. Spence wanted to know if there was any more roly-poly and Mel promised to see what she could do. Charley toyed with a generous helping of chocolate mousse and bided her time. “Spence tells me you had a close encounter with some drunk earlier?” she observed as Anne tucked into a tasty lamb shank.
“It was nothing,” Anne told her. “He’s the husband of a friend who’d had rather more to drink than he should, that’s all.”
“A bit early for a binge, isn’t it? I’ll say! Even Spence knows when and how to draw the line, don’t you darling?”
“If you say so, my sweet,” he agreed, but was too preoccupied with a second portion of roly-poly to engage in conversation.
“A close friend is she, the wife?”
“Yes and no,” said Anne, “You may have seen us together. She sometimes has a little girl with her, Lynette.”
“Oh, yes. You’re right, I have. The child is a pretty little thing and such a pretty name too, Lynette. I said so to Spence. Didn’t I, Spence?” But Spence would not be distracted from the last tasty morsels of roly-poly on the end of his fork. Charley sighed in mock despair. “You’d think such a gorgeous man would have more sophistication wouldn’t you?” Anne merely smiled. Charley pressed on. “Poor Anne, it must be so hard for you,” she sympathised, “seeing that little girl with her mother after…well, what happened to you and…”
“Patricia,” said Anne sharply, “my daughter’s name is Patricia. And, no, it isn’t hard for me at all. I love children. Lynette is an adorable child and Cathy is an excellent mother. It does my heart good to see them together.”
“And the husband, Charley wanted to know, “how does he fit into the picture or doesn’t he?”
Anne resolved to suppress her growing frustration with the other woman’s frank curiosity. “I believe Cathy and Steve are going through a rough patch,” she conceded, “but I’m sure they will come through it, if only for Lynette’s sake.”
“Not if he’s taken to the demon drink, they won’t,” declared Charley with feeling as she refilled her glass and Spencer’s with a fine Chardonnay. She offered the bottle to Anne, who shook her head. “I bet he gambles too, right? Horses, yes? That’s my guess anyhow. Whatever, you can be sure he’s bad news. I tell you, your friend Cathy has got her work cut out if she wants to save her marriage. Believe me, I know. I went through all that angst with my second husband, Travers. I gave it my best shot, I really did. But…well…it’s true what they say. Turning rats into princes is strictly for fairytales.”
“Frogs,” said Spence, “It was a frog who got turned back into a prince.”
“So? Frogs, rats…it’s all much of a muchness as far as men are concerned,” Charley retorted, fixing him with twinkle in each eye over the rim of her glass.
“I hope you’re not including me!” Spence exclaimed, a broad grin giving the lie to his aggrieved tone.
Anne found herself liking and envying the couple even more so than she had previously. Oh, she disapproved of the age difference. Or did she? The more time she spent in their company, the less it seemed to matter. The relationship wouldn’t last, of course. How could it? But she had to hand it to Charley Briggs. The woman knew how to enjoy herself. As for Spence, he might be shallow but he was fun. Yes she liked them a lot. “I think I’ll have my tea served in the lounge, by the window. It has such a lovely view of the sea,” she announced briskly, “Will you join me?”
“What, no pudding?” Spence was genuinely appalled.
“I’m quite full,” Anne told him, “I never did have a huge appetite, even less now I’m older.”
“Then I shall stay young forever,” Spence solemnly declared then, looking directly at Charley, “like you, my sweet.”
Everyone laughed.
“You see,” Charley said to Anne, “What a fine catch he is! But enough of pretty words, let’s see you put your money where your mouth is…” she giggled.
Spence leapt to his feet and gave a mock bow. “Your wish is my command,” he declared with an exaggerated flourish of hands. He turned to Anne apologetically, “You will excuse us, won’t you? As you can see, my services are required elsewhere.”
Charley burst into peals of laughter that everyone in the restaurant and lobby hotel heard and remarked upon as the couple made their way, hand in hand, to the lift.
Later, while enjoying a second cup of tea and admiring the way the evening sun formed a necklace of jewels on the dark, distant water, Anne found herself mulling over Charley’s scathing comments about Steve Taylor. The other woman was right about one thing. He was bad news. She sighed. Certainly, he wasn’t a fit husband for Cathy or a suitable father for Lynette. Still, it was none of her business…or was it?
Upstairs, Spence was as good as his word. Charley, too, was on form and their lovemaking was even more frantic and sensual than usual.
“Must we go to this funeral tomorrow,” he groaned later.
“You know we do,” Charley tickled licked his lobe with the tip of her tongue and whispered in his ear, “I have a hunch there’s more to Owen Shepherd than meets the eye. Besides you know I love a decent burial. Everyone gets cremated these days and it’s so boring, not to mention the contribution to global warming…”
“You and your hunches,” Spence complained, “One of these days you’ll trip over one of them and come a cropper. Just make sure you put me in your will before you do, okay?”
Charley giggled. She loved it when he teased her, even about money, and fair lapped it up.
“Wouldn’t it be something if that Taylor bloke were to turn up drunk as a lord and fall in the grave?” he chuckled.
“Now, that would be something,” Charley agreed in all seriousness.
………………..............
Anne felt obliged to arrive early at the Shepherd’s flat early the next day, thinking Owen would probably be distressed and in need of physical as well as emotional support. She was surprised, therefore, to find him feeding the hens and chatting away to them as if they were old friends. “Careful, you greedy lot, or you’ll be choking, not clucking!” He heard someone approach and guessed it would be Anne. “Look at the greedy so-and-sos,” he called without turning to greet her, “Talk about rush hour at Victoria station, eh? That has to be a picnic compared with this little lot. “Eh, you cheeky monkeys, eh?”
“And there I was, thinking they were hens,” commented Anne wryly. Owen loved his hens, always had, for as long as she had known him, except for those very early days before he and Alice moved into the ground floor flat on Chapel Street. “You can’t beat hens,” Owen told her as if reading her thoughts, “You know where you are with hens.”
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”
A cloud passed over his face. “Ready? Yes, I suppose I should, shouldn’t I?” But he did not pause until the bowl of feed was quite empty. Even then, he held on to it tightly as if loath to let go. “You know where you are with hens,” he repeated. .
“Owen, dear, it’s time you were getting ready.” Anne insisted.
“No work today. I’ve got some time off. Compassionate leave, you know…”
“But the funeral, it’s today. The hearse will be here in half an hour,” she pointed out.
“What?” His face went quite blank then, slowly, as if with regret, deep creases reappeared as anxiety began to reassert itself. “Oh, God, yes, I must get ready, mustn’t I?” But he made to move to enter the house. Instead, he stood stock still, gazing into the seed bowl as if expecting to discover a revelation of sorts or perhaps, at the very least, some clue as to how he was expected to get through the day without falling apart.
Anne looked on in consternation. Not only was poor Owen even more upset than she expected but she could also read the fear in him as if it were branded on the pale, fleshy face. How will he cope without Alice, she wondered? For all the woman’s faults, she had given his life a structure. People like Own needed structure in their lives, she reflected, with some surprise, having never knowingly entertained the idea before. That is why, she supposed, he so loved his work. A bank clerk’s day, as she imagined it, had to be well structured, surely? Then, coming home to his mother, it must have seemed so very neat, tidy, predictable and…yes, structured. No wonder he’s frightened, the poor man. He’s quite, quite lost.
Anne’s heart went out to her old friend. Moreover, she promised herself that she would do her best to make sure he didn’t go to pieces. “Let’s get you inside, shall we?” She took his arm and steered him across the yard to the open back door. Owen felt comforted and reassured by her touch as they entered the shabby, untidy flat that, even during the early stages of her illness, Alice Shepherd had managed beautifully and in which she had always taken such pride.
Anne sneezed.
“Bless you,” said Own absently. Only vaguely did he reflect on how the kitchen looked a mess and the whole house needed a good dust and vacuum as he made his way upstairs. Once inside his own room, he gave a long sigh of relief. Fond though he was of Anne, he could not rid himself off the feeling she was…what, exactly? Not judging him, she would never do that. Nor was it pity alone that kept making him feel panicky and rush to the toilet. So…what was it then? Some people, he knew only too well, were contemptuous of a grown man who continued to live under his mother’s wing. But Anne wasn’t like that. Anne was a good friend. For a woman who had endured so much, her kindness was remarkable. So why did he feel this way in her company…so…? No, not uncomfortable, never that…surely?
It came to him in a flash. Anne would watch out for him. She would make sure he did not fall apart…just as his mother had…since that last, terrible time. But he would not think of that. Mother had said he shouldn’t. He must look forward, be positive. As he retrieved a clean white shirt from a chest of drawers, it struck him with some force that, in the absence of his mother, he needed Anne Gates. “Now, more than ever,” he told the neat, impassive little room as he fumbled with the shirt buttons and struggled to recall if he owned a black tie.
The hearse was on time.
The little church was more than half empty. Even so, more people had come to pay their last respects to Alice Shepherd than either Anne or Owen had expected. Charley Briggs looked stunning in black and Spence looked suitably solemn for the occasion in a dark suit and tie. Anne felt a twinge of regret. An unsmiling Spence, she had to concede, came as something of a shock to the system.
The dumpy woman from the charity shop was there, too, as well as several other people whose identities Anne hadn’t a clue. Nor, in the course of conversation later, would Owen confess to being much the wiser.
The service had only just begun when Cathy Taylor arrived, breathless and looking very flushed.
After a hymn, Owen spoke a few words, professing love and gratitude to a dear mother who left behind a devastated son. “Thank you, mother, for everything,” he said, summoning a strong, clear voice, “I can but look forward to our reunion in heaven,” he told the little congregation.
Anne winced, instantly felt guilty and told herself Owen meant well, even if his performance came across as shallow and insincere. How could she think that, she remonstrated with herself? Owen adored his mother. It was no more than any devoted son would say.
So why did the tremor in his voice make her flesh creep? I should feel moved, she thought, so why don’t I?
To the rear of the church, Charley Briggs was assessing Owen Shepherd’s performance in much the same way. “He doesn’t mean a word of it,” she whispered to Spence.
“How would you know?” Spencer whispered back. “You don’t know the man any more than you knew his mother.”
“I just know,” Charley said. Her voice, louder than she intended on this occasion, seemed to Anne as if it rose to hover over the little band of mourners like a preying mantis.
Owen returned to his pew.
“Would anyone else like to say a few words?” the vicar, a tall lanky man with a kind face, enquired. No one moved or spoke. “Then let us hear, by the deceased’s own request, Simon and Garfunkel singing ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water.’
Anne listened, enchanted and moved. The acoustics in the church were such that it could have been a live performance. “Who’d have guessed the old girl would choose a pop song, let alone such a beautiful piece?” She kept turning it over in her mind and was close to tears.
Nor was Anne the only person present thinking along much the same lines. “See, I told you we were meant to come,” Charley Briggs hissed at Spencer’s ear, “My favourite song, no less!”
“You put in a special request, did you?” Spence was sceptical.
“Well, no,” Charley had to admit, “But then, I hardly knew the woman, did I?”
“Exactly,” Spence hissed back with something closely resembling a smirk on the handsome face.
Charley settled for an aggrieved shrug before kneeling, with difficulty, as the vicar signalled that he would lead them in prayer.
Later, at the graveside, a brief, moving ceremony took place as the vicar intoned the usual, “…Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…” that always made Charley cry for thinking of Briggs.
Anne found herself becoming angry. This was not, she knew, what Alice Shepherd intended. She had told herself it didn’t matter, that Alice was dead and would know no better, and it was Owen everyone should be thinking of now. But as the coffin was lowered into a gaping hole in the ground, she had to take deep breaths to keep from expressing a sense of outrage that Alice Shepherd’s wishes had been ignored. What right had anyone, even Owen, to ride roughshod over his own mother’s feelings?
“A nice enough little service, wasn’t it?” Anne turned to find the dumpy woman from the charity shop standing next to her. “Short and sweet, just as it should be. I thought the son spoke well. A bit of over top perhaps, but grief does that to you, doesn’t it? Mind you, poor Alice will be heartbroken if she’s looking down on this little lot. She hated the idea of being buried. Hated it, she did. Said she wanted a clean break from the world, she did. How could he do that to his own mother? Still, it takes all sorts I suppose. Bye-bye dear. Do drop in at the shop again. Maybe we could go to the café for a coffee sometime. I’d like that…”
Then she was gone.
Anne glanced at Owen who was gazing stony-faced at the coffin where it lay in its earthy bed waiting for the gravedigger who could be spotted standing at a respectful distance, leaning against a tree, both hands resting on the handle of his shovel. As she watched, the man stuck his chin slightly forward. The pose struck Anne as familiar could not place it at once. Then she remembered. Owen has a habit of doing that, she recalled and wondered how she could have forgotten. Instantly, she was seized by pangs of guilt. What was she thinking of, comparing the two men?
The sun caught the gravedigger’s face and gave it a wax-like shine. There is something predatory about him, Anne thought and, for the second time that day, felt her flesh creep.
She looked around. There was no sign of Cathy. She is not my daughter, just a friend, Anne kept telling herself but without any real conviction. In a light heat mist, she watched Owen turn and walk slowly towards her. She felt an impulse to run away that she could not for the life of her explain, and dismissed with some difficulty. Instead, she slipped her arm in his and they headed towards the waiting funeral car that would return them to the flat. Other cars would bring the few people that had expressed a wish to join them for some light refreshment.
Out of the corner of one eye, Anne caught a glimpse of the gravedigger taking up his shovel and heading off towards the grave at the leisurely pace of someone who hadn’t a care in the world.
To be continued on Monday.
