A Home in the Sun Page 7

  But then Tom tripped her up.

  She might have thought twice about removing herself from a suddenly crowded marriage if she’d realised for just one instant that Tom would avenge himself at her lack of forgiveness by roaring, ‘You can forget about keeping in touch with Kieran. He’s my son, not yours.’ To a stunned Kieran, he’d snapped, ‘And you can stop calling her Mum.’ Would she ever forgive Tom for using highly strung, gentle Kieran against her like that?

  Eighteen or not, Kieran had wept. Judith had lost her head, screaming at Tom, ‘You overbearing arse! You never have his best interests at heart. No wonder the poor boy’s scared of you.’

  Her hasty words compounded the damage. If she’d kept herself together and reasoned with Tom he might have calmed down and pretended he’d never shouted the rage-fuelled words. She should have negotiated, cajoling if necessary. Tom, desperate to patch things up, had been trying to force her to heel, and she knew that.

  Well, his clumsy strategy hadn’t worked. Kieran, growing up fast, sneaked in meetings with her between school and home, meetings he didn’t bother advertising to his father. And Judith had certainly felt no compulsion to own up.

  Tom’s fury at Judith for refusing to pardon his infidelity eased in time, of course, but Kieran had by then been in the habit of keeping secrets from his father. Then, finally, Kieran went to Sheffield University. Judith moved to Malta and funded Kieran’s visits to her, as well as timing her visits home to coincide with his.

  Thank God for email and telephone calls to fill in the gaps.

  Then suddenly Kieran was there, running into the park, multi-coloured trainers on jet-propelled feet, brown spikes of hair tossing over his forehead, eyes scanning the green-painted benches to find her. She sprang to her feet, her lips stretching into a great grin of welcome. Then she faltered. Kieran was towing along in his wake a slight teenage girl in tight turned-up jeans who must, she realised with a spurt of irritation she immediately tried to suppress, be the Bethan he’d mentioned a lot lately. They’d been going out together for about four months and Judith hadn’t got a feel for how involved they were. But then Kieran let go of the girl and sprinted the final yards across the grass and Judith threw her arms open wide.

  His embrace swept her completely off her feet. ‘Mum! Wow! This is so good, so cool! When did you get here? I didn’t know you were coming.’ He hugged her so tightly that she literally couldn’t inflate her lungs and when he set her down she had to cough for breath.

  ‘Let me look at you,’ she gasped, brushing his hair back, feeling it like silk against her fingers. ‘You look so well, darling! How are you? How’s the new job? It’s great to see you.’ She wasn’t a small woman but her stepson towered over her. His height contrasted with his boyish looks so that the impression was of a seven-foot-tall twelve-year-old.

  With a final squeeze, Kieran let her loose. ‘Mum, you have to meet my Bethan.’ He swung around and hauled the slight girl forward. ‘Beth, this is my mum. My stepmother, I mean, Judith, who I talk about all the time, not Liza, obviously. Wow, this is so great! I can’t believe I’m finally getting to introduce you guys.’

  Bethan smiled shyly. ‘Hey.’ She looked as if she might still be at school, a tiny elf-child in an enormous hooded top, her hair artificially black and showing fair at her centre parting and above her fringe as if someone had stood behind her and drawn a large T on her head. Silver studs ornamented her nose and lip to go with teenage spots on her forehead. Kieran, Judith noticed suddenly, now had an eyebrow pierced.

  She made herself smile and offer an enthusiastic ‘Hey!’ to Bethan, although she felt a swell of disappointment. Was it very mean of her to want Kieran to herself? She normally saw him only every few months, visits she sucked up whole into her memory to turn over and over until the next time.

  Still, she was home now and as Kieran was living with his father she’d have loads of time to get him on his own. She made sure her smile remained in place. ‘It’s great to meet you, Bethan.’

  The three settled back down on the bench, Judith ready to enjoy Kieran’s company, his news, his excitement and enthusiasm for his new job, which was with the local water authority. But when two of Bethan’s friends, as fragile-looking as her, wandered into the gardens on wooden-soled sandals and Bethan leaped up to cross the grass to meet them, Judith grabbed her chance. ‘I need to talk to you, Kieran.’ She swallowed against a suddenly closed throat. ‘Later, perhaps. Or tomorrow after work?’

  The sparkle faded from Kieran’s eyes as they searched hers and he looked suddenly concerned. ‘I suppose there had to be a reason for you suddenly turning up. Hang on.’ He ran across the grass to consult Bethan, who nodded, waved sketchily at Judith and turned to clomp off with her friends.

  Kieran pulled Bethan back for a kiss, a wide-open-mouthed kiss with visibly curling tongues. Her friends watched on casually. Judith looked away, uncomfortable with witnessing the appetites of her stepson.

  Then Kieran ran back, his hair blowing above his toffee-brown eyes, his broad top lip creasing laterally with his big, beaming grin. He flung himself back down on the bench. ‘What’s up?’

  Kieran was the only person from Brinham who knew all the truths, both wonderful and awful, about her affair with Giorgio. Kieran, with his teenage values, saw no reason why they shouldn’t be together. Kieran thought Giorgio was too cool for words. Giorgio had taken Kieran night fishing, puttering along in a small fishing boat and shining a lamp into the water in search of squid and to drink in atmospheric little Maltese bars run by his friends. He’d also taken Kieran on day trips when there were a couple of empty places on the bus, ensuring he got a seat close to nice-looking girls.

  Kieran was going to be distressed about Giorgio.

  Shoving away the memory of Giorgio’s smile, the feather-light touches of his fingers skimming her spine, the tenderness as he called her ‘gojjella tieghi’, my jewel, she took Kieran’s hands and told him about the accident, quietly and simply. No amount of wrapping up of the truth would prevent Kieran’s grief.

  His light brown eyes widened with pain. ‘It happened two months ago? He’s still unconscious? And you’ve only just told me?’

  She tried to explain. ‘It was hard to cope—’

  Kieran swore, snatching back his hands to slap the bench with the flats of them. ‘And of course you had to cope all by yourself? That’s what you’ve always got to do, isn’t it? Keep it all in. Give up on him and come back to England because of some stupid bargain you made with his horrible mother without even letting me know what happened. You weren’t the only one to care about him! I deserved to be told if I wasn’t going to see him again.’

  Voice shaking, she tried to explain. ‘I’m sorry if I did the wrong thing in your eyes. It didn’t seem like “giving up”. It wasn’t a “bargain” I made with his mother. I never took any notice of her wishes before! Leaving seemed the right thing to do because it was hard to be in Malta without Giorgio.’ Understanding that Kieran was lashing out in sorrow at the situation rather than her, she stroked his arm and tried to offer what comfort she could. ‘I made his aunt Cass promise she’d contact me if he woke up. If that happens, I’ll be on the next plane back to Malta.’

  And then Kieran’s shoulders began to shake, and Judith ignored her own pain burning inside her and threw her arms around the person who was the nearest thing she’d ever get to a son, holding him close while he cried.

  It was two hours before Kieran had recovered himself enough to leave Judith and hurry away to find Bethan.

  Judith, exhausted by comforting him as he came to terms with something she’d yet to fully come to terms with herself, trudged to the taxi rank. Next on her list of important people to visit was her mother, Wilma. Molly had been dubious when she’d heard of Judith’s plan to turn up unannounced but Judith was looking forward to seeing Wilma’s face. She hoped Molly wouldn’t have called ahead to spoil the surprise.

  She dropped into the back seat of the first taxi
in the rank with a sigh. ‘The Cottage retirement home on Northampton Road, please.’

  ‘Righto, duck.’ The driver guided the car along the streets she’d known all her life to a tree-lined road out of town. It looked as if it were meant to go somewhere important, but it had actually been superseded by a dual carriageway to Northampton a couple of decades ago. Many of the large, gracious houses were now put to other uses, like care homes, clinics or B&Bs, extensions and parking areas taking up what had once been large gardens.

  As age had crept up on her and alone after her husband’s death in his fifties, Wilma had sold her bungalow, which had stood half a mile away. Molly had helped her identify the tall, airy rooms of The Cottage retirement home as somewhere she might be happy and where she could access the care her arthritis demanded.

  Gazing through the window at the generously sized redbrick or pebble-dashed buildings, Judith smiled faintly to remember Molly had said Wilma should live with her instead. Wilma, typically independent, had thanked her but said with a twinkle, ‘You’ve got your own life and too many stairs. I’ll be lovely at The Cottage because it’s so expensive – like a hotel but better. You get what you pay for.’ That had turned out to be true.

  When Judith arrived, she discovered Wilma was enjoying a session of seated yoga, gentle exercises for those without much mobility. Not wanting to disturb that, after signing the visitors’ book she took a seat in the no-man’s land inside the tall front doors to read the magazines and let Wilma enjoy her exercise session in peace, deciding from the combination of smells that the residents had probably enjoyed shepherd’s pie for Sunday lunch, earlier. A couple of copies of My Weekly later, a cheerful carer, whose tight lilac uniform rode up in horizontal pleats above all the widest parts of her, popped her head around the corner. Her name badge, high up, near her shoulder, said Sandy. ‘Are you Wilma Morgan’s daughter? She’s back in the lounge, lovie, if you’re ready. Shall you wait in the corridor while I just tell her who it is?’

  Judith followed the carer up the wide corridor and into a sunny, pale-green lounge with an aquarium in the corner and a large television on a stand. Tall, comfy chairs faced the TV, many occupied by elderly men and women watching the happenings on screen or drowsing over a crossword. Quickly, she said, ‘I’d rather be a surprise. I’ve been living abroad so I’m hoping she’ll be happy to see me.’

  Sandy paused just outside the open door to the lounge. ‘As long as we don’t get her too much all of a doo-dah, lovie, that’s all I need to be sure of.’

  Judith ignored the note of warning in Sandy’s voice. She wanted to see her mother’s face shine with astonishment and delight at seeing her. ‘Is she having funny turns or something?’ From the doorway she could already see Wilma sitting in a high-backed chair, peering into her handbag. Her heart expanded with love.

  ‘We just find it best to provide a nice calm environment,’ Sandy replied.

  Judith managed a smile. ‘I haven’t come to upset her.’ She suddenly longed for the comfort of her mother’s arms and slipped past Sandy into the warmth of the room. As she covered the last few steps across the carpet she drank in Wilma’s hair looking white and freshly washed in the sunlight, her face as soft and gently defined as bread dough. Judith had to swallow before she spoke. ‘Hello, Mum! It’s lovely to see you.’ She felt a beaming smile take hold of her face, though her eyes burned hot.

  Wilma jumped, tipping her handbag upside down onto the floor. ‘Judith?’ Her hand flew shakily to her chest and her mouth dropped open. ‘Oh, Judith! Oh, darling. What on earth …?’

  With a noise that might have been a gasp, a laugh or a sob, Wilma grabbed for Judith’s hands, pulling on them so Judith could help her to her feet. Trembling with the effort of standing without a frame or stick, she slid her stiff arms around her daughter and leant heavily against her, breathing in uneven little gusts. ‘Judith, my girl! Come here … Let me just look at you! My duck, when did you get here? What a shock! But how lovely … How lovely, how lovely … I can’t believe I’m so lucky! I just can’t believe … I’ve gone as shaky as a lamb. I’d better sit down.’

  Alarmed, Judith helped her mother plump solidly down into her chair, then watched anxiously as she tunnelled clumsily up her sleeves for her hanky to catch some of her rolling tears. Feeling guiltily that Sandy might have had a point about getting her mum ‘all of a doo-dah’ she said apologetically, ‘Perhaps I should’ve rung first—’

  Sandy, who’d hung around under the guise of helping untangle a man’s glasses chain from his buttons, cut across her in a loud sing-song voice. ‘Are we all right there, Wilma? Yes, darlin’? Your daughter was a big surprise, wasn’t she? Have you got your breath all right, lovie? Shall I get you a drink of water? Yes, all right, lovie, coming up. Is everyone all right?’ She smiled reassuringly at other residents who’d turned to see what the ruckus was about.

  Wilma managed to stop laughing and sniffling and blotting her tears, and called after her. ‘Thank you, Sandy, just the job.’ Then she swung suddenly on Judith and pinched her arm. ‘You!’

  ‘Ow!’ Judith pulled her flesh out of the uncomfortable grip.

  ‘You,’ repeated Wilma, beaming and shaking Judith’s shoulder this time. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? I could’ve been looking forward to it for weeks. How long are you here for? Can you pick up my bag and my bits for me, duck? Just look at all my rubbish on the floor, now, what will people think?’

  As Judith gathered up Wilma’s bag, purse, tissues and pens Sandy returned with the promised water, chiming loud, comforting phrases as she tucked the glass into Wilma’s hand. Before she turned away she studied her intently, then nodded to herself as if satisfied that her charge was in no imminent danger of collapse. ‘All right then, Wilma, you just take your time now, lovie, and have a lovely visit with your daughter. Just get her to ring that bell if you need another glass of water, all right, darlin’?’

  Judith was conscious of being in disgrace, having gone about things the wrong way and ignored advice to the contrary. The staff had her mother to look after full time and didn’t need Judith breezing in and upsetting everyone. The residents were entitled to their after-dinner nap or to watch TV without raised voices and upset handbags. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, meekly collecting an I-told-you-so look from Sandy before she bustled from the room.

  Wilma took back her large black bag and gripped excitedly on to Judith’s sleeve, making it difficult for her to rise from her knees. ‘How long are you here for? Is everything all right? Is Richard all right, and Erminia and your cousins?’

  ‘They’re all OK. I’ve come home.’ Judith smiled, gently patting her mum’s hand and then freeing her sleeve so that she could get up and at least grab a footstool to perch on.

  ‘Oh, my duck.’ Wilma breathed in rapture, eyes shining from behind her glasses. ‘Home for good? Are you back in Lavender Row? Have you seen our Molly?’

  Judith made sure she didn’t bring on any more ‘doo-dahs’ with an admission that a broken heart had brought her back to England. ‘Richard and family are absolutely fine. I’m staying in Molly’s spare room until I’ve got my tenant in Lavender Row out.’

  Wilma’s smile faded. ‘She’s a good girl is Molly. What kind of a mood’s her Frankie in?’

  Shrugging, Judith pulled a face. ‘Never changes much, does he?’

  ‘Frankie’s Frankie,’ Wilma agreed, rolling her eyes. ‘But never mind him. It’s just so lovely to have you back.’ Slowly, as her arthritic spine demanded, Wilma leaned forward and gave Judith the big hug she’d been longing for.

  The next hour passed in a happy catching-up on news. Judith told Wilma every detail she could think of about the lives of Richard, Erminia and their children, Rosaire, Raymond and Lino. She was even sufficiently forgiven by Sandy to be given a cup of tea with the residents.

  The visit cheered Judith so much that, when it was over, she decided she might as well see her ex-husband Tom and get it over with while she was f
eeling strong. From The Cottage’s lobby, she rang for another taxi to take her back through the town centre and uphill into another one of the older sectors of town. The taxi, piloted by a near-silent driver, carried her past the grey hulk of the bus station, the Sunday market, coffee houses she hadn’t seen before, print works, car parks and, presently past a white sign bearing the words Thomas McAllister Building & Development in red, arching over double gates to a yard. The gates were closed, as it wasn’t a working day, but Judith knew what would stand behind them. A cabin where a couple of long-suffering clerks put up with Tom’s eccentric work methods and a yard full of barrows, dump trucks, a skip, trestles and scaffolding towers. Building equipment had once been a familiar part of her working landscape, too.

  Four streets further on, at the house in the generously sized square called Victoria Gardens, it was a different matter because there had been a lot of change courtesy of Liza, the woman Tom had preferred over Judith. Thanking her driver and paying her fare, Judith got out to gaze at what had once been her marital home while the taxi purred away. The extensive front garden of the gracious old house had been paved over, a big, ostentatious urn stuck where the alpine garden used to be and the desert of drive was flanked by variegated topiary balls. Judith had never cared much for variegated plants, which, after all, only made a virtue out of a virus. The low white wooden gates she’d once chosen had been replaced by tall, spindly black wrought iron with golden spikes on top – an unhappy fit with the original ornate Victorian railings around the sunken gardens in the centre of the square.

  She gazed nostalgically at the communal garden, remembering sunny days spent beneath its tall copper beeches that glowed in the sunlight. Creamy Russian vine rioted over a series of brick arches. Mile-a-minute, some people called the vine and when she’d been married to Tom the residents had held Mile-a-minute Sundays, forming working parties to cut the vine back to prevent it from smothering the entire district. They’d been loud and happy occasions fuelled by glasses of wine and picnic lunches. Children high on Mars bars and Coca-Cola would give up stuffing the snaky clippings into black bags in favour of screaming and racing around, scaling stepladders no matter how often they were warned not to. Kieran had been one of them.