Sugar and Spice Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Ruth Hamilton

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Ruth Hamilton

  SPINNING JENNY

  THE BELLS OF SCOTLAND ROAD

  THE DREAM SELLERS

  THE CORNER HOUSE

  MISS HONORIA WEST

  MULLIGAN’S YARD

  MATTHEW AND SON

  SATURDAY’S CHILD

  CHANDLERS GREEN

  THE BELL HOUSE

  DOROTHY’S WAR

  THE JUDGE’S DAUGHTER

  THE READING ROOM

  A PARALLEL LIFE *

  SUGAR AND SPICE *

  * available from Severn House

  SUGAR AND SPICE

  Ruth Hamilton

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First world edition published 2010

  in Great Britain and in the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.

  Copyright © 2010 by Ruth Hamilton.

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Hamilton, Ruth.

  Sugar and spice.

  1. Motherless families–Fiction. 2. Sisters–Fiction.

  3. World War, 1939-1945–Social aspects–England–Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction.

  I. Title

  823.9'14-dc22

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-261-0 (ePub)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-6938-8 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-271-0 (trade paper)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  This piece is in memory of Michael Neophytou, who died tragically aged seven while playing in his garden.

  God bless you, Michael. God bless your lovely family.

  Michael

  From Linda next door, aka Ruthie xxx

  One

  1975

  Wagons roll at about the same time every Monday. By ten in the morning, mothers in the village are on their way to the baby clinic, some in search of reassurance, several as part of a fashion parade and to demonstrate how well they are losing their baby-weight, others to fill a gap created by a hiatus in career. The making of friends who are in the same bracket is a comfort when life becomes so monotonous and lonely.

  I go because I feel guilty. The secret I hold fast to my chest is a burden I must carry alone, because few would believe me and fewer still would attempt to understand my ridiculous predicament. I am not a normal mother. I make few friends, invite no confidences and, were it not for Mrs Battersby, no one at all would have any concept of my position. Mrs Bee lives next door with her daughter and son-in-law. She wears a wrap-around flowered apron, makes wine from improbable kitchen debris, believes in red flannel, and cleans shoes with the inner side of banana skins. She is a relic and I am glad to know her.

  The side door opens suddenly and loudly as it crashes into the wall. ‘Anna?’

  ‘In here.’

  She waddles into my living room and places a bottle of her deadly parsnip wine on the coffee table. ‘Eeh,’ she wheezes. ‘Aren’t they bonny?’ She refers, of course, to the twins. They are propped in the pram, one at each end, clean, clothed and angelic. ‘Yes,’ I reply. My girls are pretty. They are healthy, rosy-cheeked, excellent feeders, and strong-limbed. One is stronger than the other, but it’s only a matter of differing birth weights. I have to believe that. I’d like everyone else to believe it, too.

  Sharing a bed with a man whose sperm count is low allowed me to cease to expect motherhood, but my status altered radically long after I decided that childlessness was fine. I worked with children, and eventually harboured no wish to produce any of my own. Children complicate life; motherhood has destroyed mine.

  ‘And they’ve made you look younger, an all,’ announces the ageing Manchester immigrant. Years earlier, she followed her daughter down the East Lancashire Road and settled here, in Hesford, a satellite of St Helens. ‘Nobody would ever think you were forty,’ she says.

  Forty? I feel eighty, and then some. The days grind along relentlessly while I feed, clean and watch my twin jailers, while I launder their clothes and prepare food for their father, a man I can no longer pretend to love. That is probably my own fault, because everything is my own fault. I am arrogant, self-indulgent, exhausted, worried and clinically depressed. This wonderful old lady has me down as ‘mithered’, and she is only too correct.

  Mrs Bee has placed herself in an armchair. ‘He’s reading again,’ she announces with the air of a speaker at a summit conference.

  ‘What’s he reading?’ I ask. The ‘he’ in question is her son-in-law and my erstwhile boss. He owns the patience of a saint, which is probably just as well.

  ‘A book.’ She spits the four-letter word from her throat as if clearing it of phlegm. The presumably wise head shakes despairingly. In her opinion, no good ever came of books. She has lived her whole life without indulging in them, as she has been too busy doing. Doers have no time for reading, radio, television or theatre. Which is a pity, because she might have made a hilarious comedienne. ‘Book about psychology,’ she snaps.

  I am trying not to smile. Wanting to smile is a new sensation, yet I dare not indulge the need. ‘He’s a head teacher, Mrs Bee. He has to read in order to keep up with the system.’

  ‘System?’ she cries. ‘System? A damned good hiding and bed without supper’s what they need, not bloody books. Mind, it is a thick one. He could use it as a weapon, I reckon, when some of the little buggers kick off at playtime.’

  There is no cure for Mrs Battersby, and I am glad about that. She is a ray of light in an otherwise dark sky, but I am lucky, as she radiates sporadically in my house. Paul and Jenny next door live a life that is constantly illuminated by this woman, and they often look drawn and tired. When in full flood, the old woman might even register on a Geiger counter, and radiation sickness could become a distinct danger.

  ‘Pity you didn’t move here earlier before having them.’ She inclines her head in the direction of the pram. ‘You could’ve made friends. Mind, you’ll happen meet a few gradely folk at yon clinic.’

  I doubt that. The conversation is embedded in projectile vomiting, pyloric stenosis, brands of baby formula, rashes, colds and teething. On a good day, some quiet revolutionary might mention Coronation Street or the price of salmon, but such subjects usually receive a premature burial under layers of napp
ies, some disposable, others of the terry towelling variety.

  ‘You miss your job,’ announces Mrs Bee. ‘You thought you’d get away without kiddies, didn’t you?’

  I nod.

  ‘Have you thought about one of them opers?’

  Rooting about in the depths of my handbag in search of keys, I ask her to repeat the question. ‘An oper. Mind, they sometimes turn out to be no opers, them girls from abroad. They can be all spaghetti and no English. That builder up Tithebarn Road got a pole.’

  Anyone else might have got lost somewhere along the way through Mrs Bee’s meandering, but I am used to infant schoolchildren, so I manage to navigate the misty path. ‘A pole? Do you mean a Polish au pair?’

  She nods rapidly. ‘That’s what I said, isn’t it? An oper. I think she were a Pole, any road. She were all funny sausages and red hot tea with no milk in it. She fair scalded one of the kids before she left. I said to our Jenny, “She’ll never last, because all she knows is yes, no and disco.” I were right. Three or four months later, she forgot the word “no”, finished up pregnant and on her way back to somewhere with about twenty letters in its name, mostly zeds, exes and the odd Y. You don’t want one of them, do you?’

  I don’t care, but I daren’t say that. A nanny might be a good idea. A nanny would come in with no pre-knowledge and no opinions about my situation. Like me, she would learn the hard way and become my witness. Help in the home is affordable, as I intend to divorce him only when I am back to normal. Normal? I wish he’d go. I wish he’d go now, and to hell with normal.

  ‘You’ll be all right, you know.’

  I look at her. The grey, frizzled hair is thinner than it used to be. She once showed me a wedding photograph, and she has been beautiful, with long, dark hair and very surprised eyes. ‘I suppose I shall.’

  ‘Lass, it’s trowmatic, is giving birth. And you’ve had no mam to show you how to fettle. Some women don’t take straight away. But tell me, Anna, what would you do if somebody harmed them two twins?’

  My answer is automatic. From deep within my animal core, the words arrive. ‘I’d kill.’

  Again, the steely head nods. ‘At your age, most women’s kids are coming into their teens or twenties. Babies is very tiring. Two coming at once is more than twice as bad as one, if you get my meaning, like. None of it’s your fault, love. You got caught that little bit later in life than most folk, and it’s hard. But you’ll get by.’

  ‘Yes.’ I move my pram towards its launch pad near the front door.

  ‘Will I get my coat and come with you?’

  This time, my smile arrives properly. I am imagining her rattling round the clinic, chest wheezing, fingers prodding babies’ limbs, advice on gripe water and goose-grease delivered in broad, flat Lancashire tones. ‘No. I’ll see you later for coffee.’ After locking the door and making sure that Mrs Bee gets home safely, I begin the walk up Beech Grove.

  The troops are on the move. I marvel at the number of new mothers who place their precious darlings in frail-looking buggies. Cars have suspension and springs to absorb bumps and dips in the road, yet newborns are placed in what seem to be flattened pushchairs, no support at all. These younger women note my age and my twin Silver Cross, probably have me down as an old-fashioned freak with an unnecessarily ornate chariot, but at least I cared enough to buy solid transport, especially when informed that I was expecting a double event.

  No one speaks to me beyond the odd ‘hello’ accompanied by a brief bow of the head. I don’t care. Do I? Again, I allow a grin to visit my face. I wonder how many of these got arrested for diving semi-naked into a fountain on Trafalgar Square? They haven’t lived. I have. Is it over? I don’t want it to be over. The me that is buried under the label ‘mother’ must come through. That’s selfish, isn’t it? Charlotte and Emily should be more important than the vessel that launched them into the world. Yet I cannot plead completely guilty to loving me, because depression is hatred of self.

  The waiting area is small and packed with people, each with a child. I have two – one on each arm. Weights, Measures and Vaccinations Ltd are represented today by two nurses in white uniforms and navy blue cardigans. They exclaim over the beauty of each customer, place younger clients on scales and mark the card accordingly. But on this occasion, my attention is fastened to a small, dark-haired girl who sits directly opposite me across the square space against whose walls our chairs are placed. Her skin is unnaturally white, and she stares at the floor, her gaze skimming the top of her baby’s head. She isn’t with us. I know that feeling.

  ‘How old are they?’ asks the person next to me.

  ‘What? Sorry, I was preoccupied.’ I rewind the tape in my head until I find an echo of her words. ‘Eight weeks.’

  ‘They’re lovely,’ declares my next-chair neighbour.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply. I offer no comment about her offspring, so she turns her attention to next-chair-but-one. I feel sorry about this, as I am talkative by nature, but I must not let anyone in. The girl across the room is blinking back some wetness in her eyes. No wedding ring. Perhaps she removed it during the pregnancy if she became slightly water-bound; perhaps she mislaid it. There is no white mark on her tanned I-am-spoken-for finger. Then she looks at me.

  A cold fire burns in brown eyes that should be warm. She is half my age – might even be a teenager. An automatic movement of her knees is employed to keep her baby happy. She is having one of those robot days. I incline my head slightly, and her lips part as if to take in a short, sharp breath. This tenuous contact is severed when the names Fairbanks and Hughes are called. I am the former. She is the latter.

  Sometimes, we do things that we might never explain. Touching the arm of Somebody Hughes is a similar happening. I don’t know why I do it, and I worry about consequences.

  She leaves before I do, since I have two to be weighed. When I gain my release, I look across the road to where a tangle of prams sits outside the chemist’s shop. Most pram-owners are inside, but Somebody Hughes is standing there as if waiting for . . . For what? For a bus? No. Her pram, probably second-hand, is not a folder; like mine, it is coach-built and not quite the thing these days. But she might be waiting for a bus. Or a lorry. Stop this, Anna. You don’t know her, and she is very unlikely to be suicidal. Not everyone is like you. Very few go to bed praying for a nice died-peacefully-in-her-sleep outcome. A vehicle would hurt, and one or the other might survive.

  When the twins are strapped down, I cross the road. ‘Hello, Somebody Hughes,’ I say stupidly.

  She stares right into me and, for a moment, I wonder whether she might suffer from something worse than post-natal whatever. ‘Hello,’ she answers eventually. ‘You were in the clinic.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She is searching me. I can almost hear her machinery as she registers every aspect of my exterior self. Good clothes – click. Good pram – click. Very tall – click. Blonde – click. Rather old to have those babies – click. But, in the end, she allows me a measure of trust. ‘I’m not myself,’ she manages.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  I shrug. ‘Our eyes met across a crowded room and you reminded me of me.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Sounds a bit Barbara Cartland,’ I tell her. ‘But if you need a friend, someone who understands a bit – well – I’m Anna Fairbanks and . . . and here I am. Come on. Let’s leave these three outside The Mustard Pot and grab a coffee. If we sit near the window, we can keep an eye on our sprogs.’ Is this a good sign? Or have I just adopted another daughter? She is Susan, she is young, and she is fragile in both mind and body. Can one oddity heal another? Can the process of trying to help her mend me? Is this yet another symptom of my terrible self-interest? All my life, I have found people who needed me. Almost invariably, they have supported me in return. She needs someone. It might as well be me.

  Susan Hughes is starving. She demolishes three halves of toasted teacake while I eat just one half. Her mouth mus
t be lined with asbestos, because she drinks hot coffee in a few desperate gulps. After a deep breath, she speaks. She is unmarried. She dares not identify the father of her baby, because he will kill her if she does. The house is crowded. The baby, a boy named Stephen, occupies a box room with her. ‘It’s like a cupboard with a window,’ she tells me. ‘My mam’s a bit ashamed of me. Well, I think she’s more angry than ashamed, because she wanted me to have a proper job and a future. My dad’s always drunk.’ Oh, God – I know how that feels. ‘He beat me up when my belly started to grow, then he hit me again when I wouldn’t tell him the father’s name.’ She sighs heavily. ‘By the time I’ve bought the baby’s food, I’ve hardly any money left.’

  My mind rushes along like a Grand National horse that has deliberately unseated its unwelcome passenger in order to clear Beechers Brook. For the first time in weeks, I feel almost alive. ‘Come home with me,’ I command. Sometimes, I can’t quite manage not to sound like a teacher. ‘Two heads are better than one, even if they’re messed up.’ She needs to divorce her family. I need help in the house. And I am definitely and absolutely crazy.

  Mrs Battersby agrees. ‘Have you gone twice round the bend and met yourself on the road back? You don’t know her from Eve. She could be a thief or summat. And what about Den?’

  I shake my head. What about him? I need him like a fish needs a lifeboat. He doesn’t ‘do’ babies, seldom plays with them, never bathes or changes them, refuses to take them for a Sunday morning walk while I cook lunch. ‘He won’t notice.’ I reply. My husband should have been Victorian. Or, perhaps, from some Middle-Eastern culture where wives know their place and walk several paces behind the men.

  ‘Where’s she gone now, this Susan?’ is Mrs Bee’s next question.

  ‘Home. Somewhere on the council estate.’

  She bridles. The arms fold themselves beneath an ample bosom, her chin juts forward and thin lips clamp in the closed position while she prepares for battle. The wait is a short one. ‘In the caravan? You’re shoving her and a kiddy in yon caravan?’