The Thing About Clare Page 2

  Anna spotted Clare having what looked like a spat with Uncle Stephen but it could just have been the way Clare had arranged her features. An argument was never very far away from her sister. Even when they were kids, Clare could start a row in an empty room. It was funny how they’d all just grown up into older versions of their childhood selves. Miriam, the eldest and in charge. Clare, trouble-magnet. Sebastian, loveable and indulged. And her? Well, she was the favourite. Everyone knew that. Or at least she had been whilst their parents were alive. Their mother had always denied it but they had all known the truth. Anna was the favourite and Clare was the black sheep.

  She needed something to do with her hands. Where was Sebastian with that drink? She considered the buffet but she was too on edge to eat and the sandwiches were curling in the heat already. She would have to go and talk to someone.

  ‘She was such a lovely woman, you know,’ a gravelly voice said somewhere to her left. ‘Couldn’t do enough for you. She helped with the flowers at church right up until she went into that home. It was a shame, that.’ The voice dropped to a stage whisper. ‘I mean, you’d think with four children that one of them would have taken her in. It’s the least you’d expect, isn’t it? After Frank died, I mean. But to shove her off into a care home when she’d got family close by. You know me, I’d never judge anyone, but I thought it was a disgrace. Poor Dorothy. Not that she complained, mind you. She wouldn’t hear a word against those children. Not one word even though they abandoned her to die in a strange bed without her loved ones.’

  Anna knew who was speaking without having to look. Marjorie Connors and her son Malcolm had lived next door to their mother for as long as she could remember. Anna spun round on her heel and took two quick steps until she was standing at Marjorie’s elbow. The sharp smell of mothballs mingled with stale sweat came off the old woman. Marjorie’s cheeks were pink and drops of perspiration were sitting on the down above her upper lip.

  ‘Marjorie,’ said Anna sharply. ‘So kind of you to come. It must be difficult for you to get out these days. No Malcolm? Oh, yes. There he is. Never that far away, is he? Still no life of his own? Such a pity. I’m surprised he hasn’t been swept off his feet by someone from that chess club of his. Well, must be getting on. So many people to talk to, you know.’

  Anna walked away, leaving Marjorie floundering like a fish out of water, her mouth opening and closing.

  ‘Well! Did you ever . . .?’ she heard Marjorie say to her neighbour.

  Sebastian was making his way across the room with her drink, carrying the glass above his head to protect it from the sea of people. He was making slow progress, nodding his thanks to those offering their condolences as he passed by. Finally, he reached Anna and handed her the drink.

  ‘I think the ice has all melted. Soz, sis. How are you doing?’

  ‘Not bad. I wish it was over,’ said Anna, taking a deep slurp of her gin. ‘Are you holding up okay?’

  Sebastian nodded decisively. ‘Can’t say I’ve been relishing the prospect of today but I think it gets a bit easier after the funer—’ He stopped mid-word, closed his eyes, bit his lip and breathed in deeply. Anna reached out and touched him gently on his arm. She didn’t speak. What was there to say?

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued brightly a moment later, ‘at least we can stop paying those exorbitant care home fees now, so every cloud and all that.’ He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes. Anna thought about telling him what she had overheard Marjorie Connors say about them but what would be the point. People could think what they liked.

  ‘We’ll need to meet up,’ she said, ‘and make some decisions about the house. I suppose we’ll have to clear all the stuff out at some point. I’m not looking forward to that. Fifty years’ worth of junk.’ Anna smiled. ‘Can you imagine what we’ll find? Did you know that Miriam came across over a hundred toilet rolls piled up in that cupboard in the eaves? Lord only knows what she thought she’d need them for. And rolls of cling film. Those huge catering-size ones? Honestly. Why?’

  ‘They must have been a bargain,’ laughed Sebastian. ‘Waste not, want not. There’ll be a will somewhere too, I suppose.’

  It was a throwaway comment but Anna felt her spine stiffen. She looked at her glass, hoping that Sebastian couldn’t see her face. If he did, he’d know she was hiding something straight away.

  ‘She never mentioned a will but if there is one no doubt we’ll find it,’ she said quickly. It felt like a huge neon arrow was pointing down at her from above. ‘Liar’ written in flashing red letters floating over her head. Surely Sebastian could see it? It must be visible to the entire room, she thought, but no one was looking. She finished her drink in one gulp.

  ‘That went down quick,’ she said, nodding at her empty glass as the neon sign disappeared. ‘Fancy another?’

  ‘Do you think we should?’ Sebastian asked. ‘I mean, is it politic, what with Clare and everything? I notice that River isn’t here.’

  ‘Did you really think he would be?’

  ‘Well, she was his grandmother. It would have been nice to show up if only for his mum’s sake.’

  ‘I think he’s washed his hands of us,’ said Anna. ‘And to be honest, I don’t care whether having another drink is politic or not. I want one. What our sister does is up to her and, let’s face it, that’s the thing about Clare. She’ll do exactly as she pleases no matter what we do. Shall I get one for you?’

  Sebastian lifted his glass, which was still three quarters full.

  ‘You go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ll stick with this one. Someone ought to go and talk to Uncle Stephen before he gets too blotto to remember where he is and starts singing “Danny Boy”.’ He stood up. ‘Catch you later.’

  Anna watched her brother weave his way over to their uncle. The room was now oppressively hot and the smell of stale food and warm bodies was making her feel nauseous. She would get her drink and then take it outside. Miriam had been cornered by some women Anna didn’t recognise. She should probably go and help her but bugger that for a game of soldiers. It was Miriam’s job. Miriam was the eldest, she was good with responsibility and she could do small talk. She’d be fine.

  Anna ordered her drink and then stepped out through the French doors on to the patio outside. A group of three men in gaudy polo shirts were just putting at the eighteenth, two of them laughing heartily at the third as he missed his shot, collapsing under the pressure to perform at this hole, right outside the clubhouse, like anyone was even watching or could care less.

  She quickly headed towards a small copse before anyone could catch her, and when she reached the trees, she skirted round until she was out of sight of the clubhouse. As she slumped to the ground, she heard the seams of her funeral dress give. She wouldn’t be able to take it back now, with or without its label. The last two weeks had passed in a kind of fug. Since she had taken the phone call from Miriam telling her about her mother, everything seemed to have been moving in slow motion and here, in the dappled shade and for the first time, Anna finally let her guard drop and wept.

  DOROTHY – 1961

  I

  If this baby, her firstborn, the light of her life, the precious fruit of her womb, did not stop crying soon then Dorothy Bernadette Bliss (née McBride) could not, in all conscience, be held responsible for her actions. She lifted the child up at arm’s length and examined its hot little face, as red as a cardinal’s cassock and twisted all out of shape. It was barely recognisable as the beautiful cherub in the Bounty Baby pictures that Frank had convinced her to pose for in the early days of motherhood, back before she decided that her child was a test sent to her by the Devil himself. Indignation radiated from the baby’s every pore, as if it could not believe that it had had the misfortune to be born to a woman as incompetent as this one. Mother and child stared at each other with what, to an outsider, might have appeared to be thinly disguised loathing. The baby locked its gaze on to Dorothy’s like a heat-seeking missile, paused briefly to fill its lungs wi
th a fresh supply of oxygen, and began to scream again.

  How could something so small cause so much wanton destruction, wondered Dorothy. Before the birth of her longed-for offspring her life had been calm and ordered. She had sailed through her days, carrying out her many and varied duties with ease and to a timetable that suited her needs without fear of interruption or contradiction. Now the simplest of tasks could take an eternity to complete. Just getting herself washed and dressed was as an expedition up the north face of the Eiger. Thank the Lord that Frank wasn’t here to see her floundering around in the mire of this caricature of her former daily life. Whilst there were times when she cheerfully cursed the bones of him for being gone for days on end, at least she was able to raise her game to having a semblance of control when he came home.

  ‘What is wrong with you, child?’ she asked the screaming Miriam, who responded by increasing the volume by a notch or two, thus screwing Dorothy’s already over-taut nerves another frantic turn.

  Dorothy ran through the checklist of possible causes for this anxiety, helpfully provided by the patronising health visitor when she had first brought the bundle of joy, lungs and voice box that was Miriam home from the maternity hospital. Too hot? Too cold? Too hungry? Too full? Wet nappy? Dirty nappy? Too tired? Wind? Sheer bloody-mindedness designed simply to drive her mother to a point of no return so that Social Services and possibly even the police would need to be called? Dorothy settled on the latter. This child was surely a demon. Dorothy crossed herself as this thought escaped from the darker recesses of her frazzled mind. Her faith in God and the Church might be hanging by the finest of gossamer threads but there was no point tempting fate, now, was there?

  As the child couldn’t possibly be hungry and had a clean nappy, as far as her bloodhound-like nose could discern, Dorothy decided that the only thing for it was to put distance between her and it. She peered out of the windows, more smeared than they had been before she was thrust into motherhood, to see what the weather gods had sent today. Well, it wasn’t raining so that was a blessing, and now that spring was finally creeping in, apologetic for its late arrival, at least the babe wouldn’t freeze to death if she left it in the garden.

  The Silver Cross pram (top of the range – ‘Only the best for my darling Dorothy and the fruit of my loins.’) stood abandoned in the hall. Left stranded at a jaunty angle, it hinted at the speed with which Dorothy had extracted Miriam from it on their arrival back from their march around the park some two hours ago. Had this child been screaming since then? Dorothy had lost all sense of the passage of time. She didn’t exactly drop the baby into the pram but she would have to admit that she had used more care in the past. Miriam looked slightly shocked at her sudden change of perspective, finding herself all at once prone in her pram. Her arms flung out and she took a couple of short sharp breaths before she regained momentum and began to scream again.

  Negotiating her way past the console table and all the while bouncing the pram up and down with such vigour that it was a miracle the child didn’t just bounce out and on to the floor, Dorothy manoeuvred it through the front door and into the garden. Dorothy was proud of her front garden – the outward signs to all those that passed by of the order inside the house. Of course, there was not much to see at this time of year. A few snowdrops and the beginnings of some early daffs – but the borders were weed-free and the square patch of lawn was neatly mown and edged, despite the season.

  Miriam screamed on, and Dorothy wondered if gags for babies had been invented yet and whether they were legal. She saw a whole new business venture opening up in front of her. Gags in any fabric you could want to match your pram or the child’s outfit or the colour of their eyes – in Miriam’s case, a dirty grey so far.

  The front garden was not much to write home about in terms of size and in five quick strides she had reached the brick wall that marked its perimeter.

  ‘That child’s teething,’ said a familiar voice. ‘You’ll be wanting some oil of cloves. That’ll do the trick.’

  Every part of Dorothy seethed. Slowly she turned round to see Marjorie Connors standing there, her head be-curled, her bosom resting on folded arms. Sometimes Dorothy wished she could take Marjorie Connors and . . .

  ‘Yes, poor little mite,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I can’t seem to settle her at all today. I’m sorry if she’s disturbed you, Marjorie.’

  In fact, right at this moment, Dorothy hoped that Miriam’s screaming was acting as some kind of unbearable torture for her neighbour in much the same way as it was for her. If she had to deal with one more smug titbit of wisdom from the thus far childless Marjorie Connors then she may well find herself looking at a stretch for not just one murder but two.

  And then a miracle. With one final explosion of wrath at her unacceptable treatment, Miriam closed her puffy little eyes and fell asleep and at once looked like butter would not melt nor even alter its consistency one iota in her tiny rosebud mouth. Dorothy let out a long and heartfelt sigh. She affixed the brakes to the pram, checked the cat net was firmly in place and then tiptoed away, waving apologetically at Marjorie as she backed towards her front door and slid inside. Even as she made her way towards the kitchen to put the kettle on, she was mentally calculating how long she thought she might have before Miriam required her attention again. Surely the child would sleep for an hour now, maybe two. Enough time to mop the floors and make a shepherd’s pie for Frank’s supper. But first she would have a cup of tea. She deserved that at least. Was it too much to ask for? A cup of tea? Dorothy fell asleep at the kitchen table before she had chance to find out.

  II

  ‘Excellent shepherd’s pie,’ said Frank later as he mopped around his plate with a piece of white sliced so that it shone clean. ‘You are a tiny worker of miracles, my darling wife.’

  Dorothy felt like a mere worker. Miracles were very far from her grasp these days.

  ‘Did I mention that I have to go away again next week?’ asked Frank lightly as he folded his newspaper expertly so that the crossword filled the quadrant that he had in his hand. ‘Local trade unions’ conference? Blackpool? Four days, three nights?’

  Dorothy noticed that he did not look at her as he spoke: a sure sign of guilt if ever there was one. There had certainly been no mention of the conference before now. She would most definitely have remembered if it had come up in conversation. She could just let it go, probably should. Frank had a good job at the newspaper and these conferences came with the territory, but after the few days she had just had dealing with his child (Miriam was only her child when she gurgled playfully on her mat and kicked her little toes in the air), she was feeling angsty.

  ‘No, I don’t believe you did mention it,’ she said, her lips pursed into a tight little knot. ‘Blackpool is only up the road. Could you not come home for one night at least?’

  She knew the answer to this question, but still she felt that she owed it to her diminishing sanity to at least ask.

  Frank shook his head sorrowfully, as if driving the fifty miles home to see his nearest and dearest was equivalent to one of the labours of Hercules.

  ‘I would, Dottie, you know I would if I could, but we’re expected to be there in the evenings. Shake the right hands, pat the right shoulders. That’s where the real stories are sniffed out, you know, in the bar.’

  She didn’t know. She didn’t care. If he left her for the best part of a full week then he might find that he returned to a slightly diminished and certainly less noisy family. But she nodded and smiled in a way that she hoped would show him that she understood these things were beyond his control and that he had to attend, under sufferance, even though it meant leaving his exhausted wife and demon child to muddle along as best they could on their own. She feared her smile might miss its mark.

  On day two of the ‘Important Blackpool Conference’, Miriam’s tiny little tooth finally erupted through her red-raw gum and a fragile and temporary peace was restored, although as babies have twe
nty teeth, Dorothy was very far from resting on her laurels. However, any infanticidal tendencies that she might have been displaying melted away with the return of normal volume levels in the house.

  Feeling a bit like she could again be seen in public with her offspring without alerting anyone to the risk of imminent death that had been there before, Dorothy pulled a clean dress on and immediately felt more like a woman and less like a mother. Granted, the floral fabric pulled a little tighter over her hips than it had done the last time she’d worn it, but who would notice? She tied a bonnet firmly under Miriam’s chin, in full knowledge that it would be off again before she had locked the front door, and set off to her favourite café in search of adult company.

  In the few days since Dorothy had last emerged beyond her threshold, the world seemed to have switched seasons. Early damson blossom was pushing its way out of sap-filled branches, an aura of fuzzy pink replacing their dull winter brown. A blackbird whistled cheerfully somewhere nearby and the air around her felt positively lighter. It was almost warm enough to go without a coat but she knew that only a fool would cast a clout before the May tree bloomed. She left the buttons of her woollen jacket open, though, as a nod to the approaching spring. Even Miriam seemed like a new baby, the troublesome tooth having made its appearance, sitting propped up in her pram and pointing at anything that caught her eye as they passed by.

  Dorothy kept up a spirited one-sided conversation with her as they walked along. ‘Yes, Miriam. That’s a dog. And do you know what that dog is called, do you? It’s called Tinker. And how do I know that? That’s a very good question, Miriam. I know that because it slips its lead at least once a day and I can hear Mr Mason from number twenty-seven calling for it like his life depends on it. Which it may well do, knowing Mrs Mason.’

  And so it continued all the way to the café. Jack’s Corner Café had few notable features other than the fact that it was on a corner and belonged to a man called Jack. Jack had been a pilot in the war and, by some incredible stroke of luck, had returned from France outwardly unscathed. He had opened a café and slipped seemingly seamlessly into this new phase of his life, the only telltale signs of what had gone before being a slight limp (worse in colder weather) and a tendency to shake. This latter meant that sometimes more of your tea was in the saucer than the cup by the time it arrived at your table, but if the tea lake was particularly bad Jack would pour you a fresh one and leave it on the counter for you to collect yourself.