Page 1 of A Family Affair
MARPLE, CHESHIRE. 2003
Beryl bounded down the stairs and swung open the front door to find the cheery district nurses waiting on the step. Never had she been so glad to see anyone in her whole life.
On a day-to-day basis they eased the sometimes-weighty responsibility of caring for her cantankerous mother, and dealt with the more unsavoury tasks involved. Today, however, they signified respite. Time and space in which Beryl could gather her wits.
In her opinion, they were real-life angels living there on Earth. And if the previous hour or so was anything to go by, they’d need every ounce of godly, or saintly power they possessed to deal with their patient. All Beryl wanted was a moment or two so she could process what she’d just heard.
Beryl hovered by the hall stand as the nurses snapped on rubber gloves and donned plastic aprons. They had no clue that, according to their patient, during the night there’d been a much-awaited visitation. Apparently, Walter, Beryl’s long-dead father had popped in to tell his wife to pack a bag because her time was almost up, and he’d be back soon to fetch her.
With her eye on the hourglass, Mother Molly McCarthy – as she was fondly referred to by family – had decided before Walter came back, to unburden herself, just in case the sands of time ran out. In her eagerness to free herself of sin, she had conveniently dumped all of her troubles on poor Beryl.
Waving the nurses onwards and upwards, Beryl felt duty bound to give them the heads-up so called out, ‘She’s on form today. And take no notice to her ramblings if she starts going on with herself. I’ll pop the kettle on for when you’ve finished.’
To the sound ofthank-yousandnot to worrys, Beryl silently watched their ascent. The minute their black tights and blue tabards disappeared from view she headed through the kitchen and then straight outside, carrying the weight of her mother’s secret like a sack of dirty washing.
She plonked her bottom on the wooden bench by the back door and sucked in great gulps of fresh air. But the tension didn’t leave her body, and Beryl didn’t think it ever would.
Surely it was all a lie. Or confusion, muddled events twisted by the passage of time.
Yet her mother’s account had been so precise, her voice clear, her eyes looking upwards. Focused on a scene playing out on the bedroom ceiling as she spoke her truth. And that’s what Beryl believed it was. The truth.
Beryl rested her head against the kitchen wall. After swallowing down the lump in her throat, she whispered her shock and exasperation. ‘Oh Mum, what have you done?’
Closing her eyes for moment or two, Beryl waited for an answer. From where or whom, she had no idea. If she was hoping that when she opened her eyes the problem would have gone away, she was disappointed because, just like her view of the garden and life, nothing had changed.
The rockeries that ran around the border were weed-free, always well-tended and stocked with an abundance of perennials and alpines. The lawn, large enough for a kick-about or a game of Swingball, was springtime-lush and not yet scorched by the approaching summer sun.
The wooden shed to her left still held all of her dad’s tools. As her eyes fell on the handle, Beryl was tempted to fetch the key and take out the largest shovel she could find, then go straight upstairs and whack her mother over the head with it. Move things on a bit. She was due to shuffle off soon, anyway.
With a sigh and hoping to somehow divert her mind from the confession and murderous thoughts, Beryl focused on the pretty garden that hadn’t altered since they’d moved there in sixty-five. The year Mother Molly finally made her yearned-for escape and dragged her family along with her.
Leaving their terraced house in Manchester had been a huge wrench but, according to Mother, the scrimping was worth it, not to mention the overtime Beryl’s poor old dad was strong-armed into. Their arrival in suburban Cheshire and the purchase of their three-bed semi meant a fresh start and brighter futures for all of them.
All Beryl remembered about that time was being distraught and hating the neat little cul-de-sac, the prim neighbours, and the fact her mum thought she was better than everyone they’d left behind.
At sixteen, Beryl hadn’t wanted a fresh start. She’d wanted to stay in Openshaw with her friends who were all going to work at the steel factory, in the offices like they’d planned. Mother would have none of it and said Beryl could be a typist anywhere. To prove her point, she secured an interview at the council offices for the Monday after they’d moved in. Beryl still worked there to that day.
Looking back, Beryl recalled that before the move, her mother had often behaved like the devil, or a debt collector, was on their tails. Always on edge, wary when someone knocked on the door, mistrustful of strangers and unyielding where privacy was concerned.
It was one of her many rules, rammed home to the point where you’d think they were the Openshaw branch of the Manchester Mafia.
McCarthy law advocated keeping themselves to themselves. Whatever went on under Molly’s roof, arguments, trouble and strife, personal business, was never repeated outside the front door.
Molly was neighbourly, friendly but best-friendless, and avoided social events and gossips like the plague. And on a post-war street of housewives there were plenty to choose from.
‘Private business is just that, a family affair. Like we used to say during the war, keep mum, she’s not so dumb.’ How many times had Beryl and her older brother Ernie heard that? Being almost nine years older and sharp as a knife, he’d tease their mum, saying she was a spy who was waiting to be called back to the cold. Now, Beryl knew it was nothing of the kind and the truth was so much worse than having a member of the KGB for a mother.
As if she hadn’t enough to ponder on, another thought pinged into Beryl’s beleaguered brain. Yes, Mother had seemed happier when they moved to Marple, but she never really changed. Or had they all simply got used to ‘Mother’s funny ways’? Beryl knew the answer was no.
Puffing out her cheeks then letting the air trapped inside them escape slowly, Beryl wondered how a morning she had expected to follow the same monotonous routine had turned into an earth-shattering epiphany.
As the live-in carer for her dying mother, in between her office shifts, nothing very much happened. But as dull as her life had become since her divorce, Beryl really could have done without her mother’s revelation.
Regardless, she now understood why Mother had always been on pins and semi-reclusive, and what fed her desperate determination to escape Manchester. And yet in the wake of it all, Beryl was having trouble feeling sorrow or loyalty for her old mum. Instead, she had this dreadful sense of being let down and deceived.
Her view of the childhood home she had come to love, the average life she’d been content with and – most importantly – the mother she’d adored and respected, despite her sharp tongue and high standards, had shifted like a tectonic plate.
That was the only way Beryl could describe the previous hour, as she’d sat on the very uncomfortable dressing table stool, clutching the hem of her cardigan for strength, listening dumbfounded while Mother Molly bared her soul. It was as though the Axminster under her feet actually moved the foundations of her family’s history.
