Page 8 of A Family Affair
‘Then talk to Honey. And stop making out that you’re doing fine when you’re not. She can’t help you if you don’t tell her how you feel, and perhaps she’s hurting too but trying to be brave for you. She’s a good lass and only wants to help. You and every other bugger in the Valley.’ Beryl gave him a smile, then held out the packet of Garibaldis.
Ernie shook his head, ‘You trying to fatten me up? I know Honey is. Should’ve seen the portion of shepherd’s pie she gave me at the caff. And you’re right, she is missing you. I can see it in her eyes when I mention your name. But we both have to be strong. Me more than her. She’s lost her dad and her gran and that flighty mother of hers is useless so I’m it. I’m all she has, and I can’t let her down.’
Beryl nodded. ‘That’s as may be. But it does you no good bottling things up and you’ll only get yourself into a state. Share the load, Ernie, that’s all I’m saying.’
She was right. Beryl always was. She knew him too well because Ernie didn’t know when to let things go. He’d spent a lifetime battling with his mother over stupid things. Her cloying ways, needy at times. Her possessiveness that suffocated him in his teenage years when he started to spread his wings.
Ernie had resented her stupid rules, too. Her obsession with privacy and mistrust of everyone she met. She’d even been cold with Nancy and suspicious of her and her family. It was as though Mother wanted to keep Ernie all for herself, and he often felt bad for Beryl who, despite being a good daughter, always came second to him.
Sometimes, Ernie really did believe his mother used to be a spy. Either that or she had serious issues, mental or otherwise. He didn’t care to dwell on what they could be.
‘Penny for them.’ Beryl was folding the greaseproof paper that had wrapped the cake. She was from the era where nothing went to waste.
‘I was just thinking about Mother, and how you always used to smooth things over. Remember when I got engaged to Nancy and her parents put an announcement in theManchester Evening News? Mother went mad. Saying they should’ve asked her first. There was always something to complain about, wasn’t there?’
Beryl just nodded and busied herself with the biscuit tin.
‘You sorted it all out by saying she could do one for the wedding and would mention it to Nancy’s parents. And after all the fuss she made, Mother never even bloody bothered!’ Ernie finished with a jerk of his head and loud tut.
‘Well, there’s no point getting all het up about it now, and time’s getting on. When you’ve finished your cocoa, how about we take a wander round your veggie patch and then you can take me home.’ Beryl screwed the lid on the thermos then began arranging things in her basket.
‘Okey-dokey. My pumpkins are coming on a treat. Wait till you see the beets. I’ve got a bumper crop this year of root veggies. I reckon our Honey and Gospel won’t know what to do with it all.’ Ernie drained his mug and passed it to his sister. ‘And thanks for coming to see me, Beryl, it’s been a tonic, it really has.’
The smoke from the bonfire one allotment over was wafting closer and infiltrating the shed, swirling around Beryl, making it hard to see her. He could still hear her voice though.
‘Well you mind what I said, or I’ll not bother coming back. And make sure you go and see our Honey more often. No squirreling yourself away in here. Now get up lazy bones, I need to go.’
Ernie started. Opening bleary eyes he looked around the shed for Beryl. She was nowhere to be seen. He realised immediately, as sadness overwhelmed him, followed very quickly by something else: love. A warm swell of it washed over him.
Okay, so it hadn’t been real, but he’d enjoyed chatting to Beryl, if only in his memories and dreams, and perhaps his sister had a point. It was time to go home.
CHAPTER7
CLARISSA
Leaning heavily on her walking stick, Clarissa tentatively made her way towards the top of the stairs. Taking hold of the brass banister she caught her breath, and then gingerly lowered herself onto the waiting seat, grateful to have the weight of her birdlike body lifted.
Forty-five steps. That’s how far it was from her bedroom chair to the top of the landing. Eleven from the bed to the chair. Sixteen from her ensuite bathroom to her bed. Clarissa had counted each excruciating one of those steps. Being able to make them symbolised the last vestiges of her self-respect and mobility.
She’d hated the stairlift at first. An abominable contraption that the mere mention of left her feeling humbled and humiliated. Neither emotion came naturally to her. It wasn’t in her blood.
However, despite the rest of her body being incapable of obeying her commands, her mind was still firing on all cylinders. Hence, she had begrudgingly reasoned that the ‘contraption’ would enable her to move freely around her beloved home. Otherwise she’d end up with one of those up-and-down hospital beds in the lounge. But she needed to go upstairs so she could visit her dear sister.
Footsteps on the parquet flooring drew her attention to Jennifer, her kind and attentive aide and confidante who took up her post by Clarissa’s side. ‘Righty-ho. I’ll meet you at the bottom. It’s kippers for breakfast, your favourite. See you in a mo.’
‘Thank you dear. I’ll race you to the bottom shall I? First one gets extra brekkie.’ Clarissa produced her best cheery smile for Jennifer who seemed to relish their morning banter or indeed any sign that her patient was in good spirits. Clarissa’s fakery was a small price to pay if it made her smile.
With the push of a button, Clarissa began her undignified descent, banishing memories of the times she’d raced down the stairs, fleet of foot, to meet whichever eligible chap her mother had roped in to take her dancing. The thought made her cringe.
Gripping her walking stick, tilting her chin, she commenced the second phase of her daily routine and as she glided by, said a polite ‘good morning’ to each of her ancestors.
The old guard in the gilt frames were complete strangers, connected only by genetics; but in some there was definitely a hint of resemblance to relatives she’d actually met. Her uncle’s almost imperceivable sneer. Her father’s eyes, brooding and black. Or her fierce grandpapa, his eyebrows bushy and grey.
While the staircase was lined with portraits of those one could, without guilt or remorse, choose to acknowledge or ignore, the remainder of the house was thankfully filled with faces that spoke of happy times.
Bygone eras. Links to her past. No images of love – for there had only ever been one, forbidden and gone forever. Definitely her losses.
Clarissa could, if the mood took her, reach out and touch the faces of those captured in black and white, in time immemorial. And instantly, those days, those people, the feel of their skin, how she loved some of them despite their faults, others not so much. It all came flooding back.
