Читать книгу My Husband’s Lies: An unputdownable read, perfect for book group reading - Caroline England, Caroline England - Страница 20

Nick

Nick pulls his car into the flagged driveway of his childhood home feeling a mixture of relief and guilt. Relief that he’s left it; guilt for feeling relieved.

Being the much younger child hasn’t been easy. Although Patrick visits their parents regularly, he moved to his Cheadle flat years ago, leaving young Nicky Quinn with their doting parents. Of course, Nick didn’t mind then; he was cushioned and loved. But he returned after university and found himself glued, a strange sticky mixture of love and dependency.

‘You need to break free from your parents, obviously,’ Lisa said, not long after they met. ‘But they need it too. I’ve seen it with other people’s parents. Their kids finally leave home and they have to learn to live with each other again. You know, without the crutch of a child. Your mum and dad are getting older, so they need to adjust before it’s too late.’

He moved into Lisa’s small semi two months before the wedding, but spent some time each evening at home with his parents.

‘I get it; a weaning period,’ she said. ‘But after the wedding you’re all mine.’

It was how he saw it too. He knew the umbilical cord had to be cut, but felt the severance wouldn’t be complete until he was married to Lisa, until he’d said the vows out loud to everyone listening in the church. But now he’s done it, he suspects life isn’t quite so black and white. He’s glad he’s left, and of course he’ll always love his parents, but he craves their approval as much as ever.

He rings the bell and stands at the frosted-glass door, rubbing his hands against the cold evening as he waits. Eventually he sees the smudged outline of his father leaning down to insert the key in the lock. There’s a latch on the door but his parents have taken to locking it with a key even during the daytime. It finally opens, revealing the addition of a safety chain since he was last here.

It feels like reproof.

A blast of warm air fragranced with emulsion and cooking hits his face. ‘You should at least leave the key in the lock, Dad. If there was a fire or an emergency you’d have to find the key. The delay could make all the difference.’

‘That’s what I’ve been telling him,’ his mother calls from the kitchen. ‘He won’t take a blind bit of notice. And he can never remember where he’s put them. Now you’ve mentioned it, no doubt he’ll listen.’

Breathing in the oily smell of roast potatoes, Nick thinks about crutches. The bickering between his parents had got pretty bad before he left; he can’t imagine it has got any better.

His father turns away and hobbles back towards the small sitting room at the front of the house. ‘You finally decided to visit, then? I believe you’ve been back for a week,’ he says over his brushed cotton shoulder. Then after a moment, ‘Arsenal and Spurs. Two nil. Are you coming to watch?’

‘Hello, love,’ his mother says, pulling him into a hug. ‘Careful of the walls. They should be dry by now, but you never know. Oh, it’s lovely to see you. How was the honeymoon?’

He looks around the hallway. Sees the usual Artexed white walls behind the Lowry prints. He opens his mouth to say something nice, but his father’s voice interrupts.

‘Where are you, Nicky? Watch this replay.’

‘It’s fine, love,’ his mum says. She throws a crisp tea towel over her trim shoulder. ‘Dinner is ready in ten minutes. Then the television is going off, football or no football. We can talk then.’

After a few minutes of sport, Nick takes his usual place at the dining table, his back to the manicured square of grass through the open curtains of the large window. ‘How’s Patrick?’ he asks over the prawn cocktail starter. ‘I sent him a text. I thought he might be here to say hello. I’ve brought him a bottle of Barbadian rum.’

‘Not tonight. He still comes on a Wednesday for his dinner,’ his mum replies, offering him buttered triangles of brown bread. ‘You know how he likes his routine. So, tell us about your honeymoon. Was it as lovely as you’d hoped?’

Nick tells his parents about Barbados, the unrelenting sunshine, the glossy hotel and their room looking onto the almost white beach. The fabulous food, especially the soup, the cheeky small birds that begged at the table, the symphony of crickets at night. And even though he says we, he’s conscious when he mentions Lisa’s name. Lisa, who is now his wife, as though she doesn’t belong. He should have brought her with him tonight; he should have insisted.

The main course is his favourite food; roast beef and Yorkshire puddings, even though it’s a Friday and his parents usually eat fish. His mum puts the last two crispy potatoes on his plate and passes him the gravy. He feels inordinately full from potatoes and nerves.

‘Nicky, be a good lad and find out the half-time score when you’ve polished them off,’ his father says.

‘Really, Harry. Can’t we just talk? A whole meal without football?’

‘It’ll only take a minute.’

‘He’s here to see us, not the football.’

‘Nicky wants to know, the same as I do, don’t you, lad?’

Nick leaves the table and spends a few moments in the sitting room, staring at the muted television screen and just breathing.

‘How’s Lisa?’ his mum asks when he returns with the goal update. ‘It’s a shame she couldn’t join us tonight. Is her tan as nice as yours?’

Nick finds himself flushing. ‘She’s fine and sends her apologies. She’s out with some of her nursing friends. They arranged it months ago—’

‘Oh, don’t worry. She has her own life. Of course she does. And it’s lovely to have you all to ourselves.’

He fluffs his hair, his fingers catching the scar line on his crown, then glances at his mum as she heads to the kitchen. Does she know he’s lying? Her face is warm and placid but he doesn’t want her to think badly of Lisa, to assume the lie is because she doesn’t want to visit. He had hoped Patrick would be here, so he could ask all three of them his burning question and watch their faces. ‘Who is Susan?’ he wants to demand. ‘Auntie Iris mentioned someone called Susan at the wedding. “Your Susan”, she said. A small girl who could bring Patrick around. Who is she and why has she never been mentioned?’

His mum’s voice cuts into his thoughts. ‘Your favourite for dessert, love.’

He lifts his head to an apple and blackberry tart crusted with sugar. She cuts a huge slice and smothers it in cream. And his father is talking. He’s warming to a story from his school days with Uncle Derek that Nick’s heard before. A holiday to Scarborough, just the two of them. How he had the brains and the charm but Derek had the looks and the brawn; that between them they were a winning team, ‘both on and off the pitch of life’. The story is a long one and not without humour.

Apple pie and anecdotes. His regular safe life. Nick knows he won’t ask his question.

They go back to the television and Arsenal win 3-1. His mother stands, points the remote and the room falls silent.

‘You can’t turn it off now, Dora. We need to hear the summary.’ His father’s voice is high-pitched, like a child’s. ‘Give me the remote.’

‘Nick doesn’t live here now, Harry. We should be enjoying his company. I’m bringing in the coffee and we can play cards for a while. Nick has his own home to go to.’

When his mum leaves the room, Nick picks up the remote, turns on the TV, reduces the volume and places it in his dad’s bony hand, then crouches at the cupboard to find the cards. But his eye catches the framed photographs of him and Patrick in chubby-cheeked school poses, fifteen years apart. They are always there on the pale wooden top, a fixture he rarely notices, but when he does he feels wistful, the whiff of loss still there from when Patrick left home.

Returning with drinks on a tray, his mum tuts at the almost muted TV screen.

‘Tell you what,’ he says quickly, wanting to avoid the inevitable squabble. ‘Instead of playing cards, let’s look at some old photographs. Have you any of Rhyl? Remember when some drunk bloke came into our hotel room one night and wouldn’t accept it wasn’t his room?’

He sits next to his dad on the two-seater sofa and his mum kneels at their feet, sorting through photographs from an old shoebox, each packet carefully labelled in her neat handwriting. She selects one marked ‘Rhyl’ and hands it to him.

‘You were only three, love. Can you really remember the man in the hotel room?’

‘Family lore.’ He smiles, flicking through the snaps. ‘I feel as though I can remember, but the story has been told so many times, who knows? By Patrick, particularly, he likes that one.’ He holds up a photograph. ‘I remember this beach. Playing cricket and rounders. Did we go with the cousins?’

He gazes at the snap. It’s of him and Patrick on a damp sandy beach, standing next to a large sandcastle, the wind blowing their fair hair in their eyes. Then another of them between their parents with the same backdrop of the pale choppy sea. His father’s hair is still brown and his mother looks young and pretty, yet he remembers a whole childhood of people assuming Dora and Harry were his grandparents.

‘Whole childhood? Really? They’re not that old,’ Lisa laughed when he told her. It was probably no more than a handful of times, but each one had hurt because he saw the slapped look on his lovely mum’s face.

His father swaps his glasses and takes the picture. ‘What about when you fell from the landing? You must remember that. Climbing over the bannister when no one was looking—’

‘Oh, don’t, Harry. It makes me feel queasy, even now.’ She puts her hand to her chest. ‘Only three or four. You cracked your poor little head open and it bled terribly. You had to have stitches. It was a miracle it wasn’t any worse.’

More family lore. Nick puts a hand to his hair, his fingers finding the small scar. ‘No, I don’t remember, though Patrick’s version about me trying to be Superman makes me laugh.’ He glances at his mum’s wretched face. ‘How about school days?’ he asks, changing the subject. ‘Do you still have the sports day photographs?’

That makes her smile. ‘As if I’d throw them out, love. It’s a shame Lisa isn’t here to see your skinny legs.’ She selects the top photograph from the wallet labelled ‘St Mark’s’ and passes it to Nick. ‘There we go. You were twelve then. Do you remember, we called you the A Team? You, Daniel Maloney and William Taylor. You won the relays every year.’

‘Hundred, two hundred and four hundred,’ his dad says, taking off his glasses and placing the snap close to his eyes. ‘I could relax for the relay, but the individual races … There’d always be trouble. Sulking and the like when one of you boys had to win. And that was just the fathers!’

His dad tells the story with a fond smile. Nick has heard it many times before, but each time there’s the slightest embellishment. All the fathers would watch their offspring and shout, bets would be laid. Alex Taylor would spend his winnings buying a round at the pub and Jed Maloney would give it to Dan.

He feeds his dad the line: ‘And what about you, Dad?’

‘I invested it wisely.’

It’s what he always says, but today there’s a pathos about him. His father’s working days are over; his status as a respected bank manager long gone.

‘Oh, and here is one of you, Daniel, William and Jennifer O’Donnell. Look at her pretty dimples!’ Dora smiles. ‘We called her the honorary boy. Thick as thieves, the four of you.’

Nick twists his wedding ring, still tight on his finger. ‘And probably still are.’

His mind flits to the blip, surprised his mum hasn’t mentioned it. But then again, despite her small frame and soft face, she’s quite stoical and surprisingly tough. ‘There’s no point crying over spilt milk,’ she always says when things go awry, ‘You can’t change the past, you just have to get on with it.’ When she’d advised him to move on and pretend it hadn’t happened, she’d obviously meant it.

He feels his dad’s interest drift back to the television. His mum rolls her eyes and offers the mints, followed by a selection of photographs of him as a blonde-haired plump toddler.

‘Cute,’ he says. ‘Lisa would like to see these. How about photos of Patrick when he was that age? Did we look similar?’

His mum holds out her hand for support and then stands up slowly. ‘This knee gets stiff if I kneel down too long. Arthritic, I expect.’ She picks up the framed photograph of Patrick wearing his pale blue National Health spectacles and leaning to one side. ‘There’s this and his other school portraits. But we don’t have many others. It was slides in those days. Negatives in little cardboard frames. I don’t know what happened to them. You’d look at them through a projector, wouldn’t you, Harry? Derek had one and we’d go round and have a film night. A shame really. Patrick had beautiful curly white hair.’

His father snorts, but doesn’t turn from the television. ‘Aye, Derek’s film nights. Those were the days.’

Nick eventually leaves feeling soulful. Even his mum who’s so fit seemed to be ageing today. He knows it’s pathetic for a man of thirty-four, but he wants his parents to live forever; severance or not, he fears the trauma of their death. He can’t imagine what it was like for Lisa to lose her mum. Though three years ago now, he feels her grief at the surface whenever mothers are mentioned.

He says goodbye to his parents, stands under the outdoor light and listens to the scrape of the keys and the chain before moving away listlessly. Then he sits in his car for a few moments, thinking. He doesn’t want to go home to Lisa empty-handed so looks at his watch. It’s quarter to ten, not too late, surely, to visit his godparents? And if it is, he’ll make his excuses and leave.

It is too late, for Iris at least. She has already gone for ‘a bath and to bed’ when Nick arrives in their lantern-lit driveway. But at the stained-glass bungalow door, Derek insists Nick comes out of the ‘bloody cold’ and joins him for a nightcap and a cigar if he fancies.

He follows Derek into the spacious lounge, which smells, as always, of spirits and tobacco.

‘Take a seat, son. It’s lovely to see you, and it’ll give me an excuse to escape from the wife’s scolding for ten minutes,’ Derek says with a smile.

Nick presents him with Patrick’s bottle of Barbadian rum: ‘A small gift from our honeymoon to add to the collection. From me and my wife!’

He wonders what he’ll give Patrick instead, but he still feels miffed at his brother’s inability to be even slightly flexible. Patrick lives on his own with his carefully stored gadgets and gizmos; it isn’t even as though he ventures to the pub on a Friday night.

Derek examines the bottle. He’s a youthful-looking man, smallish, trim and fit with a moustache and a full head of grey hair, which he still styles into a neat fifties quiff. Not at all like Nick’s dad with his white thinning hair, poor eyesight and constant hobbling. Though both their accents still have a Salford twang, it’s hard to believe the two men were born the same year.

‘Oh, and thank you very much for the wedding gift and the cheque. It’s incredibly generous,’ Nick adds. He’s glad he’s remembered. He and Lisa actually bought Derek a golf cap and accessories from Sandy Lane resort as a thank you, but he hadn’t anticipated visiting tonight.

‘Not a problem, son. Glad to share the few bob I have sitting bored in the bank. If it wasn’t for your dad—’

‘Yeah, I know. But still it’s very kind.’

Derek moves behind a leather and teak bar in the corner and offers Nick a tipple of his choice from the array of bottles on display. Nick has no doubt that nothing has changed since the Dillons had this mismatch of stone and brick built on the pricey Hale plot in the sixties. He stares at the bar, still feeling that prickle of excitement he had as a boy; kneeling on a stool behind the counter, playing barman. Though his mum would shake her head, Derek waved her worries away. ‘Let the lad have some fun. No harm pouring himself half a lemonade.’ But when Dora wasn’t looking, Derek allowed him to pour measures of Martini, Cinzano or Campari for the adults, adding soda from a crystal glass syphon. ‘Go on. Try it, son. Just a small sip.’

Nick would always cough or grimace; the cocktails were too dry.

‘They’re women’s drinks. Take a snifter of this,’ Derek would laugh, pouring him a wee drop of cherry brandy or amaretto, sweet and warming in his chest.

Gazing at the electric fire in the stone-cladding wall, the adult Nick sips his beer. The fake flames remind him of the opening credits of a James Bond film. Was it all the films or just one? Patrick would know. He loves the Bond movies. He could name each film’s third production assistant or set designer if you asked him. Nick wonders if his brother ever visits Derek and Iris. It’s not something he mentions, but they’re his godparents, not Patrick’s.

He shakes his attention back to Derek. He’s still ruminating about Barbados, how he and Iris once visited Bridgetown as a port on a luxury cruise. Keen on cruising, they’re trying to persuade Dora and Harry to go on the next one. But of course there’s the problem of Harry’s hip. There’s a lot of walking on the excursions, on the ship too. Perhaps they could hire a wheelchair.

Nick tries not to show his exasperation, but the words emerge harsher than he intends. ‘The doctor says the hip replacement was a complete success. The limping is just a matter of habit.’ He tries again with a jocular tone. ‘He’s just being a grumpy bugger, Derek. Don’t encourage him!’

Derek looks at his feet. Nick finds his loyalty to his father touching, if at times maddening; he’s never had anything but praise and admiration for Harry Quinn. ‘If it hadn’t been for your dad’s sound financial advice, and that first loan, I wouldn’t have made my few bob,’ he always says. They’ve been tight friends since school, nearly seventy years. It’s an astonishing feat, one Nick hopes to replicate with Will and Dan. The honorary boy, too.

He thinks of Will’s text: ‘Sorry, man. You can’t begin to know how sorry I am. I’ll explain when I see you. Have a great honeymoon.’

For the first few days in Barbados, it felt as though he and Lisa talked about nothing other than the blip. He didn’t really want to dwell on it, but Lisa was intrigued. How bloody awful was it to see Penny teetering on the ledge? Why did she do it? What had gone on with her and Will? It just went to show that no one knows what goes on in people’s heads. Behind closed doors too. But her interest eventually ran out of steam, thank God. Since then she’s been more vocal about his current concern. ‘Come on, Nick, I know it’s been eating you since the wedding, you just need to ask. It’s probably nothing.’ But as he gazes at Derek’s ruddy face, he knows he can’t do it; his parents and his godparents are of a different generation. If something hasn’t been mentioned, it’s deliberate.

He knocks back his half-pint. ‘I’ll leave you to the rest of your evening. Tell Auntie Iris that the two of you must pop in any time. We’re not far away. Tea and biscuits always available! And thank you again for your generosity. You really didn’t have to.’

Derek doesn’t move for a moment. He strokes his moustache, then nods, heading towards the open door which separates the lounge from the bedrooms, which he closes. ‘You’ve come to ask about Susan,’ he states. ‘It was a slip. Iris shouldn’t have said anything. It’s not our place to say.’ He sits on a leather- cushioned window seat and motions Nick to sit too. ‘Your mum and dad … lost her, long ago. I know young people like to talk these days, but some things are better left in the past. Do you see what I’m saying?’

Nick’s heart thrashes. ‘I had a sister called Susan?’

Derek nods slowly. ‘Your Patrick’s twin.’