Читать книгу Heading Over the Hill - Judy Leigh - Страница 10

‘We had a lovely dinner last night, Mam, and home-made beer with it. And everybody helped with the food. Billy’s a great cook, and Dawnie is too.’

‘Nobody invited me round to eat at number thirteen.’ Dilly folded her arms. ‘I was here by myself until eight o’clock, Vinnie, freezing cold in my cardie, with a sandwich, watching Bruce Willis on television. Why ever didn’t you come and get me?’

‘I thought you’d be tired, Mam. I thought you’d want to rest. I mean…’ Vinnie offered his most apologetic expression. ‘I was playing the drum kit in the spare room. You’d have found it too noisy.’

‘Not at all. I like a bit of proper drumming. Besides, I’m glad you’re making friends. I mean, since you and that Sally split up, you’ve hardly made any new friends at all. You’ve been living here with me for how long? Nearly seven years now, Vinnie, so it’s about time you started to gad about a bit.’ Dilly pressed her lips together. ‘I wouldn’t have minded trying the gnocchi, though, or having a bit more of the home brew. It was tasty.’ She poked her son with a long skinny finger. ‘And I wouldn’t have minded seeing Dawnie give a piece of her mind to Moaning Malcolm from number eleven. Both him and his wife, Mrs Frosty-knickers, they had it coming. The way they used to moan to everybody in the street about poor Jason and Darren and Jamie, those nice lads who lived there before. They made their lives a misery. No wonder they left and moved to Exeter. I wouldn’t want to live in Exeter, mind. There’s no sea to see.’

Vinnie folded his arms. He didn’t like his mother mentioning Sally. It hurt him too much to think about it again. They’d lived together in a flat in Bideford. He had tried his best to make his ex-girlfriend happy, eleven years of working overtime in the carpet shop to buy her nice things, to take her to nice places. He remembered the skiing holiday in Austria, how lovely Sally had looked in the red one-piece ski suit, her blonde hair tucked in a red woollen hat with a pom-pom on the end. But she had flirted with the ski instructor and the barman, with her pouty lips and her long eyelashes, and Vinnie had felt left out. That was how Sally had always made him feel. Then she had left him for Joe, the man who worked at the railway station clipping the tickets; he had his own bungalow with a gravel drive, and he owned an open-top car.

The others before Sally hadn’t been much better. Sonia had left him for the supermarket manager. Nicola had told him he was too serious and she had laughed when he’d cried. She had said she’d fallen for his doe eyes and beautiful curls but she’d wanted a man who’d be the boss. Vinnie didn’t want to be the boss. He wanted someone to love him for who he was, someone he’d love back with all his heart. But at least he wasn’t being dumped and laughed at now. At least, now he was living with his mother, he was safe from any risk of heartache.

But his mind was drifting to Dawnie, how cheerful and confident she was. Her sister must be the same. Vinnie had found out the name of the blonde sister – it was Lorraine – and Dawnie had said her sister would come to visit soon. Vinnie felt his heart knock in his chest. He was fifty-two but he was still young and capable of feeling love. He had his own hair, his own teeth; he was fit and muscular and he could scrub up to look smart if he wanted to. But he craved someone to care about him just a little bit, someone to snuggle up to him, to ruffle his soft curls and kiss his cheek. He closed his eyes and imagined Lorraine nibbling his ear.

‘Vinnie, you’re day-dreaming again, love.’ Dilly patted his arm. ‘I could do with a cup of tea. And my eye is properly painful today; you wouldn’t be a love and fetch my drops? Then I thought we could have a nice sandwich and watch the serial on TV this afternoon, the one about the young woman who comes to live in the sleepy village and solves all the gory murders. Or should we get out a DVD? A nice Jean-Claude van Damme? What do you say?’

Vinnie opened his eyes and stared at his mother. ‘All right, Mam. I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?’

She blinked at him and gave her sweetest smile. He heaved himself from the sofa with a sigh as Dilly reached for the TV remote, and he trundled sadly towards the kitchen. He loved his mother. He’d do anything for her. But the truth was that each day was the same for him: it was empty, repetitive, each moment lacked something vital to bring his life alive. He knew what his problem was: it came to him each night before he fell asleep and it whispered loudly in his ear. He was lonely, and the loneliness slithered over his life like a cold snake and stole his confidence and made him shiver inside his own skin. He longed for someone warm, someone who would make his blood sing again. Behind him the television crackled to life and Vinnie heard his mother chuckle at something on the screen. She was watching action movies again. He sighed and filled the kettle.

Dawnie rolled more paint on the lounge wall over the old magnolia wood chip and stood back, blinking at the colour. Saffron Sizzle was more orange than yellow, and it shone in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Dawnie decided the pale curtains with the thin red stripes would have to go: she was in a home-making mood, dressed in jeans and one of Billy’s t-shirts, her short platinum hair tied up in a red flowery scarf. She nodded: the paint would do the trick, bring in the sunshine and banish the dullness.

She and Billy had bought the tins of paint from a local DIY shop this morning and she had started decorating straight away. She couldn’t wait to finish the whole lounge. Two walls would be in the stunning saffron colour and the rest of the room would be painted in a creamy pale yellow, Daffodil Dream. Billy needed calm colours in his home to help him relax, she knew that. He was out on his bike again, although he’d promised to be back as soon as he could, once he’d found a good local bike shop. He wanted to source a horn cover for the Harley, whatever that was. Dawnie pushed the roller along the paint in the tray and sloshed more colour on the walls. The room was too quiet so she hummed a tune for a moment, and then she paused.

She wondered if Malcolm next door could hear her humming and if he’d come round to complain. She’d turn the volume up: she chuckled and began to bawl out ‘Maggie May’, which was the bawdiest song she could think of since it was about a Liverpool prostitute who robbed a sailor. She stopped singing at the end of the song and the room was filled with silence. There wasn’t a sound from next door, not the rustle of a voice in conversation or the rattle of a radio. Dawnie didn’t like silence. Suddenly, she remembered a folk song called ‘The Cuckoo’s Nest’, which she thought was fairly bawdy as it was about a woman losing her maidenhood, so to speak, so Dawnie began to sing that at the top of her voice with the intention of emphasising the raunchiest bits. It was a pretty song, despite the somewhat chauvinistic lyrics, Dawnie thought, but she threw herself into the rendition, slathering the walls with paint and wiggling her hips as she sang.

At the end of the song, she thought about following it up with the Sex Pistols’ hit about misbehaving in the rigging, but the silence had returned to the room. Dawnie felt a pang of loneliness: she was a woman with a paintbrush in her hand, in a room full of unopened boxes and an unpleasant blue faux-leather sofabed and dull red striped curtains in a small terraced house in Maggot Street that didn’t feel like home. She wondered when Billy would be back. She’d enjoyed herself last night, having dinner with neighbours, chattering to new people around a table, sharing home-brewed beer. She’d taken an immediate liking to Aude and Sylv from number fifteen: they were very friendly and had a ready smile and a sense of humour. And she’d liked Vinnie: he seemed a quiet sort, a bit shy but nevertheless, sensitive and good-natured.

Dawnie stopped painting, her saffron roller aloft, as a thought occurred to her: Vinnie had asked her what her sister’s name was. Dawnie frowned. She knew for certain that she hadn’t mentioned Lorraine to Vinnie at all. How did he know she had a sister? She shook her head and began to paint the walls in long strokes.

The front door clicked, and Billy called cheerily from the hallway. ‘I’m home, darlin’.’

‘I’m in here, lover.’ Dawnie raised her voice although Billy was just outside the door. ‘Did you bring me anything tasty back – apart from your hunky self?’

Billy stood in the doorway, filling the space, a giant of a man in a leather jacket, his hair dishevelled from the crash helmet he had pulled off. ‘I stopped off at the estate agents we looked into yesterday and got us some house details.’ He offered some papers to Dawnie. ‘And I found a grand bike shop and, while I was there, I met this young fella.’

A tall, slender man emerged from behind Billy. He wore a leather jacket and had thinning fair hair that curled over his ears, and he peered through steel rimmed spectacles. He was a little younger than Billy, probably in his sixties, and he smiled as he met Dawnie’s eyes, holding out slim fingers. ‘You must be Dawnie. I’ve heard all about you. I’m Lester Wainwright.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Lester,’ Dawnie smiled, shaking his hand and staring at the helmet under his arm. ‘You’ve come here on your bike, then?’

Lester nodded his head towards the front door. ‘I left the Harley outside, next to Billy’s, although Billy’s bike is in much better shape than mine.’

Billy clapped his new friend on the shoulder. ‘Lester’s a doctor, darlin’.’

Dawnie’s eyes flitted briefly to the printed details from the estate agents. Her gaze took in a photo of a huge majestic-looking house with a wild garden. She looked back to Lester. ‘Doctor, eh? That might be useful. I’ve a sore knee that aches something rotten in the mornings. And I swear Billy’s hearing is going.’

Lester shook his head, smiling. ‘Doctor of entomology, I’m afraid: PhD from Reading, many years ago. I used to write books. I’m mostly retired now, although I still do a few bits and pieces; articles, photographs.’

‘I’ll have to get one of your books, Lester.’ Dawnie’s eyes gleamed. ‘I love reading about insects and worms. I particularly love spiders; my last home in Bolton was full of them.’

Billy’s face shone with enthusiasm. ‘Lester lives two streets away, in Mary Street. He’s got a big shed out the back, full of spare parts. So, put down your brushes and get your jacket on, darlin’. We’re going round there now.’

‘I’d love you to meet my wife Ursula, Dawnie.’ Lester clutched his helmet in an embrace. ‘She doesn’t get out enough. She’s not keen on the bike. But I know she’d love to meet you.’

Billy pointed at Dawnie’s jacket and helmet, lying on the blue sofabed. ‘Come on, darlin’. We can drive round there now. It’s grand to meet another fella with a love of the bike and I’m dying to see what you have in the shed, Lester.’

‘I can’t go yet – I’m not dressed up,’ Dawnie protested. ‘Look at me, Billy – jeans and a baggy t-shirt and this old headscarf.’

‘You look grand, darlin’.’ Billy wrapped his arms around his wife. ‘Come on, grab your things and we’ll get along to Mary Street now, will we?’

‘It’ll be lovely to meet your wife, Lester. Okay, Billy, the painting can wait. Just give me a few moments to wash the brushes, though.’ Dawnie rushed into the kitchen, making a clanking noise, bustling in the sink, and then she hurried back and reached for her leather jacket, her helmet and the estate agents’ details. Billy was already opening the front door.

Gillian was polishing the table, spraying from a can and then rubbing the wood with a pristine yellow duster. Malcolm moved past her, his hip edging her to one side, and took his place at the window, twitching the curtains with nimble fingers. ‘They are outside our house again, Gillian, the people from number thirteen.’

Gillian sighed. ‘Why don’t you go out for a nice walk, Malcolm? You always feel better after a stroll. The weather’s lovely.’

‘And bump into him? Don’t be silly, Gillian. I told you what his other wife said to me. He’s aggressive, dangerous.’

‘I was thinking about making us a nice salad for—’

‘Good Lord, there are two of them now.’

‘Two what? Hell’s Angels?’

‘Two bikes. The Hell’s Angel man has a friend, and he has a bike. They’ve parked them both right up next to the Honda Jazz.’

‘I expect they’ll move them soon, dear.’

‘There’s a whole pack of Hell’s Angels living next door now. Whatever will we have next? An orgy?’

Gillian sighed and sprayed more furniture polish on the table. The heavy scent caught in her throat and she coughed.

‘Oh look, a woman’s come outside.’

‘His wife, probably?’

‘No, this is a different woman. Come and look, Gillian, before she puts the helmet on. This one’s got short white hair,’ Malcolm gulped, indignation constricting his throat. ‘He’s got three wives in there. Three!’

Gillian shook her head and sidled up to the window. Malcolm’s face had reddened, broken veins purpling in his cheeks. He took a breath and puffed out air.

‘I’ll write it all down. I’ll put the date in the log and record that there are two Hell’s Angels next door, two bikes and the bigamist man has three wives.’ He turned to Gillian, his face an expression of horror. ‘Not two now, but three wives!’

Gillian returned to the table and lifted the duster. ‘All three wives look exactly the same – they just have different hairstyles. It’s the same woman, Malcolm.’

Malcolm wasn’t listening; he pressed his nose to the window as Billy started up his engine. He watched Lester climb astride his Harley and Dawnie, in her helmet, clamber on the back of Billy’s bike. As they all chugged away slowly, Malcolm narrowed his eyes.

‘He thinks he can do what he likes, the Hell’s Angel next door. He thinks he’s a big man and he can just carry on as he pleases, ignoring rules of common decency. Well, he can just think again. I’ll teach him how we behave in Margot Street, Gillian. I’ll teach him a lesson.’