Cath Staincliffe - Trio

‘Where was Sally?’ She’d tried ringing the house twice but there was no answer. If they took the furniture it would be that much harder to get settled somewhere new. And there were a few pieces that meant the world to her. Her mother’s dresser, which had come from Wales when her mother married her father, the writing bureau that Peter had bought second-hand and restored. Somewhere for his engineer’s drawings and books. Later when he worked away more it had become a place for all the family to use. The drawers held maps and stationery, photograph albums, certificates, a set of watercolours, dominoes and a chess game.

And the bed. The bed they’d shared, the bed where Peter had died. She’d heard rumours that the bailiffs couldn’t take all the beds in a house, they had to leave you something to sleep on.

She went down and tried the phone again, praying for a reply. She listened to the ring, counting seven, ten, fifteen times before putting the receiver back.

She watched from the lounge as another car drew up. Ed? But he drove a Ford Popular. This was a Wolsey. A bald man in a suit and tie stepped out. He spoke to the men by the van. It must be the bailiff. She looked across the road to the houses opposite. They were all watching. Some behind the curtains other quite blatantly. Please, Sally. She went into the kitchen and lit a cigarette, sucked the sulphur of the match in her haste.

Knocking at the door startled her. It was only ten to twelve. More knocking. ‘Mrs Gough.’

She went along the hall. She could see the man’s head through the stained-glass panel at the top of the door.

‘Someone’s coming,’ she said, feeling faintly ridiculous at shouting through the door. ‘They’re bringing the money.’

‘They’ll have to look sharp. We have a noon deadline.’

‘They’ll be here.’

‘I have to advise you that we have legal powers to enter at midday and to remove items as we see fit.’

‘I know.’ Her voice trembled.

In-between smoking she bit at her nails, a habit she hated but found impossible to stop. She used to try every so often, when Peter was alive. She would put false nails on to fool herself and enjoy how sophisticated it made her look but she never managed to break the habit. It didn’t matter much now, her nails would be broken anyway from all the extra jobs she was doing to keep the house shipshape.

I’m selling the house, she wanted to tell him, I can pay back the money then, more if it helps. But she had already had those conversations and they were like banging her head against a brick wall.

The phone rang and she raced to it.

‘Mrs Gough, we’ve a Mr and Mrs Jarvis who’d like to view this tea-time if that’s convenient.’

‘Fine,’ might be looking a bit empty by then, she thought.

Banging on the door. ‘Mrs Gough, we need to come in now.’

She swallowed. Heard the clock in the dining room start to chime.

How could they let her down like this? Something must have happened. She ran upstairs and looked out, praying for a sign of Ed’s Ford rolling down the street but there was nothing.

More hammering. She didn’t want them to break the door down. She undid the latch, stepped back, her face set with dislike.

The three men ignored her. The bald man led the way and she listened from the hallway, her face stony, as he made comments about the items in the lounge, telling the others which to take. She heard them go out and into the dining room, more discussion, a burst of laughter at which she stiffened. They trailed past her and up the stairs. She went and hid in the kitchen. Lit another cigarette. The man in charge came and sought her out. He had a list. He offered it to her but she could not bear to take it. She looked away. He read it out. ‘Matching armchairs and two-seater sofa, glass display cabinet, television…’

Even the television. And what would she tell Pamela when she came in and wanted to watch The Monkees or Mr Ed?

‘… Welsh dresser, dining table and four chairs, writing bureau, vanity unit with mirror, Turkish rug, washing machine. We’ll start moving it now. I need you to sign here.’

She sat there frozen but not unfeeling. Fury singing beneath her skin like sherbet. She heard them opening the drawers of the bureau. ‘Where do you want us to put the contents?’

She sighed. The thought of the precious things, of Pamela’s Holy Communion certificate, her baby bracelet, the photograph albums and letters from Peter when he had to stay the week in Sheffield or Leeds. She pulled herself up and went to fetch an old suitcase from under the bed. She began to empty the bureau drawers into it, trying to ignore the men, their patent impatience. When it was empty they lifted it up and carried it out. She would not cry, she bit her tongue, wiped her eyes, rubbed at the itching on her face.

‘Lilian, Lilian.’

Sally and Ed, anxious, breathless.

She went to them. ‘What-’

‘It’s all here!’ Ed held out an envelope. Had a ruddy flat coming up Wilbraham Road! Sorry.’

She took it from him and went out to the man in the suit.

‘It’s all here,’ she said, ‘the money.’

He sighed and cocked his head on one side, looked at her as though she was a tiresome child. Please take it, she thought. Please.

‘Cutting it a bit fine.’

She didn’t trust herself to speak.

‘’Ang on!’ he called to the lads. He pushed himself away from the side of the van and went to his car. He returned with a receipt, which she had to sign.

He spoke to the man and then drove off in his Wolsey.

‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Sally said. ‘Look at that lot gawking, nothing better to do. Come on, Lilian.’

The men began to unload the van.

The tea was hot and strong and Sally put a splash of brandy in everyone’s to steady their nerves.

There was no noise from the bailiff’s men and Lilian thought they were probably taking the chance of a break themselves now the boss had gone.

When she finished the tea she went out to look.

The van had gone. They’d pulled out her stuff and left it there, higgledy-piggledy on the pavement. She didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

Pamela

She’d done her maths. They were doing algebra and she liked it. Once you knew the rules you could work it out. English was trickier. They had to write an essay on My Ambition.

She had some ideas. One was to be a brilliant gymnast like Olga Korbut, who had just won three medals at the Olympic Games, or maybe a swimmer like Mark Spitz. Swimming was more realistic, because Pamela was in the swimming team but she couldn’t do gym for toffee. Or maybe chess? She loved chess. She went to chess club after school and Mr Stenner said she had great promise. She got up to turn the LP over. Electric Warrior. T Rex. She moved the arm across, judging where the track started, and moved the little lever to lower it. Mum had bought her it for her birthday and she played it every day but there was only one scratch on it, because she was really careful. She didn’t have many records. She wanted Rod Stewart next. As the opening chords began and Marc Bolan’s voice sang out she returned to her work.

Her essay didn’t have to be realistic, you could pick anything. One thing that would be good would be to bring peace. Stop wars like Vietnam and the trouble in Ireland and save all those lives. And Ban the Bomb and stop Apartheid. All the things that were unjust. Like the Coca-Cola song said – teach the world to sing in perfect harmony. Her mum turned the telly off now when stuff about Vietnam came on. She got so upset. Pamela chewed the end of her biro and considered. She could be the first woman to walk on the moon. Hardly anyone got to do that. She liked the idea of floating, zero gravity. Mum had woken her to watch the moon landing. She said it was too fantastic to miss. So she’d got up at three in the morning and they’d watched Neil Armstrong climb down from the Eagle. You couldn’t see his face in the big, bubble helmet but he sounded so happy and proud. Imagine going all that way seeing the earth and then when you came back looking at the moon and knowing you had stood on it. But it was only Americans and Russians went and you had to wee in tubes and eat pills or suck stuff from packets for food. It would be awful not to have real food. Outside, it was raining steadily. Mum was watching telly in the front room. Monty Python was on later. Her mum thought it was silly, which was the whole point. Usually she left Pamela to watch it by herself, which was less embarrassing all round, especially with some of the freaky cartoons.