Cath Staincliffe - Trio

The following morning Nina was pale, withdrawn, submissive. For a moment Marjorie missed the turbulent, prickly young woman whose anger was so much healthier than this apathy.

After rounds they told Marjorie that Nina was being discharged; she was on antidepressants and had an outpatient appointment for the psychiatric unit.

‘Gave us all a nasty scare but she should respond well to the drugs. Any worries, contact your GP.’

Robert couldn’t cope with it, had no idea how to respond. Gave Nina a stiff little hug when they got back from the hospital.

Marjorie was more forthright. ‘You scared the life out of me. I love you, Nina. I hate to see you like this. If you’d just talk to me.’

Nina was tired and unresponsive. The tablets coated her reactions like polystyrene. She was muffled, dopey.

Time passed, she returned to work. Slowly, steadily, she came back. But not the old Nina. It was as if the light had gone out inside her.

Megan

Her stomach lurched and she stepped into the nearest shop doorway. Panic made her want to run so the girl wouldn’t see her but she told herself to ‘get a bloody grip Megan’ and she stepped out again. She could still see her, back view, fifty yards away, in a green coat. The hair was exactly the right shade, the same as Francine’s, the same as hers. She was tall though, tall as Brendan. She followed the girl along Market Street and into Littlewood’s. Megan pretended to examine leather coats by the door, bomber jackets, like Francine was angling for. She kept one eye on the red hair. Then the girl turned to leave and with a swoop of relief Megan saw she was much too old, late twenties at least.

The same sort of thing had happened half a dozen times in the months since Claire’s phone call. It always caught her unawares and she felt so daft. She was being haunted: not by a ghost but by half the redheads in Manchester.

There’d been no more phone calls. The memory of the girl’s voice, Claire’s voice, and her own denial cut at her. She shouldn’t have said no. If she’d only had more time, it had been such a shock. She thought of Claire ringing again with a mix of hope and fear. She longed to put things right but she didn’t like to think of telling her other children about her. Perhaps it would never come to that.

A weight of disappointment settled on her and she felt like getting straight on the next bus home. But she’d only have to come in again next week to finish her Christmas shopping. She’d got sweets for her nephews and nieces, she’d exchanged most of her books of Green Shield stamps for a cassette player for Chris, who at thirteen had discovered punk rock. Bloody awful noise. He walked around looking a right sight with ripped black clothes, zips here and there, head practically shaved and a safety pin in his ear. It was all show with Chris, though. Little lamb, he was. Not like Aidan.

Maybe it was best Claire had not tried again, after all, Aidan wasn’t exactly an advert for happy family life. He wouldn’t be home for Christmas. He wouldn’t be home for another eighteen months and how long he’d manage to stay out of trouble then was anybody’s guess. When she visited him she could see the place was only making him worse. Not borstal but good as.

He’d been scared at first, she’d seen it in those first few visits: licking his lips, his knee twitching, signs a mother recognised. She was devastated. She’d still no idea why it had all gone wrong. She wanted to cuddle him better but he was a gawky fifteen-year-old and when she put her arms about him he wriggled free. As the weeks went by he started playing the hard man, growing a skin of disaffection.

The last time she’d been, his first words were, How many fags did you bring us? Not Hi, Mam or Thanks for coming. She wanted to shake him, to tell him that how he dealt with this place, and what he did after, would set the course for the rest of his life, that there weren’t any more chances. She could give him love and help but you couldn’t give a thing to someone who was turning away from you. She told him, without the shaking, and he sighed and shuffled on his chair and gave her a dead look with his eyes.

She checked her Christmas list. Francine wanted a watch. There were a couple of jewellers on Shude Hill she could try.

Francine had started her nursery nursing course. Megan had tried to talk Francine into staying on and going for A levels if she did all right in her exams but the girl didn't want to.

‘Keep your options open,’ Megan had said. ‘If you got more qualifications you’d have a chance of more jobs, better money. There’s two million people out of work, you know. A piece of paper will go a long way to getting something.’

‘I want to do the nursing,’ Francine insisted. ‘I’ve had enough of school.’

Well, if it didn’t work out for her with the nursing she could always work at the shop. Bit boring really but she was good with people.

Francine was courting. She and Shane seemed serious. He was a mechanic. They were saving for a deposit on a flat – rent, not buy. Megan had told her not to rush anything but Francine told her to stop fussing. ‘Frightened I’ll make you a Grandma too soon? You needn’t worry, I’m on the Pill.’

Megan had looked at her. The Church still banned Catholics from any form of artificial contraception and sex before marriage was forbidden. The bishop sent letters round every so often reminding his parishioners of the edict. But the bishop hadn’t got a sixteen-year-old daughter, had he?

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget to take it.’

Francine beamed, pleased that her Mam was understanding and hadn’t gone all religious on her.

At least if she was protected, Megan thought, and things didn’t work out for her and Shane, there wouldn’t be a baby in the middle of it all to consider.

Marjorie

The doorbell rang. She wasn’t expecting anyone but it could be a door-to-door salesman. There seemed to be more and more of them; wanting to demonstrate the latest vacuum cleaner or sell you household insurance or tarmac the drive. A sign of the times. Rising unemployment. The winter of discontent they called it and it had been awful, with countless strikes. People will always need glasses, Robert said, though they might patch the frames with sellotape if times were hard. More and more people were trying contact lenses and he’d started stocking those too.

‘Mrs Underwood?’ Two police officers in uniform, a man and a woman.

‘Yes?’ She held her breath.

‘Stephen Underwood’s your son?’

‘Yes,’ she whispered, her throat suddenly dry and her chest tight.

‘Can we come in a moment? It’s about Stephen.’

‘No.’ She tried to shut the door, they moved into the way. She pushed harder. ‘No,’ she repeated, her voice cracking. ‘No.’

‘Mrs Underwood, we need to come inside and talk to you.’ The man eased the door back. She moved away. The woman stepped inside, took her elbow. Marjorie twisted aside. ‘No.’ Her thoughts scrambling to get away.

‘Come on, now.’

She let them lead her into the lounge. Her heart was galloping. She sat down, her belly heavy with dread.

She watched them mouth words, silly little words: car, roundabout, passenger, revive, failure. Silly, little words, each tearing a bit of her soul. The dread rose, flooding her throat, full of love and anger and breathtaking pain. She opened her mouth hoping that if the roar of it were loud enough it would drown out the man and the woman and bury the stupid, little words. Force them away, back down, anywhere. Stephen. Into the past, into another time, another place. Oh, Stephen. ‘No-no-no-no!’ she howled. ‘No-no-no-God-no!’

The words floated free, too strong to be shouted down. Once spoken they soared above like balloons cut free. And burst like her heart. Stephen. Dead.