Emma Stonex - The Lamplighters

But I still don’t understand why Bill did it. The man who’d married me, who I thought loved me for all the reasons I’m me and not her. Helen wasn’t one of us. She wasn’t a Trident wife in the traditional sense. Whether it was up at St Bees or down at Bull Point, we were cut from the same cloth – wives and homemakers, recipe books on the shelves, Victoria sponge baking and tea on the table at six. We mucked in together. We never went behind each other’s backs and we didn’t have tea with each other’s husbands. Frank’s wife Betty was more up my street, a good honest Bolton girl, no airs and graces, and her boys and my girls often played together. I saw Helen was jealous of that. I’m not proud of it, but I admit I enjoyed it – that she was jealous. There was a lot she had that I didn’t, and this was one thing I’d won at.

I should have spoken to Arthur about the affair when he was ashore. Hannah says I should’ve, and I wish I had. Now they’re gone, it’s too late.

It makes me wonder about my mum. How I could have one last try with her. Find out if she’s still around, ring her up, send her a note. See, I’m protecting myself if I do that. It’s selfish, in a way. I want to know I’ve done everything I can. I know better than anyone how it feels to have that choice taken away from you.

If I’d talked to Arthur, we could have decided on a better course of action. Because it was only a silly thing; a silly idea I had to pay back some of what they’d made me feel. What can I say but that I wasn’t thinking straight?

I didn’t ever bring it up with Arthur because I suppose I was nervous of him. Hannah was too. It’s because the PK never made himself known to us. He didn’t come over or say hello or act friendly at any time. I never could work him out.

Looking back, he did seem unbalanced to me. One of those who never says boo to a goose then one day the building goes up in flames and the neighbours go, ‘Oh, but he was the quiet one, wasn’t he? He wouldn’t have done anything like that.’

What? Hannah thinks I’ve got too many fantasies. I do make things up in my head, then I think about them so much they start to turn real.

But it’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it? Especially when they’re pushed. Helen pushed him. She pushed him with the guilt then she pushed him with her lies. Arthur was the sort to keep it cooped up inside and not say a word and then one day, pow!

The fact is, if I found out, then he might have found out too. If Arthur did hurt Bill, I suppose I can… I mean I suppose I can understand it.

Oh dear, is that the time? We’ve got to get in for Wendy so we can get a good seat. I didn’t travel all this way to have to sneak in the back.

All right! Hannah made me promise. I don’t want to, but she’ll be in a huff with me all afternoon if I don’t. Here goes, then. Helen used to write me letters, but she hasn’t in a while. Hang on, love, I’m getting there. Give me a chance.

Is everything OK with her? With Helen. That’s what Hannah wanted me to ask. Because you’ve been talking to her, haven’t you? So you’ll know. If there’s been anything that’s meant she’s had to stop writing her letters. Not that I care. It’s not important. It just crossed my mind then Hannah made me ask.

Good. That’s good. Satisfied? I told you.

Now, can we get on with our day? If we sit up at the front at Wendy’s, there’s more chance of a name coming through for us. They can sense you there and that makes them find you more easily. The communication is better.

Tonight, when she made steak and kidney for Roger, he would ask about her day and she’d fib that she had done nothing much, ironed the girls’ school uniforms, sewed name tags on PE kits, pulled the weeds out of the veg bed. She would leave out the fact of coming to Clearwater Shopping Centre and drifting down the aisles at Woolworths, gazing at neon confectionery wrappers and checking her watch every minute and a half.

Part of her had known she’d end up meeting him. Her conversation with Helen started it. It matters, doesn’t it? To say what he was really like. Then those transcripts. What Pearl had claimed – unfair things that made Vinny into someone he wasn’t. Vinny wasn’t here to defend or prove himself. Michelle was.

She was tired of being afraid. Of Trident House, of Eddie Evans, of the truth.

The writer was standing beneath the clock in the atrium. She identified him from the black-and-white headshot on his book jacket. He had an agitated, restless demeanour, waiting to be approached but he didn’t know by whom: she could have been any of the women rushing past on their lunch hour.

Hesitating in Boots, Michelle wondered what ideas he had about her. Her idea of him had been wrong. She’d had him down as a Roger type, sharp suit, oiled hair, golf at the weekend, cufflinks and cognac. The writer’s clothes didn’t fit well, not because he couldn’t afford better, she suspected, but because he didn’t care much about clothes, and his shoes looked like they’d been worn every day of his life. If he was any type it was her younger brother’s, who was living back in Leytonstone with her dad and working in the local Done Bookmakers while he saved up enough money for a haircut.

She disliked this shopping centre intensely. Mainly it was the foyer part, with its chichi cafe selling overpriced grilled sandwiches, and the gigantic clock from which, on the hour, a plastic frog emerged from the cuckoo’s window and croaked the time.

She waited for it to finish its cycle before going over.

‘I’m Michelle,’ she said.

Dan Sharp smiled and shook her hand, and seemed relieved, she thought, that she had come.

There they are. Bloody depressing, isn’t it, keeping birds in cages. It’s the worst of the worst. Normally I’d never stop at this store cos I can’t stand the squawking. Either that or them sitting there all miserable. Here you go: £3.99 to take it home with you and the cage’ll be ten times as much. There was this girl at school who kept birds in cages. Her mum’s flat smelled rank, of cat food and droppings. She had a cockatiel called Spike and a budgie called Ross. Ross was the dominant one; he was in charge.

Do you like birds? I think it’s best if you like them to just let them be, out in the trees and things. I used to think how nice it’d be to let Spike and Ross free. Open the door and say, go on, get on with it then. I’m not sure they could fly, to be fair; might’ve just flopped down on the carpet. Maybe they weren’t sad anyway. That was just me.

All right then, you wanted to meet; you’re the one who’s been asking for it, so I’ll let you have it like it is. I’ve got nothing to hide. Vinny didn’t either. It’s been years since I read those interviews and to answer your question about why I’m here, why I changed my mind, it’s cos of them. I can’t let Pearl’s lies have the last of it. No matter how many times I tell myself it doesn’t matter what you put in your book, I can’t let Pearl be the person representing him to you. She didn’t know him. I did.

People’ve made their minds up about Vinny. He was the criminal, so he must’ve done it. They can’t say what he actually did, but who minds about the details when you’ve got someone to pin it on? Those other two, Arthur and Bill, Trident’d have you believe they never set a foot wrong – but scratch the surface and the dirt comes out. Vinny’s dirt was there for anyone to see. He had nothing to hide.

Trident knows you’re writing a book. They’re nice enough on the surface but they’ve got to be worried cos now they’re getting in touch with me saying that if I speak to you, they’ll make me pay. They’ll stop my compensation, which I never thought I’d get in the first place cos Vinny and me weren’t married, but they want to keep me quiet so they kept it coming. Roger, my husband, he’s happy to take it. He can’t stand any mention of Vin but he’s fine with taking the money. I bet Helen and Jenny have had letters as well. But I s’pose the time comes you get too long in the tooth to let people scare you off.