Crusaders Page 23

  Gore waved a hand. ‘You should hear me cursing the air blue when I hit my thumb with a hammer.’

  ‘Hammer? Bit handy then, are you?’

  ‘Well, no, that’s why I keep hitting my thumb.’

  She smiled, showed some teeth. Better, he thought. ‘But, what you were saying – you think people are a bit too stand-offish?’

  Lindy sniffed and ground her cigarette concertedly into the ashtray. ‘I just think, like, some folk have always gotta have somebody to feel all superior to. You know? “Least I’m not as bad as all them lot.”’

  ‘Right. They look down at people poorer than them?’

  ‘Whey, they divvint like blacks nor Pakis neither, even them that are doing okay for themselves.’ She sighed and leaned back, nursing her mug. ‘People like that, they’re never happy. You’re wasting your time, asking all what you can do for them and that.’

  ‘You missed my call for volunteers at the end.’

  ‘Well, sorry, I don’t hang about where I’m not welcome.’

  ‘Don’t you think you could be a help like that?’

  ‘Get away.’

  Gore bridged his hands under his chin. ‘Still. You came.’

  ‘Like I say. I can see you’re trying to help and that. Fine. I’ll say this, but. What they said about being sick of do-gooders? They’re not wrong. You do sound a bit like them. The trouble with you’s lot is you’re all a bit nice. You talk down to us. We’re not mongs.’

  ‘I’m not sure how else to talk.’

  ‘Well, I know you’re a vicar, that’s your way, but we’ve heard it before, man. Young fuckers coming round grinning at you, barely out of school, but they really, really understand your problems. And it’s, “Sign here.” It’s like … politics, you know? Urgh.’ She shuddered. ‘I’ve no interest. Bunch of liars and bullshitters.’

  ‘Well, all I’d say, Lindy, is I’m quite happy to be judged on the strength of what I do or don’t do. Rather than just talk.’

  ‘Good luck to you, then.’ She raised her mug. In the silence Gore stooped and scooped up one of the boy’s drawings.

  ‘Like that, do you?’

  ‘It’s very good. For six, right? Shows imagination.’

  ‘Aw aye. Takes after his mam. I used to like it meself, drawing and that. Bit dark for me, what he does, mind. I’d worry, if I didn’t know me lad better.’

  ‘I’ve met Jake, you know? I met him at the school?’

  ‘Aw aye? Was he behaving?’

  ‘There was a little bit of a fracas.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘He got a bit out of sorts, Mrs Bruce wasn’t best pleased.’

  ‘Naw? I never heard.’ Lindy slumped. ‘See, if she had her way she’d have him out of there. Six year old. And he’s not a bad lad, he’s just moody sometimes. They all get that. That’s what school’s for, but. Teach ’em to sit still and listen.’

  ‘I think Mrs Bruce thinks that begins in the home.’

  ‘What do you think?’ Lindy was suddenly sharper, desirous of a prompt answer.

  ‘I don’t have children, so … what do I know?’

  ‘You’ll have an opinion, I’ll bet.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to be a governor of the school now … so I’ll be researching in the field. I’ll let you know once I’ve thought a bit more. Have you never considered that? Being a school governor?’

  Lindy threw back her head and issued a throaty laugh. ‘Get away.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t win popularity contests, me. You’ve seen.’

  ‘It’s a way to get your voice heard.’

  She was simply shaking her head at such preposterousness.

  ‘But you’re worried about your son?’

  ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘It just seemed strange to me. How he acted. Clearly you’ve a nice home for him, he has this … talent. I just wondered …’

  ‘He’s canny, he’s always been canny. I dunno, he maybe gets it off his dad. I mean, his dad’s a regular do-gooder. Just like you.’ Gore smiled, only to see Lindy’s face cloud. ‘Well, not much like you. But he does his duties, don’t you worry.’ She lit another cigarette, tossing her head as if to clear it. ‘No, Jake’s always been canny. I tell you, honestly, he was such a love, such a comfort to us – even when he was tiny. I thought I’d wanted a girl, see. But I’d be looking at him sometime, bothered about something, money or a fella or whatever, and I’d be in the dumps just staring at him.’ She looked at Gore earnestly. ‘And sometimes it was like he knew. He’d reach up to us. Try to rub wor cheek, or give us such a bonny smile. It was just like he was talking to us, honest. And he’s a happy lad, I swear.’ She brightened suddenly. ‘I’ve a theory about this, actually.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Aye, see, I think you’re either born happy or you’re not. I’ve always thought that. Then I saw it on telly, the other night.’ Animated, she moved from the armchair and joined him on the sofa. ‘It was all about experiments on babies’ brains, right? Little eight-week-old babies? To see what they’ve got going on in there. And it’s proven, see, when they do the electric scan of the waves or whatever – brainwaves – there’s some babies, their brains just glow. It’s like they’ve got a big orange bulb in there, that’s how it looks on the machine. Then there’s others and you get nowt, not a spark. So I saw that and I thought, “There! That proves me theory.”’ Indeed she seemed triumphant. ‘That’s how I look at people now, when I’m going about. He’s got a bulb. She hasn’t. He’s definitely got one. Him, his lights are out for good.’

  ‘What’s the telltale sign?’

  ‘Easy. There’s people not capable of a laugh. That’s how you know. Like them lot at your meeting. Then there’s people need their switch turned on first to get the bulb going. That’s you, probably.’

  Gore was unsure how to take this.

  ‘I mean, I can get a laugh out of you, and I know it’s not put on.’

  ‘And Jake? He’s got a big bulb?’

  ‘He has. He did have, anyway. He’s a bit low now, right enough.’

  She looked away, her hands resting limp on her thighs, scarlet varnish on irregular nails. She had such spirit, and yet a torpor could cross her like a cloud occluding the sun. Shadows were lengthening in the room. But Gore found that he wasn’t giving up the sofa, or hastening to the crux of the visit. Looking about him, he was struck once more by her assortment of top-of-the-range electric goods.

  ‘Can I ask how you manage? With a child, alone?’

  ‘I work, man. More than one job. Simple as that.’

  ‘What sort of work?’

  ‘Aw, there’s a place I waitress, there’s bar work I do for a fella I know. I’ll do a morning in the newsagent for me mate Clare.’

  ‘Sounds quite a stretch.’

  ‘The hours are an arse. But you add ’em together and it’s a wage.’

  ‘Enough to keep you? You and Jake?’

  ‘Who’s asking, eh? You an inspector for the nash and all?’ Gore chastened himself. She lit another cigarette. ‘I’m no benefit queen, me. Got that off me mam.’

  ‘Have you ever wanted to do more? Look for something better?’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Since you’re so bright.’

  ‘Aww,’ she said, and touched his arm lightly. Gore was pleased to have pleased her, until her sweet smile withered. ‘You see? You talk to us like mongs. You should hear yourself sometimes.’

  He blushed but she was gazing past him. ‘Looks like rain,’ she murmured. ‘So what else you wanna know? Do you need to get on? If it’s rain, mind, you can stop a little. Since you’re on shanks’s pony.’

  ‘Maybe just a little longer, if that’s okay.’

  She rose. ‘Well, I’m having a glass of wine. You want one?’

  ‘Oh, I think not, thanks. More tea, maybe?’

  She headed to the kitchen. ‘I hear you’ll have a pint, mind.’ He peered after her in surprise. Then he heard her half-singing under her
breath as she busied. ‘Milk’s done. Blast.’

  ‘I’ll drink it black.’

  ‘Urgh.’

  She returned with a jelly glass of white wine and a mug of black tea, resuming her discreet place in the armchair. Gore leaned forward from the sofa. ‘Okay, this is the big question then.’

  ‘Aw aye?’

  ‘Can I expect to see you at my service next Sunday?’ Her eyes popped, theatrically. ‘Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Please, not God!’ And she crossed her index fingers and waved them at Gore in the manner by which holy men in horror films sought to expel vampires. When finally she chuckled, Gore tried to join her. ‘Now go on, Reverend.’ She wagged a finger. ‘If me mammy were here, God rest her, she’d want to talk all about this with you.’ That brogue had resurfaced. ‘She was a Catholic but she’d no quarrel with the Protestants. Sure it’s all the same God. But meself and the Lord, we’ve never been so friendly.’

  ‘Your mother was – Irish?’

  ‘Aye,’ Lindy nodded. ‘Only they threw her out of Ireland. Like St Patrick threw out the snakes, right?’

  ‘You were born here, though? Newcastle?’

  ‘It was Liverpool, actually. We moved on to here when I was still a babe.’

  ‘Why did she choose Liverpool? After Ireland?’ But he knew by her face that he had erred once more.

  ‘Hardly a choice, man. She liked it, but. Back in Offaly she was a disgrace. Liverpool, she was a bit of a chick. The seventies and that, all the music. Was only me that cramped her style.’

  ‘She’s passed on?’

  A deep sigh. ‘Aye, she’s gone. Poor soul. Seven year ago. What a life.’

  ‘Did she – live to see Jake?’

  Lindy shook her head mutely.

  Gore nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I was twenty when I lost my mother.’

  ‘Aw, sorry. Was she a nice mam?’

  ‘Yes. I was lucky.’

  ‘That’s nice. Mairead was just fuckin’ hopeless, really. Sorry, but she was. Drink. Made herself poorly.’ She studied Gore now, as his gaze fell on her glass. ‘I know what you’re thinking. It’s not the same. It’s what you can manage. Me mam wasn’t healthy – never, not right, mentally. I blame the Church me’sel. They’re snobs and all. Make people feel rotten.’

  ‘I’m not a fan of the Catholic Church.’

  ‘Oh no?’

  ‘No. It has a – bizarre view of women, for one.’

  ‘And your lot are much better?’

  ‘I’d make a case for us, yes. We’re not a Church that judges.’

  ‘You’re squirming a bit there, but.’

  ‘To be honest, it’s the tea.’

  ‘Gone right through you, has it? The bathroom’s upstairs. Loo in the hall’s knacked, sorry.’

  The bathroom was scented with white rose, one small window shedding light upon a white vinyl floor and units. A mirrored cabinet was fixed over the sink. Gore urinated with care. After shaking and tapping, he yielded to an impulse and opened the cabinet. Within, a secret lair of feminalia – a mix of essentials and luxuries, a world away from his own spartan toilette. Here were Tampax, Clairol, Clarins and Lancôme, jumbles of make-up and moisturiser, bracelets and a tangled hairbrush, KY jelly, Givenchy perfume and two packets of contraceptive pills.

  Exiting, he halted and peered down the hallway at two large rectangular cardboard boxes, set heavily up against the wall outside one of three boxy bedrooms. Upon his return to the living room he enquired after them. Lindy, now on her feet, waved a hand. ‘It’s all stuff out of a catalogue. For Jake’s room. I forgot it didn’t come made. Can’t get arsed to start with it. Need a screwdriver and all. His daddy would do it, but his daddy’s a busy man …’

  ‘I’d be happy to knock them together for you. Really, any day that suits.’

  Again she studied him with a wry, challenging purse of her lips. ‘Well, aren’t you good?’

  ‘That’s if …’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘My service. Could I count on you coming?’

  ‘Aw, get away. You’re not putting the cosh on us, are you?’ She shoved him with a palm, but affably. He found himself obscurely pleased by the rough touch – found himself, moreover, colouring into his chest.

  ‘Well, you know, that’s why I’m here …’

  ‘There was me thinking we were getting along.’ Her eyes narrowed but the look dissolved as she sighed heavily. ‘Whey, whatever. I’ll look in and see how you’re doing.’

  ‘It’s Sunday after next. Probably ten-thirty start.’

  ‘Okay, but you want to see you get that crèche going and all. I thought that was why you were here.’ Her brow furrowed. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s quarter after two.’

  ‘Aw! Me favourite!’

  She plucked a remote control from the coffee table, flicked on the television set and fell into the sofa. Gore stretched his frame, wondering how to execute the cheerio, for Lindy was suddenly very engrossed. He walked to the window and looked out. It was raining still. So he sat down beside her and peered at the screen. A studio audience was getting itself terribly riled, stoked by a roving presenter with a microphone. On a dais, a harried-looking man in thick glasses, the unlikely object of such attention, was bemoaning – with remarkable if faltering frankness – that his wife had enjoyed a breast augmentation at his expense and had since denied him conjugal rights. The frame widened to reveal that the woman was beside him, head and décolletage bobbing in agreement, as to say, what would you do? Lindy issued a short scoffing laugh. ‘Look at them cow tits. Who’d shag that?’ She curled her feet up and under her. Gore could not conjure a meaningful comment.

  The couple were succeeded on the dais by a young black woman who had birthed a child by a man unwilling to commit. The errant father sat opposite, polished and arrogant, as if she should think herself lucky. Gore could imagine Lindy saying as much. Say it, he thought, and glanced at her profile. Her eyelids had closed. ‘Lindy?’ he murmured, and her breath came forth a little raspingly. Lightly he took up the remote control and switched off the television. For some moments he looked at her. Finally he decided there was no harm in leaving things be. Wreathed in thought, he rose and showed himself to the door.

  As he reached for the latch, a key was turning, then the door swung open. There on the threshold was young Jake in a hooded black anorak, his hand in the grasp of a painfully pale and redheaded woman in her fifties, clad in a waterproof of her own. Before two pairs of wary eyes Gore was flustered.

  ‘Hi, I’m John Gore, I’m the new vicar? I was just paying a visit on Lindy. This young man I’ve met. Hello there, bonny lad.’

  ‘I’m his Auntie Yvonne,’ she squinted, her accent Irish, in no way charmed or allayed.

  ‘Yvonne?’ came a croaking call from the living room.

  ‘I was just on my way,’ Gore smiled, and slipped past and out, feeling but a shade disreputable.

  Chapter VII

  THE REGULATOR

  1992–1996

  Stevie stood nursing his ale, stolidly surveying the three young women stripped to the waist as they chattered affably to each other in Dutch, presumably about the merits of this or that trick for hiding banknotes on one’s person. He was more drawn by the range of brassieres on display under the moody light. Here, an innocent white cotton sports number. There, a lewd purple plunger, though its cups were not so bountiful as the black pushup model worn by the tallest of the three. The lass he would have most relished seeing in her skimpies was the fourth of the party, Roy Caldwell’s girlfriend Nina, another Dutchie – twentyish, blonde but dusky of complexion, short but ripe at top and bottom. She, though, was only supervising procedures, and none too happily neither.

  ‘You know your route, then?’ Roy murmured, standing at Stevie’s shoulder by the island that divided this conservatory-cum-kitchen/breakfast room of the Caldwell residence. Stevie nodded, thrusting his fists into his black leather coat.

  ‘Leave them off on Collingwood Street
, but park and get out, yeah? See they all get on. Three separate London trains, on the half-hour, first one at eight.’

  ‘Ah hear ya,’ said Stevie.

  The boss charged his glass from a bottle of Rioja, Stevie topped his pint mug with brown ale. Across the terracotta tiles, grouped around a glass-top table, the girls – tippling from their own bottle of fizz – were packing wads of used notes in stomach belts about their bellies, the overspill laid down by Nina into nondescript new-bought tote bags. Such were the spoils of another week’s trading. Swaddled in coats and cardigans the ladies’ figures were unlikely to draw comment in this freezing November of 1992.

  Stevie only saw as much of Roy as was prudent, but he had been keen to come over tonight and view the new gaff in the village of Darras Hill, Ponteland, eight miles’ drive north-west of Newcastle. A desirable residence it was, a big new build with five bedrooms and an epic driveway that would have fully justified the installation of watch-tower or gun turret, if such were the buyer’s requirement. Roy’s company, though, Stevie never found wholly relaxing. He usually came away from it with more chores to fulfil. Tonight he was tasked with conveying the Dutch lady mules to Central Station, for Roy trusted him and him alone to ensure the job got done. Nina, clearly done with her own share of the chore, flounced past the men and out of the kitchen. Roy made an indulgent face.

  ‘Pay her no mind. You don’t happen to know anything about ovens, do you?’

  It consoled Stevie that Roy, too, had his woes with women and households and domestic appliances on the blink. Stevie never heard the end of Karen’s grievances – she and little Donna set up perfectly nicely in Chopwell, weekly visits and cash gifts, and it was hardly as though he were living high on the hog himself. Yet their relations were fixed at bayonet-point.

  ‘Ach, she has to know how busy you are.’

  ‘Nah. It’s just her way. Never get this bother off anyone else.’