To Catch a Butterfly Page 10

  The atmosphere at home had become so intolerable that Stevie longed for the day when school started again, she longed to see Adam but knew she would have to wait until the summer holidays were over. Her mother had not mentioned him since she had dragged Stevie from his house and knew better than to speak of him. She hoped that Beth wasn’t angry at her for the way Marie had spoken to her.

  Marie’s mood swings since that day had wavered between manic depression to manic excitement, one day not speaking a word and spending the evenings sitting in her armchair filling the room with smoke, lighting one cigarette after another, to behaving as though nothing had happened when Doctor Knowles had paid a welfare visit, unaware that not an hour before Marie had been hanging over the toilet retching up the bottle of cheap whiskey, given as a Christmas present from Joan at the surgery the year before. Neither Marie nor Will had been drinkers but both had always politely accepted such gifts which had now accumulated over the years and had sat collecting dust in a bedroom cupboard. Until now.

  “You seem to be coping remarkably well, considering.” Doctor Knowles had remarked noticing that the house appeared clean and tidy, unaware that Stevie had spent the morning pulling the vacuum cleaner awkwardly around the front room, cleaning out the overflowing ashtrays and wiping dust from the ornaments on the sideboard, while her mother was puking upstairs.

  “Well, I’ve got Stevie to think of, I have to stay strong for her.” Marie had responded attempting to pull the proverbial wool over the doctors eyes.

  “Well, if there’s anything you need, you know where I am, and don’t worry about work, just take as long as you need.” And with that the doctor was gone. Making a mental note that Marie’s breath had reeked of scotch.

  As Stan Buchanan gripped his wife’s shoulder he could feel her shaking, she suddenly drew a deep exaggerated breath and with it came an uncontrollable outburst of grief, “My boy, my poor boy.” She wept and Stan pulled her to him, holding her head against his aching chest.

  Stevie reached for her mother’s hand and gripped it tightly, Marie looked down at her and then around at the small gathering, Cynthia now shaking and gulping between sobs, Stan looking ashen and ready to fall. John and Vera standing upright and composed. Vera occasionally glancing at Cynthia and growing increasingly uncomfortable at such an outward display of emotion. She understood that to lose and bury your own child must seem to terribly unfair, but if only Will’s parents had her beliefs and trust in the good lord, today would be a celebration of his life and merely a temporary parting. Vera looked at Marie, she looked drained, grey, dark shadows formed circles around her eyes which seemed empty, nothing left inside, cold.

  The vicar closed his bible and lowered his head, for a moment no one moved, the sounds of a siren in the distance the only reminder that life was continuing outside of this moment.

  Marie had made no arrangements for anyone to return to the house after the service, her mother had offered to prepare the customary sandwiches and drown everyone with tea, but Marie didn’t want that. She didn’t want polite conversation about ‘what a lovely service it had been’ or ‘didn’t the flowers look nice’ She didn’t want to remark about what lovely things had been said about her dead husband and what a wonderful father he had been to Stevie. Marie wanted to go home, close the door and work her way through the bottles of cheap shit wine and brandy that gave her sleep. Beyond that, she didn’t really care. She pulled her hand away from Stevie’s and made her way back to the limousine that had carried her here.

  Stan shook the vicar’s hand and thanked him for the lovely service; Vera stepped forward, quickly hugged Cynthia and commented on how lovely the flowers were. John shook Stan’s hand ‘I’m so sorry, Will was a good man and a wonderful father.”

  Stan thanked him for his kind words, all the while watching Stevie who had edged her way towards the graveside and was now staring down at her father’s coffin. Stan walked around to her and put his hands on her shoulders “Stevie.” He spoke gently, bending down to face her, “Stevie, grandma and me are going home in a bit, but we’ll come and see you soon, I promise, you know our telephone number off by heart don’t you, so you call us if you need to alright?”

  Stevie nodded and Grandpa Stan took her hand, leading her over to her mother.

  As the cars drove slowly back out through the cemetery gates, Harry and Elizabeth turned and walked away, just as Beth Daniels stepped out from behind the large war memorial stone that stood high and proud just inside the entrance, and as the cortege disappeared she let the tears fall before making her way out of the side gate and back to her car.

  CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

  Catherine opened the boot of her car and took out the first of her shopping bags; she smiled to herself as she made her way up the path carrying Scruffy Boy’s new cat bowl. As she set the bags down by the front door she heard a loud smash through next doors open window, then a second later Marilyn’s voice “Len, are you alright, oh dear it’s okay Len!”

  Catherine stopped halfway back down her path and looked down at the ground straining to listen. Silence. She walked back towards her car and reached into the boot, then another loud crash, she closed the boot and made her way quickly towards Marilyn’s front door, Marilyn’s voice was clear “Ok, it’s ok I’ve got you.”

  “Marilyn, it’s Catherine, is everything okay?”

  “There’s a key under the pot!” Marilyn called back at her.

  Catherine tipped the large terracotta pot back and feeling underneath it she slid the key out with her free hand. She could hear Marilyn as she unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  “In here, can you give me a hand?”

  As Catherine turned to her left into the kitchen she was confronted with the sight of Marilyn on her knees leaning over her husband who was lying on his side.

  “My God, what’s happened?” Catherine stepped towards them, walking over broken crockery which lay spread across the floor. She noticed blood on Marilyn’s legs from kneeling on shards of broken glass.

  “Could you pass me that coat on the back of the door?” Marilyn nodded towards a thin blue jacket hanging from a huge brass hook. Catherine grabbed the jacket and quickly passed it to Marilyn who was holding her husband’s head, suddenly he began to shake violently, his face tightened and his body became rigid “Here comes another one.” Marilyn stated calmly.

  “Should I call an ambulance?” Catherine asked.

  “No it’s alright, it’ll pass, he’s epileptic, he’ll be fine.” She explained as she placed the folded jacket under his head, supporting it all the while and watching him closely hoping he didn’t bite into his tongue. “Alright my darling, it’s alright.” Marilyn kept her face close to his as he stopped shaking.

  Catherine noticed his grey trousers turning dark around his groin and realised he had wet himself.

  “He often does that, it’s quite common.” Marilyn spoke without looking up.

  “Can I do anything?” Catherine felt less than helpful just standing there.

  “No, you’re fine thanks.” She stroked his face “There you are my love.”

  Catherine watched in awe of this woman’s calmness, she had only ever seen one other person have an epileptic fit and that was at school, a boy whose name escaped her suddenly fell back in his chair during a lesson, the teacher quickly ushered all the children from the classroom, Catherine who had been sitting two seats from him had watched as he landed, banging his head on the floor. She remembered her teacher explaining what had happened afterwards. Catherine had forgotten that day until now.

  “He’s sleeping.” Marilyn walked down the stairs, holding the banister. “Thank you for coming in.” She smiled at Catherine who was sitting at one end of the sofa.

  “I expect you could do with a cup of tea…or something stronger?”

  Catherine looked at Marilyn’s leg, “You need to clean that knee up.”

  Marilyn looked down at her torn tights “Oh, it’s just a scratch, I’m more
peeved about my tights I only bought them the other day.” She looked at Catherine and smiled again.

  “Can I help you clean up the kitchen before I go?” Catherine asked.

  “Only if you promise to stay for one drink afterwards.”

  Catherine stood up, she got the feeling that Marilyn wanted the company more than the drink or in fact any help clearing up smashed plates and glasses, “Deal.” She grinned, wishing she had her cigarettes with her. Half an hour later she was back on the sofa sipping from a huge glass which quite obviously contained more gin than tonic.

  “Does he have fits often?” She asked as Marilyn settled herself down on the armchair opposite.

  “More than he used to. Usually I can tell if he’s going to have one, not much you can do really, just be there to make sure he doesn’t bang his head or anything, or pull the dish rack off the draining board while he’s drying the dishes.” She grinned and took a sip of her drink. “He doesn’t drive anymore, not allowed to, so I drive us now. The truth is if I go out on my own I don’t like to leave him too long so I always get our shopping early on a Friday morning while he’s asleep, he worries that if he goes with me that he’ll have a fit in the middle of the supermarket.”

  As she spoke, Catherine studied her, artist’s habit, she looked at her dark brown hair and wondered if she dyed it, Catherine was surprised at the lack of grey, then her skin which looked soft and fresh, brown eyes, kind and soulful, she was deceiving for her fifty seven years.

  “Do you smoke?” Marilyn suddenly asked pushing herself forward on the armchair.

  “Yes I do.” Catherine replied “I’ve left them in the car.” Remembering the bag of frozen food she’d left in the boot and the shopping bags on her doorstep.

  Marilyn set her drink down on the glass top table beside her and stood up.

  “I’ve got a packet here.” She reached up behind a photograph of their old black Labrador, Jessie, the photograph taken a few months before he died. Catherine looked at it noticing the white hairs around his muzzle and the slight shine in his eyes that comes with age.

  Marilyn produced a packet of Benson and Hedges “I’ll just get the matches.” She disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared a moment later with a large box of cook’s matches and the smallest ashtray that Catherine had ever seen, a tiny glass centre decorated around the edges with seashells.

  “It was a present from Len’s mother years ago, I’m not even sure it’s an ashtray.” Marilyn picked up her drink and moved the little glass top table nearer to Catherine.

  “It’s lovely.” Catherine politely replied thinking that it was possibly the most hideous thing she had ever seen.

  “It’s hideous, only good for stubbing out cigarettes in.” Marilyn sat back down.

  Catherine could feel a smile creeping across her face and a laugh began to rise within her, “It is bloody awful!” She blurted out.

  “Yes it is.” Marilyn’s face flushed and suddenly the two women were laughing, teary laughs that made Catherine cough and Marilyn rock back and forth in her seat. When they finally recovered, Marilyn refilled their glasses and they sat through the afternoon chewing the fat, while Catherine’s shopping defrosted in the boot of her car. Marilyn every now and then checking on Len.

  “Will he sleep all day?” Catherine asked, noticing that her words were becoming increasingly slurred.

  “He might do, epileptics often feel exhausted after a fit, he sleeps longer now than he used to.”

  “How long has he suffered from them?” Catherine lit another cigarette.

  “About five years, he slipped off the pavement in the snow on his way home one night, cracked his head and has had them ever since, silly old fool.”

  “I guess you’ve learned how to deal with them over the years?” Catherine blew smoke out the corner of her mouth.

  “I learned how to deal with them when I was a nurse at the naval hospital.”

  “You were a nurse?” Catherine sat back and crossed her legs.

  “Yes I was, practically all my working life.”

  Catherine nodded, this explained a lot about Marilyn, her whole demeanour, she possessed warmness, an aura which made you feel comfortable in her presence. Catherine was not one to spend an afternoon in someone’s house, getting progressively drunk and engaging in long conversation but as she looked around the room she felt relaxed and comfortable. Marilyn Haines was a good person Catherine surmised as she rolled her empty glass between her palms.

  “Were you ever married Catherine?” Marilyn asked.

  “No, no I wasn’t.” Catherine cleared her throat.

  “Would you like to have been, not that you couldn’t now of course.” Marilyn lit a cigarette, glancing up at Catherine as she blew out the match.

  “No, I’m happy as I am, I guess I never met the right one.” Catherine swallowed.

  “There was someone once though?” Marilyn studied her cigarette and waited for Catherine’s reaction.

  “Yes.” Catherine’s voice was low “Yes there was.”

  Marilyn sensed that this subject was not open to discussion. Not today anyway.

  “I’d better check on Len.” Marilyn rose, momentarily placing her hand on Catherine’s before making her way upstairs.

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  Rose Fielding plugged in the iron and looked down at the basket of washing. Laura and Elaine were sat at the dining table making slow progress with homework set for the summer holidays.

  Rose picked up one of Laura’s school shirts and set it neatly on the ironing board, collar first, then sleeves, front right, front left then back. Military precision.

  “How’s it going?” She asked, noticing the sighs and fidgeting coming from the back of the room.

  “Fine.” The answer came in stereo.

  “Back to school in two days girls, will it be done by then?” Rose asked.

  “Yes.” Elaine replied, tapping her pen on the table.

  “Will Stevie be at school when we go back?” Laura swung her legs under her chair.

  “I don’t know darling.” Stevie hadn’t come up much in conversation for the last couple of weeks but Rose knew that Laura would ask about her as the return to school loomed.

  “Will Stevie and her mum stay in that house or will they have to move now?” Laura doodled a flower on the cover of her exercise book.

  “Why would they move?” Rose looked up.

  “Because her dad died.” Laura replied.

  “It doesn’t mean they’ll have to move, we didn’t move when your father left did we? Stevie and her mum will be alright.” Rose had made a conscious decision that from now on she wanted little to do with the Buchanan’s. She knew that it would be difficult as Laura and Stevie were friends but she had a feeling that Stevie Buchanan was going to turn out to be a rather bad apple. With a mother like hers she would inevitably rebel and probably get involved in all sorts of mischief. She did not want her Laura getting mixed up with all that kind of business, Laura was a good girl, brought up right.

  Rose put Laura’s shirt on a coat hanger and hung it on the living room door handle. Neat and tidy. Just how Rose liked it.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Stevie looked at her mother. Her hair was greasy and she was wearing the clothes she had slept in the night before, her face was gaunt and pale and her hands shook slightly as she poured another brandy. Marie had demolished the bottles that had sat in the cupboards and had made two trips to the shops to buy more.

  Stevie was counting the hours until the morning when she would go back to school, her bag was ready, her homework done, Marie had washed and ironed her school uniform the first week of the holidays. Stevie was ready and she couldn’t wait. The house was dead and no one came round. Grandpa Stan and Grandma Cynthia had telephoned and Marie as always had fooled them with her lies “We’re okay, you know, taking each day as it comes, Stevie's fine, getting ready for school, we’re taking care of each other, we’ve got to haven’t we?”

 
; “Do you want a cup of tea mum?” Stevie asked, almost inaudible over the television which blared in the corner, Marie stared at it, taking nothing in, some shit programme about how to make a handy bird feeder out of a coat hanger and a pair of tights. Who gives a fuck?

  “No.” Marie answered, frowning. Stupid question, tea? Who wants to drink fucking tea?

  “Can I make you a sandwich then?” Stevie asked, remembering that she had thrown the last of the mouldy bread across the lawn for the birds two days before. But she knew that if she went to the shops it would take her out of this house, even for ten minutes, plus the fact that she was so hungry her stomach hurt. There was little food left in the cupboards, a tin of peas, a jar of pickled onions and a packet of onion sauce mix.

  “No.” Marie closed her eyes.

  “I’m hungry mum.” Stevie’s eyes widened, she was sat on the sofa and instinctively tucked her feet under her, making herself smaller. She waited for Marie’s response. Marie opened her eyes and stared at her.

  “Have we got bread?” Marie asked

  “No.” Stevie answered.

  “Then how the fuck are you going to make a sandwich, magician are you?”

  “No, but I could go to the shop and buy some.” Stevie was driven to answer by the nausea in her stomach that came with her hunger.

  “We’ll go shopping tomorrow, you’ll have to make do until then.” Marie ran the back of her hand across her mouth.