“Then don’t try to tell me what to do. Don’t tell me it will be all right later. Don’t leave all the issues to me—the worry, the stress, the…oh, everything. Get off your arse and help me out for once instead of treating me as though I’m your mother.”
“But you are, you always have been.”
“No.” She leant forward so her face was inches from his. Held the poker up, fighting the urge to bring it down on his head and watch his skull split in two. “No, I’m not your mother. We had one, and she was too busy to care for us. I’m your sister, the person who had no choice but to bring you up. What would have happened if I’d got married, eh? What would you have done then?”
“But you didn’t, you—”
“No, I didn’t.” Don’t hit him with it. Don’t hit him… “Because you were always around, that’s why. It’s all your fault. Everything is.”
Leonard cried.
Nellie swivelled on one foot, threw the poker towards the rest of the companion set, then stalked across the room. She went outside to the strawberry patch and cursed the air blue, railing at her parents for being so shitty, for working all the hours God sent and leaving her with Leonard. For having no time for their kids, and when they did get a spare moment, they had that nasty sex she and Leonard had witnessed. As children they’d hidden in the double wardrobe because they’d wanted to know what the grunts were night after night.
We found out all right.
Matilda must have had that nasty sex in order to have children. Matilda must have worked just as hard as Nellie’s parents, neglecting those children.
Anger boiled up inside her. It wasn’t fair. The babies Matilda had should have been Nellie’s. She wouldn’t have let them spend endless days alone while she slogged to keep her business afloat. She’d have nurtured them, loved them, given them all the time in the world. Given them the childhood she’d never had.
“What do people deserve when they don’t look after their kids?” Nellie said to the strawberry patch. She knelt then dug her hands into the earth. “That’s right, they deserve to be dead. And what do you think I’m going to do now?” She waited for an answer. “That’s right again. And it’s not because Leonard put it into my head, it’s not. It’s because I feel it needs to be done.”
Chapter Four
The pub was just as sinister to Langham inside as it had been outside. The air smelt musty, like the place hadn’t had a good breeze through it in months, with the faint aroma of wood from the fire burning in a grate that belonged in medieval times. An old man sat in the far corner beside a wall covered in horse brasses, the shine of which had dulled with time, the owner or the cleaner maybe having no desire to polish them up. The old boy stared at Oliver and Langham with watery eyes, his pint of Guinness held midair, him pausing in his action of sipping.
“Should we book in somewhere else?” Langham nudged Oliver in the ribs. “The carpet—been there for sixty years, I’d say—and that bar over there looks a bit tacky, as do the tables.”
“There isn’t anywhere else to stay around here, you said.” Oliver glanced at the old man then at Langham. “And we’re here now, aren’t we, so we may as well make the best of it. We only need a bed for the night after our drinking sessions.”
Langham nodded. “All right.”
He walked to the bar then leant on it, looking up and down for a member of staff. Their post was abandoned, and he supposed it would be if customers were few and far between. A woman of about seventy poked her head through a doorway at the other end, smiled brightly, and lifted the hatch to bustle along behind the bar to stand in front of them.
“What can I do you for?” She chuckled at her joke and placed her meaty hands on the counter, breathing as though she suffered from asthma. She was of the larger persuasion, all big boobs and round belly, her floral apron stretched across it, the material taut. Her cheeks were red and shiny, and her short hair looked in need of a good wash, as did her hands. There was dirt beneath her nails, as though she’d been gardening.
Her body hygiene and the state of the place didn’t bode well.
“We’ve got a room.” Langham handed over a piece of paper he’d printed out, a receipt from where he’d booked through a holiday agency.
She took it from him and peered down at it. “Ah, right. I’d totally forgotten about you. Good job the rooms are clean already, eh?”
That’s to be determined…
She moved away to pull out a drawer under a row of beer pumps for Murphy’s, Fosters, Guinness, and some ale he’d never heard of, Grampy’s Bevvy.
“Here we are.” She removed a key, a small notebook, a pen, and held them up, the keys dangling from one finger. “If you could just give me your autograph.” That chuckle again. “On that line there, look, next to your names, then we’re all squared away.”
Langham signed his first. He handed the book to Oliver and took the keys from the woman. “Thank you. And breakfast is at…?” He shuddered at the thought of eating anything she cooked.
“Oh, any old time you like,” she said. “Doesn’t take long for me to whip something up. And it’s not like we’re heaving with custom, is it?” She eyed the pub, concentrating her focus on the old man for a moment, eyes narrowing. “Glad I joined that agency thing—you being here proves it works.
