Read Online Random Acts of Unkindness by Jacqueline Ward - Free Book Online
Authors: Jacqueline Ward
Ads: Link
we?’
It was the same old story. And I had to admit I was backing my odds both ways, or else why would I bother setting the table for him every night? So I wandered out of the police station and I slipped back into my usual shopping routine.
Because that’s what it’s like, two lives running together, side by side. The life you have from day to day, where you have to cook and clean and wash and iron and go on the market, and the one where your son is gone, and you constantly wonder where he is and what he’s doing, hoping he’s not dead and if he is, that he didn’t suffer. Then dying a little bit yourself because you couldn’t be there with him to save him, or at the end. Was he shouting for his mum?
Then you remember that might not be the case, and he is shacked up with a girl somewhere, using another name, and you get angry because how could he do this to you?
Then there were the times I thought I’d seen him. Everywhere I went. I’d thought I’d seen him lots of times, on buses going the other way and in cars. Even in peoples’ houses, I’d stared through the windows to get a better look, and people had drawn their curtains when they saw me.
I was quite used to it now, the enquiring looks from strangers, the pity. I just couldn’t help it. One thing I had done was to start to look for smaller signs it might be him. He had a mole on his forehead, on the left-hand side, and a small scar on his chin. I usually tried to check for these as well as the obvious height and hair colour, but it wasn’t always possible.
I bought some carrots and shin beef, and wandered back to the bus station, nodding at people I knew and, hopefully, appearing normal. Whatever that was. Ashton was a funny place back then. You’d hear the Beatles ‘Help’ on the radio on the market stalls, and duck beneath the swathes of net curtains that blew about in the wind.
Old men would sit on the wooden benches smoking dog ends and whistling in the sunshine. They really did wear flat caps, and some of them did have whippets. Funny now, because that’s what the North is known for these days, what with Coronation Street and Andy Capp, but back then it really was like that.
Women in rain Macs and headscarves tied around their chins would congregate outside the Town Hall and chatter, exchanging the news of the day before rushing off to spread the word. Not many of us had telephones, because we didn’t need them. Our system, the Market Telegraph, was faster and more efficient than any telephone.
I saw them that day out of the corner of my eye, about ten women huddled together, listening intently to the storyteller, spellbound as they committed the details to memory. They reminded me of a group of sparrows that visited my yard to grab at the crumbs then carry them off.
I hurried over, wondering what they were chewing over today, whose life they were dissecting. The etiquette was that a newcomer to the group would touch an elbow and space would be made at the back of the group. A loud cough would tell the group that someone had more recent details than the story being told.
I approached and touched Alice Smith’s elbow and she turned, her face ashen. Her blue eyes widened and she shouted loudly:
‘Bessy. It’s Bessy. She’s here.’
Etiquette was ignored and I was hustled to the front of the group, where Ettie Groves was standing silently. The whole market became silent and I felt like a spotlight was shining on me. I hadn’t felt like this since I got stage fright in the school play, and that had been stopped by an air raid warning.
I looked up at the Market Hall tower, at the huge clock. It was coming up to three and I should really be at home making Colin’s tea. Ettie started to speak.
‘Look, love, I don’t know how to put this, but a body’s been found in Hattersley. A boy, seventeen. In a house up there.’
I stared at her.
‘Well, it can’t be Thomas. He’s eighteen. Eighteen.’
Handkerchiefs were raised to
It was the same old story. And I had to admit I was backing my odds both ways, or else why would I bother setting the table for him every night? So I wandered out of the police station and I slipped back into my usual shopping routine.
Because that’s what it’s like, two lives running together, side by side. The life you have from day to day, where you have to cook and clean and wash and iron and go on the market, and the one where your son is gone, and you constantly wonder where he is and what he’s doing, hoping he’s not dead and if he is, that he didn’t suffer. Then dying a little bit yourself because you couldn’t be there with him to save him, or at the end. Was he shouting for his mum?
Then you remember that might not be the case, and he is shacked up with a girl somewhere, using another name, and you get angry because how could he do this to you?
Then there were the times I thought I’d seen him. Everywhere I went. I’d thought I’d seen him lots of times, on buses going the other way and in cars. Even in peoples’ houses, I’d stared through the windows to get a better look, and people had drawn their curtains when they saw me.
I was quite used to it now, the enquiring looks from strangers, the pity. I just couldn’t help it. One thing I had done was to start to look for smaller signs it might be him. He had a mole on his forehead, on the left-hand side, and a small scar on his chin. I usually tried to check for these as well as the obvious height and hair colour, but it wasn’t always possible.
I bought some carrots and shin beef, and wandered back to the bus station, nodding at people I knew and, hopefully, appearing normal. Whatever that was. Ashton was a funny place back then. You’d hear the Beatles ‘Help’ on the radio on the market stalls, and duck beneath the swathes of net curtains that blew about in the wind.
Old men would sit on the wooden benches smoking dog ends and whistling in the sunshine. They really did wear flat caps, and some of them did have whippets. Funny now, because that’s what the North is known for these days, what with Coronation Street and Andy Capp, but back then it really was like that.
Women in rain Macs and headscarves tied around their chins would congregate outside the Town Hall and chatter, exchanging the news of the day before rushing off to spread the word. Not many of us had telephones, because we didn’t need them. Our system, the Market Telegraph, was faster and more efficient than any telephone.
I saw them that day out of the corner of my eye, about ten women huddled together, listening intently to the storyteller, spellbound as they committed the details to memory. They reminded me of a group of sparrows that visited my yard to grab at the crumbs then carry them off.
I hurried over, wondering what they were chewing over today, whose life they were dissecting. The etiquette was that a newcomer to the group would touch an elbow and space would be made at the back of the group. A loud cough would tell the group that someone had more recent details than the story being told.
I approached and touched Alice Smith’s elbow and she turned, her face ashen. Her blue eyes widened and she shouted loudly:
‘Bessy. It’s Bessy. She’s here.’
Etiquette was ignored and I was hustled to the front of the group, where Ettie Groves was standing silently. The whole market became silent and I felt like a spotlight was shining on me. I hadn’t felt like this since I got stage fright in the school play, and that had been stopped by an air raid warning.
I looked up at the Market Hall tower, at the huge clock. It was coming up to three and I should really be at home making Colin’s tea. Ettie started to speak.
‘Look, love, I don’t know how to put this, but a body’s been found in Hattersley. A boy, seventeen. In a house up there.’
I stared at her.
‘Well, it can’t be Thomas. He’s eighteen. Eighteen.’
Handkerchiefs were raised to
Similar Books
