Chapter 5

The Stevenson house was quite large, and I found that Jeanne shared it with her son Malcolm, and his wife Sasha. I didn’t get the back story on all that for a year or so, but it made sense of several relationships within the church. Anyway, both Sasha and Malcolm were studying, but usually one or other of them, sometimes both, managed to be there for what they called ‘Open House’. Along with various other members of Saint Mary’s, like Arthur Glover and his wife.

Church people came and went, according to what free time they had. The ‘guests’, however, with one or two exceptions, were regulars, and each tended to gravitate to the same people. My first meeting was when I approached Robert; quiet, softly spoken, and an alcoholic. Robert had been in and out of detox programs, had twice been set up in a small flat, and was currently homeless and living rough. I heard his story; sad, but unfortunately commonplace: divorce, depression, loss of job, alcohol to numb the pain and a slow descent to his present situation.

Two of the ‘working ladies’ approached me on separate occasions. I suspect they hoped I was a soft touch. Zenia (yes, she spelt it with a Z rather than an X) would not have been confused with the fictional character in most respects. Tall and painfully thin, her hair bleached blonde, but the roots showing almost an inch of brown, tattooed, well endowed, alas with needle track marks in both arms. She claimed to be twenty, but looked ten years older at least. I listened, sympathetically, but while there was doubtless a great deal of fact there, I was pretty sure most of it was BS.

If Zenia didn’t tempt me at all, Suki might have. She was small, plump and pretty, with a mixture of oriental and Caucasian in her ancestry. Rejected by her (Caucasian) mother, she’d grown up through the ‘Care’ system. If she was to be believed, she’d seduced a male residential social worker, who had subsequently been dismissed and enjoined from having any further contact with the girl. ‘Justice’ had taken its course and he’d spent two years at Her Majesty’s Pleasure – most of it, or course, in solitary for his own protection. Suki had done a bunk and was living ‘by the kindness of strangers’. By the time we met she was of age and no longer of concern to the ‘Care’ system. From what she said I was pretty sure she wouldn’t have protested had I tried to deepen a relationship with her. My, doesn’t that sound ... priggish? Let’s just say she was attractive and appeared receptive. But I couldn’t get past her history.

Glen was a young man in a not dissimilar situation, though his sexual initiation had not been in any way consensual. Borderline psychotic, he was unable to form effective relationships with either gender, though his orientation was gay. It was Glen whose mutilated body was found one day by an early morning dog walker in the park. Social Services paid the basic fee for his cremation, but we banded together to honour his passing – in the way his life should have been honoured, but wasn’t.

As Christmas approached, Gillian and Karen wanted me to join them for the festival. I was happy with that except ... what do you give a young girl for a Christmas present? Gillian saved me by suggesting a copy of ‘Frozen’ on Blu-ray. I got that and was proud of myself when I found a ‘Frozen’ colouring book and a box of coloured pencils to go with it. Gillian also let me off the hook in her respect. “I don’t expect you to give me anything,” she said with a smile, “but if you really want to, take me to Hyde Hall for the day on your motorbike.”

(Hyde Hall being a Royal Horticultural Society garden, not too far from Maldon)

I found a nice card and with the help of the local library computers, worked up a gift certificate.

Had I not gone to the Marshall home, I’d have spent the day at the church Christmas dinner for all those who had nowhere to go on the day. As it was, I went to the Midnight service, partly to help with possible disruption from the inevitable inebriated guests. I was back at the church for the ten o’clock service to meet Karen and Gillian before returning to their house for the meal. Which, of course, was rather later than usual, but very, very good. Karen was suitably grateful for the film, but the colouring book – somewhat to my surprise – really rang the bell, and she spent some time meticulously working on it, pausing only to demand a pencil-sharpener at intervals. The little girl, having been awake since about five am, was flagging as we nibbled finger foods about six o’clock, and I was about to leave as Gillian announced Karen’s bed time. But nothing would do but that I stayed to read to her. Her eyes were closed and her breathing steady before I finished the first story. I sat quietly for several minutes, just looking at her pretty face, then tiptoed out, intending to take my leave. But...

“Do you have to leave, Rick?”

“I don’t want to outstay my welcome,” I said, “but there’s nothing spoiling, back at Tranquillity.” That was true, as far as I knew at the time.

“Have another drink and a mince-pie or two. Or three.”

“Now that’s an offer I can’t refuse. Your mince-pies are wonderful.”

We settled with a bottle of wine between us and a plate of mince-pies and small sausage rolls.

“I ... I wanted to tell you ... about my husband.”

I didn’t say anything, just cocked my head receptively.

“Dulcie knows the story, but she’s the only one, really. I think others suspect. You see, it’s my fault he’s dead.” She paused. “We were to go to a wedding. I was slow getting ready, then there was a problem with the car, so I was nagging Roger to hurry. Karen was getting upset, too, because of me and because Roger was irritated. Well, he was going too fast, and maybe he was distracted, too, and rounded a corner wide and collided with a truck going the other way. I think Roger died instantly. A young man dragged Karen out of the car when it stopped, and the truck driver got me out. Well, I blamed all and sundry for the accident, and upset the young man Karen was clinging to, as well, but it was really entirely my fault.”

I was nodding. “But presumably you’ve talked to Dulcie? She’s prayed, and given you ... what ... absolution?”

“Yes, but...”

“I’m a counsellor, Gillian – a secular counsellor – and forgiveness is between you and whoever you wronged, and God, I suppose. I know it’s hard to forgive yourself; I’ve met that problem again and again. I’ve experienced it myself, for that matter.”

There was a long silence in which we both sipped wine. I watched Gillian, whose eyes were down. She was attractive – very attractive – with a good figure and a pretty face. She was, I thought, probably about the same age as myself, too, but I’d never really looked at her as a woman. The reason was, her appearance was ... contrived. Every detail of hair, make-up and dress, perfect. I’ve always found that intimidating. Class distinctions in Britain may have changed, but (in my opinion) remain strong. But perhaps that’s all in my mind! Basically, what I’m saying is that I felt Gillian was socially above me – which says more about my self-image than her attitudes, I suppose. Then she looked up.

“I like you,” she said, quietly. Then, after a longish hesitation, went on. “Karen is very taken with you. She’s friendly enough, but she’s taken to you nearly as strongly as Mannie. You don’t know Mannie, I suppose. He’s at University in Sheffield with Rosie, his wife, and doesn’t get back here often. But because of Karen I’d invite you here anyway. But I feel...”

Things were heading in a direction I hadn’t expected. “Karen is a wonderful little girl,” I commented, “and her Mamma is a very attractive lady. Whatever you may have done, whatever you may have been, you’re not the same person who was in that accident. Maybe you need to talk to Dulcie again, but I think you can be proud of your little girl and you are personally worthy of respect.”

She sipped her wine pensively. I sipped mine appreciatively and reached for a mince-pie. They really were excellent. Gillian was a good cook, whatever her social background, and I was forced to reassess our relative standing.

“Thank you,” she said eventually.

That was it for the rest of my visit; I left about an hour after that, after several more sausage-rolls and mince-pies, to make my way ‘home’.

It was dark, of course, and the streets were deserted as I made my way to the boat-yard. But as I was about to board Tranquillity, a soft voice called my name from the shadows.

“Rick?”

I sighed to myself. “Suki?”

“Rick...” there was a catch in her voice, “I need your help. You said you’d help me if I needed it.”

“I said the church would help you when you needed it.”

“So you won’t?”

“I didn’t say that. Come along, and get warm.”

I made my way along my gang-plank to Tranquillity’s fore-deck. I waited for Suki, in case she needed help climbing over the pushpit, the metal fence curved round the deck at the bows. She managed, though awkwardly as a result of her lack of inches. In the cabin I stirred up the stove, which had nearly burnt out; I used some kindling to speed things up, and opened the draught. Normally I boil my kettles on the stove when it’s lit, but that was going to take too long, so I turned on the gas and put the kettle on the little two-burner hob.

Then I turned to look at my unexpected guest. She was a mess. I don’t mean she had obvious injuries to her face, but she looked gaunt, and her face was smeared with make-up.

“Can I have some water, please?”

“Sure.” Water that has been kept in the tank tends to taste of plastic. It’s fine for making tea or coffee, for cooking and washing up, but I keep a few bottles of spring water for drinking. I got one out of the locker and gave it to her.