‘Because it’s true.’
‘No it’s not. How can you say that? Your parents are the ones who look after you and feed you and bring you up.’ He stopped, his eyes widening as they had before in the road. His mouth dropped open. ‘She’s your mother, isn’t she? Phyllis? She’s not your girlfriend at all.’
Sharp and unwelcome as a flick knife in the gut, hot rage cut through Christopher. Rage for this spoilt little shit of a boy who had taken his Scalextric, taken everything from him, even his name, without asking. They were alone. If he were to sock him in his stupid jaw, he could throw him in the canal and be rid of him forever, tie him to that broken mooring so he would sink. He could…
‘It’s got nothing to do with you, you little bastard,’ he managed to say. ‘My life is here now. It’s got nothing to do with any of you. And I do visit Margaret. I’m just not some mummy’s boy who’s still playing with his toys…’
‘Christopher—’
‘… who still has his washing done for him and who still can’t wipe his own arse. I’m a man, Jackie boy – do you hear me? And I’m not a Harris, I’m a Curtiss, so leave me alone, and if you tell Mum I’ll bloody kill you. I’ll fucking kill you, do you hear me?’
‘Christopher!’
His hand was around Jack’s throat. His spit on Jack’s red cheek, Jack’s eyes as wide as moons. Christopher shook himself, released his brother. Jack was rubbing at his neck. His eyes were full of tears, tears that leaked and fell now onto his face. On his upper lip, the mousy down of an adolescent moustache. My God, he was just a boy.
‘Jack, I’m sorry.’ Christopher reached out, but Jack cowered, stepped backwards. ‘Be careful, you’ll end up in the drink. That water’s filthy.’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ Jack’s voice was ragged, his mouth the same ugly rectangle as his mother’s. ‘Why are you being like this?’
‘Nothing, I’m sorry.’ He reached for his brother again, and this time Jack let him lay a hand on his shoulder. ‘I just don’t want you telling Mum, that’s all. It’ll kill her – you must know that. I haven’t told her because she wouldn’t be able to cope with it. You’ve got to grow up and see that, Jackie. I know it’s tough, but it’s for the best. I can still visit, but I can’t be her son, not like you. Once I buy a place, you can come and stay, OK? But not now, not yet.’ He pushed Jack around to face the direction they’d come and urged him back towards the car. ‘Give me a year, all right? I’ll have my own place by then. You’ll be knocking on sixteen, won’t you? I’ll take you out, how about that? Ever been on a pub crawl?’
Beside him, Jack nodded, sniffed.
‘Agreed, then. Come on, I’ll drive you to the station, and next time you come here, we’ll get smashed. Like proper brothers.’
Chapter Twenty-Six
‘You’re late, mister,’ Phyllis called to him from the kitchen.
He pulled off his shoes – they were muddy from the canalside – and called back to her. ‘Sorry. I went for a walk. I’m… I’ve got to pop upstairs a moment.’ He ran upstairs, tore off his shirt and washed at the bathroom sink. The immersion heater hadn’t been on; the water was cold on his neck, under his arms. He shivered, dried himself with a musty towel and changed into his pyjamas and dressing gown.
In the kitchen, Phyllis was baking. As he entered, she looked at him and screwed up her nose.
‘What?’ He bent to kiss her.
‘You’re in your pyjamas,’ she said. ‘I was thinking we’d get a takeaway as there’s only the two of us. I’m still making these bloody fairy cakes for Sunday.’
He dipped a finger into the chocolatey cake dough.
‘Oi, it’s still Lent.’ She slapped his hand playfully, but he grinned and sucked the sweet goo from his finger.
‘I don’t mind going to the Chinese.’ It was the last thing on earth he wanted to do. But he had to stay normal. She knew him better than anyone in this world. If he were tense, she would see it. If he lied, she would know.
‘We can have cheese on toast. Won’t kill us, will it?’ She sighed. ‘Can’t wait to have chocolate again.’
‘I’ll buy you the biggest Easter egg I can find.’ He opened the fridge door and pulled out the half-bottle of Piat d’Or for her and a can of Greenall’s bitter for himself. The panic of the day was starting to ebb. He was under control. Billy would not come here, not now he had an appointment. Jack had returned to Morecambe, appeased by the promise of brotherly good times to come. Christopher would write to Margaret in the morning, arrange a visit for the end of term.
He sighed and poured Phyllis a drink. She reached for it without looking, as if the two of them were cogs in the same machine, ticking hands in the same perfect timepiece. He smiled at the idea. How relaxed it was here at the house with the boys and David away. With no kids to think about, he and Phyllis were like a young couple starting out on their life’s adventure. Cheese on toast, a glass of wine; later they would curl up on the sofa together and watch Top of the Pops or whatever was on. This was life. If he could only keep hold of it.
* * *
The next day, Christopher busied himself as best he could: marking, lesson plans, a long run on the hill. At six, he bathed and dressed, ate with Phyllis the spaghetti Bolognese he had prepared for them both.
‘I’m going out with Amanda later,’ he said.
‘All right, love. What time?’
‘Quarter to seven. I shouldn’t be back late.’
‘All right. If I’m in bed, lock up, eh?’
‘Of course.’
At quarter to seven, he poked his head round the living-room door. Phyllis was watching an episode of Coronation Street she had videoed.
‘I’m off then,’ he said.
‘OK, love. See you later.’
He put on his coat and shoes, went to open the door. There, he hesitated a moment before going back into the lounge.
‘Bye then.’ He rounded the edge of the sofa and bent towards her, took her head in his hands and kissed her on the cheek. He drew back and smiled. ‘I love you.’
‘And I you, silly.’ She looked into his eyes, her brow furrowed in question. ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘You’ll be late.’
* * *
At two minutes to seven, he parked outside the Wilsons and went in. Billy was not there, nor was Rebecca. He ordered a pint of bitter shandy, instructing the woman at the bar to make it three-quarters lemonade, and sat down. Good Friday, the pub was already busy – men, mostly. Men like his father, Jack Harris, supping ale at the end of a hard week.
Billy appeared minutes later. Christopher stood, smiled and waved. Seeing the confusion pass across Billy’s face as he made his way over, he dug into his pocket and gestured towards the bar.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Where’s Phyllis?’
‘She’s not here. As I said, she gets anxious. She’s asked me to come and meet you. There are some things I need to tell you, but first let me get you a drink.’