Josephine Cox 3-Book Collection 1: Midnight, Blood Brothers, Songbird. Josephine CoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
ago.
‘Well?’ Eileen waited, hands on hips, for an apology. ‘Do you forgive him? Is he welcome to stay?’
Libby had seen it all before. Not for the first time, she had woken up that morning to find that her mother had taken a stranger into her bed. ‘Mum, please listen to me . . .’
‘No! I’ve heard enough. Pack your bags and leave, you ungrateful girl!’
‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ Libby gently persisted. ‘I don’t want to upset you. Trust me, Mum.’
But when Eileen was in this kind of mood, it was hard to calm her. ‘I’m only trying to help. I don’t want you getting all riled up.’
‘Then stop telling me I can’t sleep with my own husband! If my blood pressure goes through the roof, it’ll be your fault, not mine.’
‘Please, Mother, you need to trust me,’ Libby pleaded. ‘You’re not well.’
‘What d’you mean, I’m not well?’ The older woman rounded on her. ‘You think I’m off my head, don’t you? You think I’m incapable of making my own decisions. Well, you just listen to me for a minute, young lady. I know you were upset when your father left us, but now he’s back – and if you’re not happy with that, then you can pack your bags and bugger off!’
‘Please, Mother, don’t be like this.’ Libby knew she must calm the older woman before it got out of hand. ‘Please hear me out.’
‘No!’
With surprising suddenness Eileen became docile. She was no longer the angry woman who had threatened to throw her daughter out of house and home. ‘I’m sorry, dear,’ she said, looking bewildered. ‘What were you saying?’
Relieved that the moment had passed, Libby told her, ‘I’m about to make breakfast for us.’ She glanced cautiously up the stairs. ‘When he comes out of the bathroom, you need to send him on his way.’
Eileen followed her gaze. ‘Send who on his way?’
‘Your friend.’
‘What friend?’ Not for the first time, Eileen Harrow had somehow sneaked out of the house in the early hours, desperate to find the man who had deserted them so long ago. ‘Oh! You mean your father!’ In her fragmented mind she was young again, deliriously happy because her man was home. Clapping her hands together, she giggled like a child. ‘I told you I’d find him, and now I have. It was so dark, though. I got worried I might never see him again. But then I found him and I brought him home where he belongs.’
‘No, Mum.’ Libby’s heart sank. ‘You made a mistake. We don’t know this man. I’m sorry, but he doesn’t belong here.’ Libby hated being the one who shattered her mother’s hopes and dreams, but it was her lot in life to love and protect this darling woman. ‘I still can’t believe you managed to sneak out when I was sleeping.’ She had been extra meticulous in taking all the necessary precautions, but somehow her mother had fooled her yet again.
‘Ha!’ The older woman chuckled triumphantly. ‘I watched where you put the key.’
‘Really? Well, I shall have to be even more careful in the future.’ Libby made a mental note of it. ‘Right, Mum, we need to talk,’ she went on. ‘Once we’ve got rid of your new “friend” we’ll take a few minutes to enjoy our breakfast. After that, we’ll get you dressed and all spruced up, before Thomas runs us into town. We don’t want to keep him waiting, and besides, we want to have a good look round the shops. Last time we went out, we had to rush back for your hospital appointment. Remember you saw that lovely hat in British Home Stores? Well, if it’s still there, you can try it on and see if it suits you. It would be perfect for spring and summer outings.’
Reaching out, she took hold of her mother’s hand. ‘Would you like that?’
As with many things these past years, Eileen did not recall the hat, but she smiled at the thought. ‘Am I going somewhere special?’ she asked excitedly. ‘Do I need a new hat?’
Libby beamed at her. Sometimes her mother’s affliction reduced her to tears, but not this time, because once again she had a situation to deal with. ‘Yes,’ she answered brightly. ‘Thomas promised to take us to the park, the first really warm day we get. It’s too cold now – March winds and rain most days. But come April, we might take him up on his kind offer. So yes, you do need a new hat, and if that one suits you, it’ll be my treat.’
With her fickle mind shifting in all directions, the older woman remembered, ‘Oh, a fresh pot o’ tea, you say?’
‘That’s right.’ Libby was relieved. She went to put the kettle on.
‘And remember to put two tea-bags in it? Last time you only put in one, and it tasted like cats’ pee.’ She laughed out loud. ‘Not that I’ve ever drunk cats’ pee, but if I had, it would taste just like that tea of yours.’ She gave a shiver as though swallowing something horrible. ‘So, this time, have you done what I told you?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Two teabags, then?’
‘Yes, Mother. Two teabags, one sugar – the way you like it.’
‘I bet you didn’t warm up my cup!’
‘Yes, I did that too.’
‘Good girl. At long last, you’ve learned your lesson. You can be such a naughty child!’
Through the haze in her mind, Eileen saw a chubby six-year-old with long, fair plaits and mucky hands, instead of a shapely, pretty woman aged thirty. ‘What am I to do with you, eh?’
‘Sorry, Mother.’ Following doctors’ advice, Libby had learned how to deal with her mother’s unpredictable moods. ‘It won’t happen again, I promise.’ Gently reaching out, she suggested in a quiet voice, ‘Come on now, Mum. Don’t let your tea go cold. You know how you hate cold tea.’
Unsure, Eileen moved back a step. ‘Too cheeky for your own good, that’s the truth of it. Drive me to distraction at times, you really do!’
‘I try not to.’ She gently wrapped her fingers about the older woman’s hand. ‘Come on, Mum.’
Eileen took a tentative step forward, only to pause again as though unsure. ‘You do realise, don’t you? I shall have to tell your father when he comes down.’
‘If you must.’
‘He’ll probably smack your legs.’ She jabbed her forefinger into Libby’s chest. ‘Oh, and don’t think I’ll stop him this time, because you deserve a smack!’
‘I expect I do.’
There followed a quiet moment, during which the older woman took stock of the situation, her kindly gaze holding her daughter’s attention. ‘Perhaps I won’t tell him,’ she confided in a whisper, ‘because he can get nasty when he has to give you a telling-off.’ Her face softened. ‘Yet he loves you, Libby. We both do.’
Choking back the tears, Libby told her, ‘And I love you, Mum . . . so very much.’
Libby had small recollection of her father, who had gone away when she was still a little girl. Like a fast-fading picture in her mind, she saw a big man with blue eyes, dark hair and quiet manner; a man with a beguiling Irish accent who came home from work and went upstairs to change before the evening meal. Most times when the meal was over, he would go out – returning much later when she and her mother were in bed. Occasionally she recalled the odd, brief cuddle, but that was all. There was no memory of closeness or laughter. There were no night time prayers or bedtime stories from Ian Harrow. There was a quiet sadness about her mother then, and in the years following his desertion of them, that made Libby feel guilty, even when she had not misbehaved.
At school she was a bit of a loner. She did have one good friend, though. Kit Saunders was in the same class as her. They laughed and played, and their