‘… And she would have come back in time, if only Henrietta hadn’t gone and fetched her and made all that fuss. She’d have come back with her tail between her legs, like any girl who’s been left by her bloke and it hasn’t turned out right. She could have come home whenever she wanted, couldn’t she mother?’
Not if she was debilitated, depressed, wounded, ashamed, deprived of a mobile phone and without the price of a train ticket.
‘I would have gone and fetched her myself, wouldn’t I, Mother? Even it meant driving up there in one of the vans.’
Mother was silent. She began to fidget with the hem of her skirt, then clasped her hands in her lap. Her face was lined with grief, but also with determination, a person in command of herself, wanting to say something but biding her time. She poured more coffee into Peter’s cup. He sensed a person who would pile on a second helping of everything, whether asked or not. Love was food and food was love. The house was a cocoon of colours. A little cloying on a hotter day, perhaps.
‘But no, Hen wasn’t having any of that. It had to be her doing the business, taking Angel back to that wretched place of hers in London, setting her to work and getting that bloke charged. I ask you! All right, he was a bloody bad lot, excuse my language, he really was, and a bit violent with it, maybe, but he’s not the first and he won’t be the last. He was always very polite to us, wasn’t he, Mother?’
She remained silent.
‘The evidence suggests he was a sadist, Mr Joyce,’ Peter said, quietly.
‘Yes, so I gather, but I still think it’s best to keep these things in the family. Not go running to the police because you’ve let yourself get messed up. No, you dust yourself down and get on with it. Me, I felt bad because it looked like we’d never taught her how to spot the rotten apple, but he fooled us too, didn’t he, Mother?’
She nodded. ‘He seemed a nice man,’ she said. ‘That’s why we gave them the money.’ She turned to her husband, anxiously. ‘Do you think Hen might have been a little bit jealous about that? After all, we never gave her any.’
‘Didn’t need it, did she?’ he interrupted. ‘Always wanted to make her own way, you could never get Hen to take anything, could you? She’d never ask, would she? Why should it bother her? No, it was Hen knowing best, before she’s even met him. And then keeping Angel in London when she should have brought her back here.’
He turned to his wife. ‘But maybe you’re right at that. Maybe Hen did resent the money, but to be fair to her, Mother, I can’t see it myself. She always knew that Angel would need more because she didn’t have the brains.’
Peter was beginning to understand why Angel might have preferred to stay with her sister than crawl back here into this smothering forgiveness and lack of comprehension. To be cosseted by a mum and dad who would never, ever be able to bring themselves to believe what had happened to her. Dad radiated angry innocence, blustering with a shame he could not understand, a horror that this was his fault. The impotence of the male provider, failing to solve the problems of his children with blundering love alone. About the mother, Peter was less sure. Her face was wiser than his. Dad had a sudden burst of temper, which seemed to be his alternative to tears.
‘That bastard corrupted her. She was so sweet, my Angel. She was a star. She’d have been a lovely mum herself, like Mother here. Only he comes along, and he does the business and he wasn’t even proud of her. Oh bugger, I could kill him, but God help me, I could have gone for Hen too. Why did she make her do it?’
‘Do what?’ Peter asked.
‘Stand up and tell everyone. Tell the police, go to court and talk about it, for Godsakes. Angel wouldn’t have wanted to do that. And not tell us. Tells us when the trial’s happening, and a copper comes round and tells us to stay away, because we might be witnesses, so we can’t go to court and God knows what. But we went, didn’t we, Mother? In the end. We had to, you know. And it was us she wanted then. Only we couldn’t help her, it was too late. If only she’d come home first. Oh God, I miss her. Sorry, excuse me.’
He was fumbling for his handkerchief as he stumbled from the room to pound up the stairs, blowing his nose. His footsteps sounded away into silence and Peter could hear the echo of a man who found it impossible to sob in public, whoever he needed to blame. Six months since that death, not long, no real time at all. A burning log fell from the overbuilt fire into the slate hearth. Mrs Joyce moved nimbly, seized a pair of tongs and put it back on the flames with the rest. Peter was feeling the heat. A long moment of silence. Then she turned towards him and pulled a face. He thought he could see a touch of her daughter in her then, even more than in the colours in the walls, the pictures, the tapestries and the vivid green of her skirt that looked as if it had been made from something else. She was either wearing it back to front or the seams were odd. Her hands were still, now, and she gazed back towards the fire.
‘Well, Peter, you’re good for him, I’ll say that. He doesn’t do tears or temper very often, more’s the pity. He’ll be back down soon, so if I were you, I’d pretend it didn’t happen. Would you like another biscuit?’
‘Please.’
Another silence. The fire popped. He waited.
‘I know why Angel went off with that Rick Boyd, and I know why she didn’t come back, and I’ve got some idea of what happened to her,’ Mother said finally, flatly. ‘At least, I don’t know, but I can guess. I know that we got it wrong, every single one of us; Hen, too, I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, you being a friend of hers. A special friend, I hope, she deserves it. You had to love Angel, you really did. She was put on God’s earth to be loved, she really was. Hen was put on earth to find her own way, heaven help her and I hope I had something to do with that.’
A lot, he wanted to say.
‘But we did treat Angel differently, and we did love her best, heaven help us. You love the one who needs most, can’t help it. And to have Angel die in her own room, when she might not have died otherwise, was hell on wheels, Peter. It was never going to be all right, or it was never going to be all right for a long, long time, and Dad’s right, in his own way, too, that it might have been better to say nothing and let the bastard loose. I sank like a stone, Peter, for I loved that girl, you can’t help that, love’s where the devil takes you, you love one better than the other, and the trick’s not to show it. But, I tell you now, they were both of them wrong, I mean Hen and Angel’s dad, were wrong, you know. She wasn’t corrupted by that young man, however bad he was himself. She was way before him, and I’ll always wonder if Hen knew that. I’d rather she didn’t, if you know what I mean, just as I’d rather Dad didn’t know either. He’ll be down in a minute.’
She rearranged her skirt. She had dressed for the occasion. A sweet waft of her own scent drifted towards him. Soap and lavender, a definite taste of fresh from the bath.
‘I don’t know where or how she’d learned this knowingness, but she always had it. I don’t know why, some girls just do. They go on heat early. Always experimenting with herself. Painting her nipples with my lipstick when she was a kid, shaving her pubes as soon as they grew, fascinated with her own anatomy. She must have discovered masturbation sooner than most, anyway discovered something other kids didn’t know. She had a need for sex, such a craving need the boys could smell it; it worried me sick, but it had the effect of frightening them off. That kind of over-maturity, it does repel, doesn’t it?’
‘I don’t know. Could go both ways.’
She nodded. ‘Well, it would attract if you happened to be pretty with it. And had the faintest idea of what you were doing. Instead of not being popular, being rude to people, being on the outside. Drawing attention in all the wrong ways, and getting the wrong result. I’d’ve rather she’d gone with dozens of boys than stayed in her own room, wanking. Her Dad never knew, of course, but I heard. It calmed down of course, it always does, I suppose. Angel never got what she wanted, really. It broke my heart.’
Peter was wondering quite what all this was about. Mrs Joyce looked at him shrewdly.
‘Too much information, eh? I’m sorry about that, but I’ve never been able to talk to anyone else about it and you’re here. Nothing stopped Angel being a sweetheart, she’d have given you the shirt off her back, but she did need protecting. And I could see the look on your face when Father was downplaying what that man did. He’s wrong, I know, but he only does it because he can’t bear the thought of her really hurting. And, as I said, I’m not sure if it’s fair to say that Rick Boyd corrupted Angel. She had corruption in her. There was nothing she wouldn’t have tried. After all, she died with her legs spread, lips and tits smeared with lipstick, oh, never mind, that’s how I found her in the morning. I had to wash her before I called Dad, like I did when she was a kid. Poor baby. I don’t know if that was her own pose, or one she’d learned from him. More coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ Peter said, quietly absorbing his own shock.
Footsteps sounded down the stairs. Mrs Joyce got up and loaded the tray, as if her part was finished. How well do parents really know their children? Peter thought. How well do the children know one another and to what lengths would all of them go to protect each other?
Mr Joyce had recovered himself. He took the tray from his wife, put it to one side and ushered her back to her seat.
‘C’mon, pet,’ he said. ‘I’ll see to those. I like to see you just sitting.’
‘I’m not good at that,’ she said, smiling at him fondly as if there was no one else in the room. ‘I shall have to learn, shan’t I?’
A grandfather clock ticked in the corner of the room. Peter waited, curious to see where they would go from here, deciding it was up to them. The silence was not uncomfortable as if the warmth of the place took away any feeling of urgency.
‘Well, well,’ Mr Joyce said. ‘I don’t know if that’s cleared the air, or what. We’d better be honest, with you, Mr. Friel. We were angry with Hen over this, and it looked like sending down all this stuff was her trying to tell us something, shock us out of our misery. Being a bit vindictive, I thought. She can be like that. Well, I thought, anyway. We went back into a bit of a state of shock, you see, when that woman committed suicide. Brought it all back, as if it had ever gone away. Kids, eh? Who’d have ’em? They’re all you want, and then you don’t know them at all. Never know what you’re going to get, not even when they’re your own. I suppose we took even more of a risk, didn’t we, Mother?’
‘No, we didn’t. No more than anyone else.’
‘What do you mean?’ Peter asked.
‘They were adopted,’ Mrs Joyce said. ‘Didn’t you know? Angel and Hen, both of them were. We got them when they were only ten days old.’