The Love of a Family Read online

  The Love of a Family

  Rebecca Shaw

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  About the Author

  Also by Rebecca Shaw

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  As usual Myra heard Graham enter the house, almost but not quite without making a sound; it was only the very soft click of the front door closing that alerted her to his presence. His footfall made no sound on the parquet flooring in the hall, either. She knew for certain his news would not be what she wanted to hear. She called out. ‘In the kitchen, Graham.’

  The door was ajar, he pushed it wider and walked in. In some ways he looked not a day older than when they married all of fifteen years ago, but today his familiar kindly face was a blank. He slumped down on a chair, rested his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. That lock of hair that fell over his fingers amounted to his trademark. Poor Graham, all his life overshadowed by his energetic successful brother, and by the looks of it, the news about John was the very worst it could be.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘He’s fading fast. Another two or three days at best.’

  ‘That’s a real pity, I’ve always liked John.’ But Myra’s concern soon slipped back into her customary spitefulness. ‘I preferred him to you when I met him, but he’d already met Mo so that was that. So I married you instead.’

  Graham ignored her frankness because he was used to it, and today beyond caring about her cruel tongue. ‘He’s weaker than he was yesterday. They’re very good at the hospice . . . you can’t fault them . . . so kind . . .’

  ‘That’s what they get paid to be . . . kind.’ Reluctantly Myra asked the million-dollar question, ‘What about the boys?’

  ‘The boys? Ah! Well.’

  ‘Spit it out.’ Myra barked, impatient to get to the nitty-gritty of the situation regarding John’s two sons.

  ‘It’s been so long since they lost their mother, they’re used to that of course, but now losing their dad . . . well, life’s not too good. Piers doesn’t want to believe his dad’s not going to be here much longer but being two years older, Oliver knows where this is heading. Imagine being twelve and knowing you’re going to lose your only parent. At least at the moment the two of them have stopped squabbling.’ Graham shuffled awkwardly, trying to pull a handkerchief from his trouser pocket so he could blow his nose.

  Looking at him, appraising him, Myra guessed he was going to mention the unmentionable. The forbidden topic. He’d hinted once or twice since John took ill, but she’d ignored him like she always did when something he said didn’t suit her. She’d have to put a stop to this right now. Take in the boys? She simply wasn’t having it. It was all too much to ask of her. She’d never been up to much since her big operation three years ago, so because of that – let alone all the other reasons – it wasn’t up to her to step into the breach. ‘It’s my opinion your cousin Susan should take them in. We definitely can’t, that’s certain, not with my bad health.’ She got up in an effort to change the subject. ‘Tea?’

  Graham nodded but wouldn’t let it drop. ‘Susan lives alone, how can she possibly bring up two young boys all by herself? She has to work to keep a roof over her head. That flat only has one proper bedroom, the other is no more than a cupboard. Anyway she’s not used to children.’

  There was an awkward pause, and when Myra spoke again, her voice sounded as if it was caught in her throat. ‘Neither are we, as you well know. So, you can forget the bright idea of them coming to live here, thanks very much. There’ll be money once John’s house is sold, Susan’ll have to live on that.’

  While Myra put the cups out Graham sat silently contemplating the pattern on the plastic tablecloth. They never normally disagreed on anything. Or at least, he never told her so. But this felt different. She could tell he had his heart set on those two boys coming to 12 Spring Gardens to live with them.

  ‘What about them going to your mother’s?’ Myra asked.

  ‘How on earth could my mother cope with two boys? She’s in her seventies.’ And she made my childhood a misery, he added to himself. She’d been open about preferring John to him, and even now, he felt he never measured up in her eyes. He wouldn’t wish that on the boys.

  ‘She has the bedrooms, and the garden and room for their bikes and things in her shed. No, that’s the best, they can go live with her. She’ll enjoy the money, you know what she’s like about money.’ Myra thumped the teapot on the table and looked at him as only she could, glaring meaningfully, daring him to challenge her decision.

  Graham protested softly. ‘We have the bedrooms, too. We have the garden and we have the space for their bikes and we are thirty years younger than she is. I’ve got a good job with the council – especially now I’m running the department. We’re in a position to give those boys some security. In any case, it’s what John wants and what I want.’

  ‘What you want? Whenever has what you want had anything to do with anything? Never! Ever! And it’s not going to matter now. Why should you get the last say? If it’s not right for me then it’s not right for both of us. In any case I have one bedroom, you have the other, I use the little bedroom for my textile business, and that only leaves one for when people come to stay. So all four bedrooms are spoken for.’

  Graham gazed at the ceiling, pondering. ‘When was the last time someone came to stay? Last week? No, last year? No, how many years is it? So long ago I can’t remember, I really can’t remember. Can you?’

  So, thought Myra, Graham’s strong will which so very rarely made itself felt had emerged, had it?

  Myra poured them both a cup of tea. ‘Like I said, I have my textile business to attend to, I haven’t the time to take on waifs and strays. Think of the washing and the ironing and the cleaning up, and the rushing off to school and being there for them all the time. Think of the school holidays. No, it’s just not possible. Sorry.’

  ‘I’ve thought about that,’ said Graham. ‘We can well afford someone to clean. Very easily. They could iron, do anything you want.’

  ‘I’m not having someone poking about amongst my belongings. Our home is my sanctuary, I’ll brook no prying nosey parker. Not likely. And not just when my business is taking off. No. No. No.’

  Graham leaned across the table and gently touched her fingers where they lay on the table, gripped tightly into a fist. Very softly, he said, ‘Be honest for once in your life, Myra. The last craft fair you went to you sold what? Two tea cosies? That didn’t even pay for the petrol never mind the cost of the stall.’

  ‘The business is still growing.’

  ‘I suppose two instead of the one you sold at each of the last four fairs is better than nothing, but it isn’t a full time occupation now, is it? People just aren’t desperate to snap up a new tea cosy, even ones as carefully made as yours.’

  ‘You’ve never approved of me having a career. You’ve always belittled it. You’re so unfair. So jealous.’

  ‘Who drives you back and forth?’

  Myra ignored him.

  ‘Who sorts it out when you’re given a bad trading position? Who admires what you make? Who comforts you when you cry because it’s not succeeding?’

 
; ‘I don’t cry. I never cry. Crying isn’t my thing.’

  Graham shrugged and changed tack. ‘They’re sharing a bedroom at John’s neighbour’s while their father’s in hospital so they can do the same here. It’ll be better for them till they feel more settled. Oliver will need a room of his own soon really, being almost a teenager, but sharing for a bit longer won’t be a problem.’

  ‘How many times do I have to say NO? Do you not listen?’ Myra leapt to her feet, accidentally swept her cup and saucer to the floor, stared briefly at the broken shards and the tea spilt everywhere and stormed out.

  She daren’t, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. She mustn’t allow it. In the quiet of her room, Myra sat on her bed and sobbed deep searing sobs that clutched at her throat and struck near deathly blows to her heart. Had he no memory of what she’d been through all those years ago? A late miscarriage the week Mo had given birth to Oliver. At the time she’d thought it was the worst feeling in the world. Then, hardly more than two years later, the week before Piers was born, just when she thought at last it was her turn to rejoice, her beautiful baby – the child that was meant to heal the pain of the miscarriage – was stillborn. She couldn’t bear to think back to it. Had she not suffered enough? How could she have her memories stirred every hour of every day by Oliver’s mass of blond curly hair, and Piers’ laughing blue eyes so reminiscent of Graham and John’s?

  At the time, Mo had been so kind, so thoughtful, but it helped not one little bit. She, Mo Butler, was the favoured one, it was she who had the joy of the two little boys, the sound of their laughter, the glorious physical comfort of their tiny bodies in her arms, their smiles were for Mo, their plump little arms encircled Mo Butler’s neck not Myra Butler’s. And what had she? Nothing. Nothing at all. A second-best husband. No cot. No pram. An empty house. A void.

  All she had were the tea cosies she made that no one wanted to buy. And tea cosies didn’t fill her heart, make her smile, make her proud. Surely someone in Mo’s family could take them in?

  Then Myra recollected Mo’s grief-stricken family when she was killed in that terrible car accident when Piers was only a few months old. Mo had been an only child and her elderly parents had been devastated. Mo’s mother had never truly recovered from the loss. No good asking them to take the boys in. Myra wiped her tears away, realising as she did so that she was in a catch-22 situation.

  The phone rang and she heard Graham answering it. She leaned over the banister and listened. ‘For the worse?’ she heard him say. ‘I’ll come. Yes. I know I have. But I’ll come.’

  Myra heard the receiver being replaced.

  ‘Myra! That’s the hospice. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s not got much time left, they say.’

  ‘Well, he’s lasted this long, he could last a bit longer. Go first thing in the morning.’

  Graham uncharacteristically came rushing up the stairs. ‘I’ll take an overnight bag just in case.’

  ‘Do you have to? I mean . . .’ Myra hated hospitals and the thought of Graham going, even for John’s last hours, made something inside her freeze.

  ‘I’m not having him dying alone. Mind out of the way, I need that bag in my wardrobe. Can you get it for me . . . please? I’ll get my shaving stuff.’

  Myra moved in a dream. She was unaccustomed to Graham having an opinion she hadn’t already approved of. This was a Graham she didn’t recognise.

  Myra saw him to the door, kissed him automatically, as though he was just going to the office to do a day’s work, and shut the front door before he’d even backed out of the garage. She was left thinking that the inevitable was about to happen. What could she do about it? She didn’t know. A big blank ugly emptiness came over her. It was Saturday. She glanced at the clock. A quarter to five. She’d make another cup of tea. Read that library book she kept intending to finish. Perhaps she could pretend nothing was happening. Or maybe she should just imagine she was getting ready for some guests – temporary guests. What did she need to do – put towels in the guest bedroom? The beds were OK, they always had clean sheets on. It occurred to her those sheets had been on those beds since . . . like Graham she couldn’t remember when. This four-bedroomed house, intended for their own family that never arrived, felt at that moment like a vast abandoned aircraft hangar where life had ceased and everything in it was meekly, patiently decaying, and her with it.

  Myra heard the back door open – it startled her for a moment then she heard a voice calling.

  ‘Myra, it’s me.’

  Of course, it was Viv, she’d bring life and normality with her.

  ‘Just coming.’

  Viv called up to her, ‘I saw Graham leaving in a hurry, thought maybe it was an emergency, you know, his brother perhaps, decided I’d better come across. Thought you might need company. Are you all right, Myra? Shall we have a cup of tea? That’s what you do at times like this, isn’t it?’

  Viv was Myra’s only friend, she thought. She’d brought a cake across from number 11 the day she and Graham moved in and they’d been friends ever since. Well, Viv was effusively friendly and naturally caring, but Myra went only half way towards being friendly, though Viv never appeared to notice that.

  ‘Get some cups out Myra, while I put the kettle on. Is it an emergency?’

  ‘Well, yes, it is. John’s dying, that’s why they’ve called him back again.’

  ‘You didn’t want to go with him, then?’

  That idea had never occurred to her. It was always Graham and John, never Graham, John and Myra.

  ‘No, I didn’t fancy it. They’re very close you see, they’re better just the two of them. It was John I really wanted back then, you know. I’d already met Graham and then he introduced me to his brother and that was it. Just that bit more handsome, taller, straighter, lovely face, big personality, lots of get up and go. I didn’t know then that he’d already met his future wife.’

  Myra got up to get the sugar for Viv. ‘So I married Graham instead.’

  ‘But he’s lovely, you’ve nothing to complain about with Graham. He’s a good man – and you can tell he cares for you, just by looking. And he earns a splendid salary, you’ve said, plus he’s always home on time, he’s tends the garden – and it is a picture, you have to admit; he takes you on lovely holidays and your home’s beautiful. You shouldn’t think of him as second best. It’s not right.’ Viv spooned sugar liberally into her tea and stirred it vigorously. ‘Has he said anything about John’s two boys?

  Myra stared out of the kitchen window. Could she, should she confide in Viv? Viv with her bright outlook on life, still leading a busy life even now she had retired from being in charge of the secondary school kitchens. Viv always dashing somewhere, Viv with a house full of family and friends weekend after weekend. Viv with her springy wavy hair with not a white hair in sight, Viv with her bright complexion, with her understanding heart.

  ‘He wants them to come here. He hasn’t actually told them yet but that’s what he wants, I know.’

  ‘Oh Myra! At last the children you’ve never had! How wonderful. You must be thrilled. How old are they now?’

  Myra knew the answer to that better than most. ‘Oliver’s the eldest and he was twelve last month and Piers is nine years and ten months old.’

  ‘What lovely ages. At least they can get themselves ready for bed and all you’ve got to do is tuck them up. It’s not as if they’re two or three years old and you’re toilet training them and heaving them out of the bath. Just the right age. They’ll need mothering though, what with no mother and now no dad. The poor little things.’

  ‘And what about me?’ Myra burst out, almost without meaning to say it out loud.

  ‘What about you?’ Viv took a biscuit and snapped a corner off it. ‘Heaven sent, I would have thought.’

  Myra couldn’t stop herself from letting the truth be known. ‘I don’t want them, all they’ll do is remind me of what I lost, remind me of how empty our house i
s . . .’

  ‘But it won’t be will it? Not with two boys dashing around. Graham will love it, too. Football matches and sports days and things. Wonderful! What a life-changing experience.’ Viv glanced at Myra over the rim of her teacup and knew immediately she’d said the wrong thing. When would this woman ever pick up the strands of life and enjoy it? ‘It won’t be easy to begin with, they’ll need an awful lot of understanding and forgiveness as they’re bound to test the boundaries while they settle in and come to terms with everything, but Graham will help you with that. Always remember the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, even when they’re only boys. Goes a long way does good food with boys, they’re everlastingly hungry, believe me.’

  ‘After that operation of mine . . .’

  ‘But you’re over it, it was three years ago. You’re fit as a fiddle now.’

  ‘I do have days when I need to rest . . . and. . . .’

  ‘It was only a hysterectomy, Myra, for heaven’s sake, and keyhole at that. It doesn’t even have to be a consideration, not now.’

  ‘We’ve been married fifteen years, we’re not as young as we were, we need your kind of energy, I’m past it.’

  Viv caught her cup just in time as she almost knocked it over in her amazement.

  ‘Past it? My God, Myra you’re twenty years younger than me. Twenty years. Get away with you. No one’s saying it’ll be easy and anyone who does is plain daft, but worthwhile, so worthwhile. You should thank your lucky stars.’

  The clock chimed the hour. ‘Oh!’ said Viv. ‘My God is that the time. Must fly. I’ve got the grandchildren coming for supper, I’d forgotten all about them, two of them overnight while our Sally and Bill go to a party. Now think on what I’ve said and if it’s what Graham wants, take them on for his sake, he deserves having sons. I’ll call in Monday, see how things have developed.’

  Viv was gone in a second, tea spilled in her saucer, biscuit crumbs brushed to the floor, some still clinging to her cardigan sleeve, and her tissue screwed up on the table. Did anything ever change with Viv? But at least she remained faithful to her like all good friends should, Myra thought.