Cut To The Bone Read online

  "'Ave I got a chicken nugget?" The six year-old persisted, having repeated ‘guttersnipe’ over and over.

  "Yes. Two. But hold on. Your Dad comes first."

  She passed a greaseproof pack of cheese sandwiches to Frank who lay next to Jip on a decorator's sheet from the van, gazing up at the sky.

  "Me favourites,” he smiled. “Ta, you."

  She then unpinged a Budweiser and left it by his free hand, wondering what he'd do with that posh eternity ring, and would she ever know, when all at once, Jez landed at her feet with a spray of sand.

  "Look, Mum! See what I found!"

  He held out a length of smooth, bleached wood harbouring tiny barnacles in its dark cleft at the top end. It stank of the sea.

  "Brilliant, ain't it?" He examined it again as if it was the most wondrous thing on the planet. "I could make a swan out of it. There's the bigger bit down there, and this would be its head."

  "How'd you do that then, son?" Frank asked, propped up on one elbow, chewing.

  "Wiv a knife o' course."

  His parents exchanged glances. The only knife Jez had ever tinkered with, apart from at table, was a small rusty penknife from when he'd joined the 1st Briar Bank Cubs. It had dangled from his belt by a piece of string, together with a set of accurately tied knots for which he'd always had top marks from Akela.

  "We'll take a look round Walton tomorrow," Frank relented, biting deep into his last sandwich as Freddie began grizzling in his buggy. "But I'd 'ave to show you how to use it properly, so's your fingers wouldn't end up all over the floor. And it'd be for carving your bits, nothing more. Promise?"

  Jez squatted down to give him a hug.

  "Yeah, ta, Dad." He looked up at Rita. His eyes even brighter than that gem.

  "It'll be a pressie for you, Mum. For yeranniversry. Mind you, it might take me a while, what with school and everything..."

  "You're a great kid." She ruffled his hair.

  "Can I make somefing an' all?" Kayleigh had heaped up a shifting mound of sand over her knees then let it subside as she wriggled free.

  "What can you do, stupid?" Jez dragged his piece of wood away and rested it against the concrete slope up to the caravan park.

  "I can draw." She stuck out her tongue at him.

  "She can too." Rita wiped her daughter's face with the edge of her tee shirt. Spat on it to work inside each nostril. "You won that prize in The Gazette, remember?"

  "OK." Jez said grudgingly, now paying attention to what lay in the carrier bags.

  "You do a drawing, eh?"

  Rita picked Freddie out of his buggy and with his bottle ensconced in his mouth gazed round at the beach, her eyes heavy, her body relaxed for the first time in weeks. It was as if the salt breeze was teasing out all her weariness and uncertainties like those chiffon scarves from some magician's hat, and casting them high into the sky...

  *

  At four o'clock the sun was still warm, reaching her bones through her clothes. She settled Freddie in the crook of her arm and rolled up her new jeans to bare her white, thin legs to its glow. She'd lost weight since his birth, which hadn't been planned at all. Doctor Taylor at the Health Centre had given her targets to aim for but somehow nothing made any difference. Seven stone was dangerous, he'd warned, especially with three kids to see to. But it wasn't them, she'd wanted to tell him. The problem was lying right next to her, snoring in an out in time to the sea, his hand resting on the dog's neck like they were brothers.

  She knew deep inside these next few days would become as important to her as that burnt bit of wood was to Jez. More so, because if Alf Bassett mucked Frank about, the weeks ahead when she'd be reaching thirty, would see them all hurtling down the road of debt, of creditors, dodgy loan sharks, and living God knew where. While the most terrifying thing of all was, she'd be powerless to stop any of it.

  3

  The sun turned the Westlea's curtains the colour of butter and cast its benign light on the sleeping occupants. All that is, except Rita, still drowsy, and the ten year-old sculptor sitting on the caravan steps in his pyjamas humming something from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat as he whittled away at the driftwood.

  Jez kept what would be the swan's neck tight between his bony knees as the first of his two-knife set fashioned a head and a beak while the blade's sharp point gouged out the eyes for the later addition of glass beads. He sat back to appraise his handiwork with a grin lighting up his sunburnt face, then realised he was starving, and hunted along the step for the knife's leather sheath like he'd been taught.

  “Good lad,” Rita said, relieved he’d remembered. She then raised herself to see what he’d done, but his body was in the way.

  "And that little box they both came in?" She asked.

  "In me bag."

  "We don't want Kayleigh getting hold of them, that's all."

  Obediently, the boy who’d slid the blade back into its pod, then returned it to the box with Walton-on-Sea pyrographed into its lid, matching each knife handle. He then placed the box high out of harm's way in the wardrobe's topmost cupboard.

  Rita watched his every move. He'd make a good little dancer, she thought, being so light on his feet. And it was he, more than either Kayleigh or Freddie who often made her wonder what her first son might have looked like had he survived. Would he have had his red hair? His build? His general good-naturedness?

  But that sort of wondering never did any good. She and Frank were lucky to have what they'd got, given those children's ward programmes on TV.

  "Hey, got any jam?" Jez called out, and in doing so, triggered a chorus of grumbling from the others waking up.

  Rita eased herself out of the bunk bed, her legs dangling down by Frank who grabbed her ankles.

  "Come ‘ere you."

  "Ssh, Jez is looking."

  "So what?"

  The boy shrugged and resumed his burrowing in all the mini cupboards which made up the kitchenette.

  "Remember our honeymoon 'ere?" Frank still hadn't let go and Freddie was building up for a yell. "It were twice a night in them days."

  She managed to lower herself to the floor but he pulled her to him.

  "He'd be twelve now, our Andrew."

  "I know. I know..."

  Frank was warm from sleep. His breath like stale beer but that didn't matter. What did was the nearness, the tenderness with which he held her and stroked her hair as tears bloomed in her eyes and fell on his chest.

  "We'll be alright," he said finally as she made a move to see to Freddie. "Trust me, eh, Reet?"

  "Course. Who else is there?"

  *

  Saturday, August 16th. The last day at Walton-on-Sea, and as if somehow it knew, the sun didn't show at all. In fact as the Martins packed their possessions into the van and took Jip for an urgent cock of the leg, it began to drizzle. A soft, muffling rain which darkened their hair and soothed their sunburnt cheeks.

  Jez's half-finished carving was secured to the ladder rack above, and the boy clutched his prize knife box as he got in. Frank was walking better now and even offered to drive, but Rita insisted he rest it a bit more, seeing as Bassett was giving him a further week’s chance.

  "You’re the boss." he saluted, but his hand faltered and fell to his side as Rita took one last look round at what had been their cosy home. She followed the departure instructions to every last detail before closing the curtains, leaving the toilet lid down and oven door open. However, she was just checking round each bed in case something had been forgotten, when she spotted a corner of paper jutting out from beneath Frank's mattress.

 
Was it a business card? She wondered. A works invoice? Then other possibilities tore through her mind as she pulled out a sheet of notepaper, creased and tea-stained, dated the 10th July, just over a week ago, and, as she read the typed contents her frown deepened.

  TRANSLINE plc.

  Hauliers & Truck Rentals.

  Unit 10, Crowmore Lane, Briar Bank.

  Coventry.

  7/8//08

  Dear Mr Martin,

  Following your prompt response to our advertisement in The Gazette for drivers, and our subsequent telephone chat, I think we can do business. Basically, our terms are this; You get a new l.h.d. Transit - anything smaller isn't viable for our operations, and in return we get 101% commitment from you. After signing the Contract, you will receive a top-up payment of £8,000 from us to enable you to start work right away. This sum is repayable for any deemed breach of Contract.

  Other benefits include a company pension scheme and two scheduled flight tickets, economy class, twice yearly, for anywhere in the EU.

  Think of it Mr Martin, by joining our successful team, you could be soon be taking that nice family of yours on a decent holiday. Get back to me by September 1st to arrange an interview at a mutually agreeable time, when I look forward to meeting you in person.

  Yours sincerely,

  Charles A. Howlett

  Manager.

  Rita read it again and again, puzzled by the lack of any email address or website, aware too, of turmoil in the van outside. She glanced out of the caravan window and saw Frank gesturing at her to move her butt.

  She folded the paper and slotted it down inside her bra, thinking the worst. That every word in it spelt ‘dodgy,’ and how come a brand new van and that kind of money was part of the deal? Why not throw in an expensive ring as well? Maybe that was just a sweetener to him. Maybe he wouldn't be able to say no. She knew enough suckers who'd have fallen for that one. But not her, waiting to lose everything.

  Rita locked the caravan door asking herself yet more questions. Why trucks? Frank had never been fussed about driving before? Besides, his foot was the reason he wasn't doing it now.

  She skirted round the hubbub in the van to leave the Westlea’s key with the site warden.

  "Will we see you next year?" The suntanned woman asked, setting out postcards clear of her hut’s dripping awning.

  "Definitely. It's been really great. Thanks."

  "Least you've had the best of the weather, not like some coming in today. This rain's set in good and proper."

  Rita headed back to her family, knowing it wasn't just the rain that was spoiling things. At least, unlike her other worries, she could see and feel it on her face.

  4

  Friday 5th September.

  It had been a shit week. In fact, thought Rita, pressing her lipsticked lips together in front of the bedroom mirror, one of the worst ever. As if those seven days in August at Walton-on-Sea had been a dream. How once Freddie had finished his last bottle, she'd crashed out into the deepest sleeps of her life. How her appetite had improved and she'd even put on a bit of weight.

  No, it was that letter from Transline's fault, offering her husband Frank a job with bonuses and a pension. He’d missed it and gone ape the moment they'd unpacked at home, even phoned the caravan site and ordered another search of the four-berth Westlea that they’d rented, but nothing had turned up.

  “Why’s it so important?” she'd asked, and he’d hit her cheek while the kids were in the lounge watching the telly.

  Then there was his Windowman boss who’d changed his mind about taking Frank back. He’d driven round while he was out, keeping his silver Audi's engine running. He’d told Rita that the company’s van had to be back by six o'clock because a young, able-bodied lad would be starting work next day. ‘We’re a business not a bloody charity,’ he'd informed her, his hand on the front door frame as if he owned that as well. “With a hundred new homes going up in Ditch Hollow and more every month, the developers want clean windows pronto.”

  What else could she have done? Rita asked herself, her nose close to the mirror's glass. Bad enough she’d had to grovel for a week's wages to see them through, and endure the bully’s negative reply.

  The bruise Frank had inflicted was still tender and now resembled the colour of old meat, but having it three coats of foundation, told herself no-one would know. She'd been called ‘pretty’ more than once, and not so long ago either. "My beaut," Frank had said so often she never believed it, yet her skin was smooth, not too pink after all that sun, and her eyes and hair went well together. It was important to look good for her impending visit to Crowmore Lane, Rita reasoned to herself, not like some scrubber off the street intent on making trouble.

  She went in to the box room, now a nursery, and leant over Freddie's cot. His head was slightly to one side, his eyes tight shut. He smelt of sleep. Rita planted a kiss on his forehead then went downstairs where Frank was in the hall poised to make a phone call. He immediately slapped the receiver down.

  "Where you goin' this time?" he barked.

  "A job, OK?"

  "I'm the breadwinner 'ere."

  "And pigs'll fly... "

  "Look, you," he stabbed the receiver with a finger. "What's this I'm doing?"

  "God knows."

  Frank moved closer. Booze up her nose.

  "Gettin' summat sorted, okay? Full time, plus some nights. Monthly bonus, you name it..."

  “Why not try and get your old job back?” As she slipped her arms into a navy cotton jacket which had been reduced at a recent Dorothy Perkins sale “At least it was cash in hand every Friday with a monthly bonus..."

  "I don’t eat shit."

  Rita sighed, aware of that same letter still in her bra, its corner digging into her skin. She then turned her fierce blue eyes on him, risking another thump. "We owe on the fridge, the washing machine, shall I go on?"

  He blocked her way to the front door where the sun showed up every speck of dust, but worse, the state of him. Food stains down his Godzilla tee shirt, his hair uncombed and stubble grown around his jaw.

  "I'm tellin' you, soon I'll be waltzin’ you lot off to the Ritz.”

  "Look after Freddie," was all she said as she pushed past him.

  He didn't try to stop her like the last time, just stood there like Jez's piece of driftwood - all washed up.

  Rita crossed the road and when she looked back, a huge, green refuse lorry blocked him from view.

  *

  With Frank’s second-hand computer still out of action, and her no-frills Nokia phone without internet connection, she’d turned to Yellow Pages. Transline in Crowmore Lane, was only four stops into town. So, with ten minutes to go, Rita stood in the bus shelter until the number 43 bus drew closer.

  "Where to?" Barked the driver once she’d stepped on board.

  "Crowmore Lane."

  "Eighty pence." He held out a hand as she opened her purse to pay. With a rush of panic she realised that apart from sixty pence, it was empty. Colour filled her cheeks. Her bruise began to sting.

  "Come along now, Missus. We ain't got all day..."

  There was only one thing for it. She apologised to the person behind in the queue and pushed her way off the bus, hoping there was no-one around whom she recognised. Back on the pavement she felt shame and loneliness, wondering if Freddie'd woken up. How Jez was getting on at school and if pony-mad Emma Dixon would be coming home for tea with Kayleigh.

  Her world - what she'd move Heaven and earth to keep safe and solvent, but as she began the two-mile trek towards her destination, she knew her trials were only just beginning.


  *

  Crowmore Industrial Estate was a world away from the neat suburban streets which lay beyond its eight foot railings topped by lethal-looking spears, razor wire and warning notices heightened by red-painted slashes of lightning.

  DANGER! KEEP OUT! DOGS ON PATROL!

  This hostile scene reminded her of the Meadow Hill development just off the North Barton Road, opposite the Scrub End estate. She and Karen, her best mate now in Australia, had taken their kids to snoop round the luxury Show Home’s wet room, and granite-topped kitchen. But no way would she want to live there, however loaded she was. It was like a movie set with everyone gone home. Without a soul, she'd decided.

  She followed a major sign listing all the companies on the site, unsettled not only by all the CCTV cameras peering down, but also a sinister, threatening atmosphere. She quickened her pace past a surgical instruments factory and something huge in aluminium.

  Suddenly the sign she’d been looking for, hit her between the eyes.

  UNIT 10. TRANSLINE. plc.

  She hesitated by its entrance and automatic barrier lying across its opening. Surely there was a less public way in? But no.

  Beyond the steel-ribbed stockade surrounding the site, lay a long forecourt and at the end, a windowless, single- storey building. If this was a haulage company, where were the lorries? Save for a few cars, it was as if nothing was going on.

  "Oi, you!" A voice growled from within a nearby shack she'd not noticed before. Then a man's head in a black cap appeared from its window. "What's yer business, lady?"

  She pulled the letter from her pocket and passed it over. "It's to my husband from a Mr Howlett here. The Manager."

  The uniformed figure stepped from the booth, his stone-hard face gave the letter the briefest glance, handed it back, then fixed on her.

  "Someone’s been havin' a joke. Now scram."