Read Online Bleed Like Me by Cath Staincliffe - Free Book Online
Authors: Cath Staincliffe
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have done anything: teaching or law or been a professor. Very bright – but she wouldn’t listen. Went her own sweet way. And now. And her two girls . . . Janet squashed the voice in her head and concentrated on Margaret, who was now finding her stride, her words a little less jerky. Forty years of a life to convey, forty birthdays, three children, all those milestones and setbacks and the level times in between.
‘They met in the Lake District,’ Margaret was saying. Then she hesitated. ‘He was managing the bar at the hotel—’
‘Owen,’ Janet murmured, seeing the name was becoming poisonous to Margaret. But censorship would not help the flow.
She nodded. ‘Owen.’ Her chin trembled. ‘Pamela was maître d’ – in the restaurant. They got married up there, in the Lakes, and Penny was born. They had a little house in the grounds. It was lovely,’ she said, then again as if puzzled by the senseless reversal of circumstances, ‘it was lovely.’ No doubt thinking, how did we get from there to here, from that to this?
‘Penny was born in 2000,’ Janet nudged her gently.
‘After that they took over a pub in Birkenhead. And when that closed they moved here. To the Journeys.’
Janet knew that they were tenant landlords, and that the tenant leased the premises and the equipment and stood any profit or loss. She also knew that pubs were closing in epidemic proportions.
‘Theo was born in 2009 and then Harry the year after,’ Margaret said.
‘Any reason for the gap – nine years after Penny?’ Janet asked.
Margaret shook her head. ‘It just didn’t happen. I think they wanted to get on their feet at first, so they waited a while, and then when they did try again . . .’
Janet smiled.
‘Michael moved in then, just before Harry came along. He wasn’t getting anywhere at home. He’s got learning difficulties; mild, but . . . he couldn’t really manage on his own.’ She shook her head. ‘And we’re out in the sticks. Nothing for him there—’ Again Margaret broke off, the brutal truth knocking her sideways again. If Michael hadn’t come to live with his sister, he’d still be alive. Margaret would still have one child left.
‘So Michael moved in,’ Janet said.
‘He started helping out over Christmas and stayed. I’d say it was great for Pamela, especially with the little ones; she didn’t need to do as much in the bar. Though it’s always the same if you live and work in the same place, never really off duty.’
Janet nodded. ‘What did you make of Owen?’
‘I thought he was grand.’ Tears swam in her eyes. ‘Put in the hours, hard worker, always liked them looking nice, the children and Pamela.’
When she didn’t elaborate Janet said, ‘And how were things between Pamela and Owen?’
‘Good,’ but Janet caught an echo of doubt and waited so that Margaret carried on. ‘He liked things doing the right way. Bit of a perfectionist. They’d the odd row about that sort of thing.’
‘Recently?’ There was something there: Janet could practically smell it in the air, in the hesitation.
‘Things were hard, the business side.’ Margaret frowned, ripples across her brow. ‘He worried,’ she said.
‘Was he ever violent?’
‘No, she never said. Just, you know, a bit of a shout now and again. What man doesn’t?’
Janet could hear the undercurrent running beneath the flow of words. The sickening dawning prospect that the odd row and a bit of a shout had mounted up to mayhem, slaughter, murder.
‘I have to ask you this, I’m sorry,’ Janet said. ‘Were either Owen or Pamela involved with anyone else?’
‘No,’ Margaret said emphatically.
‘They were married for eighteen years,’ Janet said. ‘That’s a good while. Were there ever problems?’
Margaret shook her head. ‘No, not between them.’
‘Thank you. And what about alcohol? Drugs? Any problems for either of them?’
‘No, not a problem, but Owen liked a drink.’
Janet tried to unpick
‘They met in the Lake District,’ Margaret was saying. Then she hesitated. ‘He was managing the bar at the hotel—’
‘Owen,’ Janet murmured, seeing the name was becoming poisonous to Margaret. But censorship would not help the flow.
She nodded. ‘Owen.’ Her chin trembled. ‘Pamela was maître d’ – in the restaurant. They got married up there, in the Lakes, and Penny was born. They had a little house in the grounds. It was lovely,’ she said, then again as if puzzled by the senseless reversal of circumstances, ‘it was lovely.’ No doubt thinking, how did we get from there to here, from that to this?
‘Penny was born in 2000,’ Janet nudged her gently.
‘After that they took over a pub in Birkenhead. And when that closed they moved here. To the Journeys.’
Janet knew that they were tenant landlords, and that the tenant leased the premises and the equipment and stood any profit or loss. She also knew that pubs were closing in epidemic proportions.
‘Theo was born in 2009 and then Harry the year after,’ Margaret said.
‘Any reason for the gap – nine years after Penny?’ Janet asked.
Margaret shook her head. ‘It just didn’t happen. I think they wanted to get on their feet at first, so they waited a while, and then when they did try again . . .’
Janet smiled.
‘Michael moved in then, just before Harry came along. He wasn’t getting anywhere at home. He’s got learning difficulties; mild, but . . . he couldn’t really manage on his own.’ She shook her head. ‘And we’re out in the sticks. Nothing for him there—’ Again Margaret broke off, the brutal truth knocking her sideways again. If Michael hadn’t come to live with his sister, he’d still be alive. Margaret would still have one child left.
‘So Michael moved in,’ Janet said.
‘He started helping out over Christmas and stayed. I’d say it was great for Pamela, especially with the little ones; she didn’t need to do as much in the bar. Though it’s always the same if you live and work in the same place, never really off duty.’
Janet nodded. ‘What did you make of Owen?’
‘I thought he was grand.’ Tears swam in her eyes. ‘Put in the hours, hard worker, always liked them looking nice, the children and Pamela.’
When she didn’t elaborate Janet said, ‘And how were things between Pamela and Owen?’
‘Good,’ but Janet caught an echo of doubt and waited so that Margaret carried on. ‘He liked things doing the right way. Bit of a perfectionist. They’d the odd row about that sort of thing.’
‘Recently?’ There was something there: Janet could practically smell it in the air, in the hesitation.
‘Things were hard, the business side.’ Margaret frowned, ripples across her brow. ‘He worried,’ she said.
‘Was he ever violent?’
‘No, she never said. Just, you know, a bit of a shout now and again. What man doesn’t?’
Janet could hear the undercurrent running beneath the flow of words. The sickening dawning prospect that the odd row and a bit of a shout had mounted up to mayhem, slaughter, murder.
‘I have to ask you this, I’m sorry,’ Janet said. ‘Were either Owen or Pamela involved with anyone else?’
‘No,’ Margaret said emphatically.
‘They were married for eighteen years,’ Janet said. ‘That’s a good while. Were there ever problems?’
Margaret shook her head. ‘No, not between them.’
‘Thank you. And what about alcohol? Drugs? Any problems for either of them?’
‘No, not a problem, but Owen liked a drink.’
Janet tried to unpick
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