Telling Tales by Ann Cleeves Read Free Book Online Page B

left her door open a crack and he’d peered in. She’d be lying on her bed, not always even dressed, and there’dbe music playing and she’d have her eyes closed. He liked some music a brass band or a march, a tune with a beat, the songs from the old musicals but she never played anything like that. This would be strings usually, or a piano, something high-pitched which made him want to piss. “Wee-wee music’ he’d called it to her, sneering, when she was being stony and blank. He didn’t know why her stillness had irritated him so much, but it had. He’d felt like screaming and lashing out at her. He never had but the anger and resentment had bubbled away. Only Peg knew it was there.
    Maybe they should never have had a child. They’d been happy enough as they were. He had been, at least. He’d never really known what Peg had thought about it. Or perhaps by the time Jeanie arrived he’d been too old, too set in his ways. But he thought he’d done right by his daughter. He couldn’t see what he could have done differently. He’d paid up for the music lessons, hadn’t he? He’d driven her every week into the town, listened to the scratchy violin, the repeated scales on the upright piano which had belonged to Peg’s mum. Peg had played the piano too. After a couple of brandies when they’d had a few friends round, she’d played for them. It had always been songs which belonged to their parents’ generation, old music hall turns, but they’d all joined in, making up the words as they went, collapsing in laughter before they’d finished. He couldn’t remember ever having seen Jeanie laugh like that, even as a kid.
    At least that daughter of Mantel’s had had a bit of life about her, a bit of spirit. He’d seen it during the Sunday dinner when they’d all come to the Point. You could tell by the way she’d tossed her head; she’d wanted you to look at her. If Jeanie had been a bit more like that perhaps they wouldn’t have fought so much. Except, he thought, there had never been much real argument. More a bad-tempered silence, with Peg acting as a buffer between them, squashed between Jeanie’s surly resentment and his anger. The Sunday dinner had been Peg’s idea. “Jeanie’s obviously mad about the man. He’s older than her but that’s no reason to disapprove, is it? You’re older than me. It’s not like he’s still married.” He’d tried to explain to her that there was more to it than that, but she hadn’t been able to see it.
    At seven o’clock Michael allowed himself to get out of bed and make some tea. Still all he could think about was Jeanie and how he might have got her wrong. The anger had become a habit like waking up too early, only now he had no one to turn it against except himself. Even conjuring up images of the probation officer didn’t work any more. While the kettle was boiling he thought of the whisky in the cupboard under the sink and it was a real effort not to reach down and fetch it out. Then he heard Peg’s voice. Had to stop himself from turning round because he could almost believe she was in the room with hinfr Drinking before breakfast, Michael Long? I’d not put up with that. As he squeezed out the tea bag against the side of his cup it occurred to him that he might be going mad. What he was going through would send anyone crazy. How could he stand the same thoughts and memories rolling around in his head until he died? That was why he’d gone to church of course. He’d thought there might be magic, that when he put the round cardboard wafer on his tongue, they’d all disappear. It was nothing to do with repentance or forgiveness at all. But it hadn’t worked. Nothing would.
    He took the tea to the bedroom but he didn’t get back into the crumpled sheets. He sat on the edge, holding the cup in one hand and the saucer in the other. He heard himself slurping the hot liquid and imagined Jeanie’s horrified face whenever he’d done that in public.