Where There is Evil by Sandra Brown Read Free Book Online Page B

to study it when she was not around, but this was different. This was yet another matter on which I knew instinctively that it
would be better to remain silent.

Chapter Seven
    When I was seven my father was involved in two incidents that eroded any remaining love I had for him.
    My mother deemed that I was old enough to take my father his ‘piece’ – lunch sandwiches – if he was asked to do an extra shift. This meant walking down to the foot of
Dunbeth Road, to the bus stop on Main Street at which all the local buses pulled in. I would look for his usual vehicle, the single-decker Cliftonville bus, which was timed to arrive every
half-hour, the crews passing each other or meeting up for mealtimes at the terminus. At busy times as many as eight buses an hour might ply this route, which was popular because it took passengers
right through the town centre. The final destination varied: my father’s bus nearly always went to Kirkwood in Old Monkland, and turned at what was then a quiet, rather desolate spot near the
cemetery.
    Normally I greeted my father, settled on his bus at the front and chattered to him. Needless to say, my fare was not collected by his clippie, who would sit, if she ever had the chance, on the
first seat on the right as you walked up the aisle, so that she could talk to the driver. A little door at waist height separated him from his passengers. People always chatted to the driver and
eventually a rule was made, and prominently posted up, warning that it was an offence to engage him in conversation.
    One day in 1956, I had gone as usual with my father’s sandwiches. My mother decided, because the bus was going to Kirkwood and my dad’s aunt May lived just across the road from the
terminus, that I should take some flowers to May’s old mother, rather than having my own sandwiches with my dad and his clippie. I was quite happy to do this, as Aunt May and Uncle Harry, her
husband, had a television set. I knew they would let me watch the after-lunchtime children’s programmes, including
The Woodentops
, which I liked.
    My aunt greeted me and waved at my father, who was turning his bus and parking it next to another single-decker. She was fairly used to drivers and conductresses who were friends of my father
coming to ask if they could fill up their flasks or pop into her bathroom. She made me some tea, then gave me the sad news that the TV repair man had just departed with the set: it had broken down.
After some desultory conversation, I tiptoed with the flowers into my great-grandmother’s room. She did not stir, and I decided to rejoin my father, who was due for a half-hour break at the
terminus.
    I boarded his bus by pushing hard on the concertina-style folding door at the front. My arrival was totally unexpected by all four adults who were grouped near the back of the vehicle, sprawled
on the side seats. They did not even realize I was walking up the narrow aisle towards them, until I was almost there. My father and his conductress were grappling with each other in a way I had
never seen before, while opposite them the driver of the other bus was locked in a passionate embrace with
his
clippie. In the few seconds I had to register the scene, I noticed that a pair of frilly briefs was hanging out of my father’s pocket and the woman’s stockings were round her ankles. He was
clambering on to the seat just over her, pinning down her wrists with one strong arm. What on earth were they
doing
?
    ‘Their telly’s broken so I’ve come back,’ I announced.
    In the ensuing scramble, I was aware of my father’s furious, scarlet face looking over his right shoulder. He gaped at me. ‘Get the hell out of here!’ he roared.
    I raced back to my aunt’s house. When I sobbed out to her what had happened, she pointed upwards to the ceiling where her elderly mother slept and put a finger to her lips. She put her arm
round me. ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she murmured soothingly. ‘Just