She might not have been bookish like her sister but had been wise enough to see the spark inside the Kelleway boy whose eyes shone with a fierce determination to do more, have more, be more. She’d observed him for weeks from across the street while he waited at the bus stop. It would have been hard to say what first drew her to him. Physical attraction, certainly. And young Winnie was no stranger to physical attraction, having tested the waters with a few boys – all gorgeous – for a short while until their gloss wore off, which happened far too quickly for her liking. They were all the same: mad for her, breathing heavily enough to fog up car windows as they grappled with the hook and eye of her corset, scratching desperately at her thighs with inept fingers to release her suspenders from her stockings. It was thrilling, a power of sorts and one she wielded quite carelessly, until she spied Bernard Kelleway from across the street and instinct told her that he had the makings of something solid. She liked his height and those long, long legs, quite unable to see herself with a short man. And it was as a born-again virgin that she plotted her move.
Her childhood poverty made her uncomfortable in wealthy circles, aware that she lacked the nuances that money gave you. No, what she wanted was a boy with whom she could rise up the social ranks, someone she could learn the ropes with, working alongside him without worrying about making a misstep because he would be like her, starting on the bottom rung . . . Yes, she had wanted a boy like that. A boy like Bernard Kelleway.
Hiding her face behind a magazine, she had sat in the window of the local cafe on her reconnaissance mission. She’d spied him pulling the cheap fabric of his suit taut, as if it needed a good press, saw the way his head followed the shiniest cars that whizzed by and noted the way his fingers balled into fists and his neck corded, as if riven with the desire to have the same, to be the one driving past in such a vehicle, and not standing there under the inadequate shelter, waiting for the number seventy-four in all weathers. And she understood, because she was the same. She bided her time, not willing to chase him exactly, but also not wanting to let the boy with determination in his eyes slip through her fingers. It was all about timing. When the moment was right, she finished her cup of tea, put down the magazine and sauntered across the street, ready to make her move. And the rest, as they say, was history.
Quite unlike her sniping sister, pre her ‘love the world/save the world’ epiphany. Her parents had always been lovely, their home bland, basic, cool and neat. She and Patricia never went hungry, as daily their mother ladled hot, beige food on to chipped plates that had once belonged to her grandma. Yet no matter how lovely, Winnie could never shake the feeling that there was a greater life to be lived, one with more material comfort. It wasn’t the only thing she craved, of course: she wanted children, travel and opportunity. But a very nice house was at the top of her list. Deep pillows, thick carpet, soft towels and an array of pretty things lining her shelves all danced on her mental wish list. One thing she hated most about her childhood home was the sparseness of it, the hard tread of floorboards beneath her bare feet, the scratchy towels that inadequately soaked up the tepid water of her weekly bath, and patched curtains that let the light shine through.
Having watched her parents struggle, she saw how a lack of finances pulled even the most dedicated of love thin. How even the fieriest sunset could turn grey when bills went unpaid, and how pitiful it was when anything made of fabric was darned and mended until it disintegrated under the lightest touch. She figured life would be infinitely more comfortable if she lived it with a cushion of cash to soften the blows she would inevitably be dealt. She wanted a more substantial life.
Almost by reflex, her hand shot to the locket in which sat the only two pictures of Louis: one taken of him in her arms – she could still recall the skin-to-skin contact if she closed her eyes – and the other of his face, close up, tiny fists curled at his face, born sleeping . . .
‘Leaving in ten, darling!’ Bernie called up the stairs.
‘Nearly ready!’ she shouted over her shoulder.
This was one of the bits she enjoyed the most: the excited anticipation of the evening ahead. How she loved to have her family all together, on show. Wherever they gathered, they stood out like bright beacons among the gloom. Not that it was intentional, they just knew how to dress, what cologne to wear and how much, the right level of conversation and oh, the laughter! This evening, as she always did, Winnie would imagine how they looked and sounded as a group, as if she were on the outside looking in, and knew without doubt that she would be impressed. This was very, very important – especially tonight.
Cassian and Domino, her grandchildren, were extremely handsome, and she took pride in the fact. As if it was all part of her masterplan – to have good-looking kids who had good-looking kids. Julie, her son’s wife, was slim, sure, but beautiful? Not so much. She had one of those faces that when you first met her and she was heavily made-up, might pass as such, but with time and age, in her view, Julie looked a little homely. Would it kill the woman to get a facial and a decent hair cut? Winnie had no idea how anyone could live with crispy ends to their locks. Her son Lawrence was a different matter altogether. He was always neat, well turned-out and incredibly good-looking. Everyone had always said so. For this, too, she took credit, as if it was her genes alone that shone from his handsome face.
It was ironic, however, that whilst her son was so blessed, her daughter Cleo, who she loved very much, most definitely took after her father, especially in the nose department. Not that she didn’t dress well and keep her weight down – thankfully she did both. But Cleo was without the natural attributes that made a face stand out: no razor-sharp cheekbones, no large eyes with luscious lashes and no full lips that hid white, straight teeth. Instead, she was rather a doughy-looking girl, pale and with the mousy/auburn hair of her absent aunt Pattie. Winnie had been gently suggesting since her daughter was a teenager that a quick rinse with a bottle of blonde would lift her whole look, but to no avail; Cleo refused point blank to dye her hair. Her daughter’s reluctance mystified her.
Winnie knew every parent had a favourite and to say otherwise was a lie. Her son Lawrence was hers. Did it make her a bad parent? No. It made her an honest one. Not that her daughter would ever know this, nor was she aware, and that was absolutely right. But it was a fact nonetheless that Lawrence was and always had been the child that made her heart swell with pride.
Cleo was kind, no doubt, but her appearance, lack of ambition and the fact that she had married the rather hapless van driver Georgie cemented her middle ranking when it came to life. But, as Bernie had reminded her many, many times, as long as Cleo was happy, wasn’t that what life was all about? Winnie had smiled sweetly and nodded as, yes, he was no doubt right, but still it irked her. But Georgie. For the love of God! He had been a friend of Lawrence’s from school and Winnie felt it was that familiarity that made Cleo comfortable in dating him. In this regard she half-blamed herself, thinking of all the times she’d made Georgie a glass of squash or invited him to stay for supper. If she’d known how things were going to turn out and could turn back time, she’d have shooed him out the door and hunted down a better prospect.
What she hadn’t told her husband, or anyone for that matter, was that she had actually found a perfect partner for Cleo – the rather lovely Mr Portland of Portland and Portland, the local estate agents. He co-owned the business with his older brother and had only recently been seen in a shiny new blue Porsche 911. He was about the same age as Cleo, single, and although a snappy dresser, was not exactly Hollywood handsome, meaning the competition wouldn’t be too fierce and equally that he couldn’t afford to be too picky. Judging by the way he kept his gaze and voice low, he was a man more than aware of his limitations. Yes, he and Cleo would be smashing together. Winnie could also tell that he liked her and Bernie, always waving heartily and smiling brightly when he drove past them on the high street; clearly, he would have no aversion to joining the Kelleway gang. She’d even mentioned to Mr Portland in passing that Lawrence had a place up on Newman Road, knowing that he, more than most, would be aware of the average selling price and plot size which were the highest and biggest in the postcode. Yes, Four Oaks was without doubt the most desirable area for schools and amenities, but Newman Road was in a class of its own. All she had to do was wait until Georgie either messed up spectacularly, as she had no doubt he would, or Cleo came to her senses, finally tiring of the mediocrity of life in their new-build in Swallow Drive and plodding about in slippers on her laminate floor.