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."
But Rita stood her ground.
"This doesn't look like a joke to me. My husband was being considered for a job but he's suddenly been admitted to hospital. Why I need to speak to someone. It might take a few days for him to recover..."
"I don' fuckin' care if 'e's gone to the moon. Off ye go. Pronto."
Rita sensed there was nothing to lose. She'd walked all that way and would have to walk back. "So what's going on here? Why isn't there anyone except you around? No lorries, nothing? I thought Transline was a hauliers and truck rental business."
"So it is. And everything's out at the moment, OK?"
She then noticed a wolf-like Alsation appear from nowhere to chase a pigeon on the yard. Suddenly, a whistle from the guard and the dog turned its attention to her.
Jesus.
All pink gums and evil eyes kept her in focus. It drew closer. Rita screamed and began to run, but it followed, picking up speed, and only when she'd reached the end of Crowmore Lane did she glance back to see the creature held by the neck fighting its handler to finish the job. The letter must have fallen from her grasp but no way was she going back to look for it.
She slumped against a wall alongside the main road, aware of her shoe’s broken heel, her stark shadow on the pavement. Her heartbeat too fast, and not just because of the dog.
Her watch showed one o’clock. She thought of Freddie again, then Frank, with increasing alarm. She counted out her thirty-six pence again. If she couldn't use the bus, she could at least try a phone box, half a mile back towards Briar Bank.