The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane
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‘Oh don’t give me all that, Annie. The truth is you’re very happy with your own life, so what do you care about hers?’
‘Of course I care.’
‘No you don’t. You don’t give a monkey’s, we both know that. You were always a daddy’s girl, you never had any time for Mum.’
‘That isn’t true.’
‘Yes it bloody-well is.’
‘I don’t want to fight with you,’ said Annie tiredly.
‘Oh, of course you don’t. You’re all ladylike now, I forgot. But you’re a whore, that’s all you are. Kath told me all about your privileged life as Max’s kept slag.’
Fuck it, she knew. Ruthie knew. Annie sat back on the couch, at a loss.
‘Yeah, I know all about it,’ said Ruthie. ‘You bloody tart! Max and me were going to try again, too.’
‘Oh for God’s sake Ruthie,’ snapped Annie. ‘Both you and I know that’s wishful thinking on your part.’
‘He’ll never marry you,’ spat Ruthie.
‘I know,’ said Annie. ‘Don’t you think I don’t know that better than you? He won’t divorce you. He can’t.’
‘So that’s spoiled your plans, hasn’t it?’
‘I don’t have any plans, Ruthie. All I know is I love him and he loves me.’
‘Love?’ roared Ruthie. ‘You’re his tart! He don’t know the meaning of the word love and he certainly don’t love you.’
God, that hurt. But Annie knew she deserved it. Both barrels, straight through the heart. Ruthie had really hit the target.
‘Where’s Mum at the moment?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, you don’t want to hear the truth, do you? The truth hurts. She’s in hospital. They don’t think she’ll last the night. She’s not coming out of this one.’
Annie put the phone down. She wished Max was here, but he was on business and she knew not to disturb him, even if Ruthie didn’t. She could handle this.
Dig deep and stand alone, she thought. She’d lived by that credo all her life, but for once she wished that he could be here to support her. When, of course, he should have been with Ruthie, supporting his wife. Not his tart. Grimly she went to get ready for hospital visiting. Her mother was dying, but she didn’t feel a thing.
Connie looked like a corpse already. That was all Annie could think as she stood by her mother’s hospital bed. There were tubes going in and out of her skinny, yellow little body. She wore a hospital gown. She looked fucking awful. But Ruthie was Mrs Max Carter and Carter money had provided the best for her, so she had a private room. Ruthie had managed to get in touch with Max at last and although he hadn’t visited – and wouldn’t, Annie was sure of that – he had sent flowers, a huge bouquet of mixed pinks and creams. Not red and white, thought Annie. You never sent red and white – it meant blood and bandages. And yellow meant forsaken, didn’t it?
Annie tried to look anywhere else but at her mother’s face. Connie didn’t have a tooth left in her head and she had her dentures out, giving her wrinkled cheeks a sunken look. Her hair was like wisps of dried straw. Annie looked at Ruthie instead. No comfort there. Ruthie was sitting there holding Connie’s gnarled hand. Look at the mother and you’ll see the daughter in thirty years’ time, that’s what they said. Annie looked at Ruthie, and saw Connie sitting there as clear as day. Weak women left to their own devices and failing to stand alone. One drunk following in the footsteps of another.
What a way to end up, thought Annie. Connie had struggled to get by all her life. Annie knew that she had never got over Dad leaving like he did. Her one triumph had been Ruthie’s wedding to Max. But even that hadn’t worked out for her. Max despised drunks and wouldn’t have them near him, in-laws or not. Without Ruthie close at hand to monitor her intake, Connie had sunk fast. Now all that remained was for her to give up her last breath and leave this world for good.
‘This is my fault,’ said Ruthie. ‘I should never have left her.’
Annie drew up a metal chair and sat down.
‘What were you going to do, Ruthie? Spend all your life propping her up? Never have a life of your own?’
‘God, you’re a hard cow,’ said Ruthie, glaring.
‘I told you, I’m not going to argue with you.’
‘I bloody hate you, Annie Bailey.’
‘I know,’ said Annie. ‘You hate me because I get what I want out of life and you’re too soft to try.’
Shit, why had she said that? She had promised herself on the way over here that she wouldn’t get into any rucks with Ruthie. It was pointless. And here they were again, trading insults.
‘Fuck, I’m sick of this,’ she said, and stood up.
‘Don’t go,’ said Ruthie in panic. ‘Don’t leave me alone with her.’
Annie froze.
‘Stay with me this once,’ said Ruthie, her voice shaking. She put a hand up to her disordered hair. Her hand was shaking too.
Of course it is, thought Annie. Ruthie had been here for hours and she probably left home in a panic and forgot to pack a bottle. She had the DTs because she hadn’t had a drink. Fuck it, talk about history repeating itself.
‘I can’t cope with this on my own,’ said Ruthie, tears in her eyes.
Annie slowly sat back down. ‘No more arguments,’ she said.
Ruthie shook her head frantically. ‘No. No more arguments, I promise.’
‘Or I walk,’ said Annie, feeling sick at heart.
So they sat there together, in silence, and waited for Connie to die.
At half past eleven that night, Annie said good-night to Donny and quietly let herself into the Park Street apartment. Max’s keys were in the dish; he was back. She switched on a table lamp, then went to the open bedroom door and looked in. Max had fallen asleep with the bedside light still burning. His chest rose and fell smoothly with the rhythm of his breathing. Annie softly crossed the room and turned off the light. Then she went back into the sitting room and sat down, knowing that she couldn’t get into bed with him tonight, not after spending time with Ruthie, not after watching their mother quietly fade away.
She sank her head into her hands. Jesus, what a day. She stank of disinfectant, she realized. Disinfectant and death. Her mother had slipped so quietly into that final sleep, the nurse checking her pulse, shaking her head, then walking away to let them say their goodbyes.
She had been more choked by it all than she had expected. Ruthie had sobbed and wailed inconsolably, but Annie had been unable to cry, although she had felt waves of misery engulf her. All she had been able to do was hold Ruthie tight, stroke her arms and kiss her hair.
It was a measure of Ruthie’s distress that she had allowed this. And to Annie it had been painfully poignant, reminding her how long it had been since she had enjoyed this close contact with the sister she still – despite everything – loved so much.
So no, there was no way she could sleep with Max tonight.
Although she loved him.
Adored him.
She lay back against the couch and thought about Max. God knows it was easier than thinking about poor bloody Ruthie. Max who so enthralled her, who shared her life here in this apartment. This felt like reality, what they shared here, not the harsh, threatening outside world. They were at it like rabbits most of the time, they had christened every part of this place – this couch, the floor, the bath, everywhere. The sexual pull