Dying Fall

dream of donkeys. They pass the Pleasure Beach, the Big One looming above them, posters advertising the many different ways in which humans can be flung into the air, rotated or just plain terrified. One of the rides is in the form of a vast raven, its black wings outstretched: a slide spews out from its open beak into a continual, churning waterfall. Its name is spelt out in lights, ‘Raven Falls’. Ruth thinks of the Raven King, of the two deities that seem to rule in Lancashire. The Raven King in his lonely grave on the way to the sea and the Demon King of pantomime that presides over Blackpool. Glittering lights, garish costumes, bread and circuses.
    Ruth stops at the lights next to a gypsy caravan offering ‘Genuine Romany Fortune Telling’. Perhaps she should make an appointment. ‘But Nelson’s face,’ she says. ‘I would have suspected if I’d been Maureen.’
    This is a new departure for Ruth and Cathbad. Although Ruth knows that Cathbad knows about Kate’s parentage, this is the first time that they have discussed it openly. Ruth usually tries to ignore the whole fatherhood issue but she is so shaken by the afternoon’s encounter that she just has to talk to someone.
    ‘Maureen was too busy chatting to me,’ grins Cathbad. And it is true that he and Maureen had hit it off immediately. It is largely Cathbad’s fault that Maureen has invited them to tea in three days’ time, ‘so we can talk some more about the old country.’ Ruth, remembering Nelson’s face as his mother issued the invitation, wonders if she’ll live that long.
    They hadn’t stayed too long on the beach. Maeve was meeting Danielle at the south pier and didn’t want to be late. The two parties had separated with shouts of ‘See you on Wednesday’ (Cathbad and Maureen), embarrassed waves (Ruth and Michelle), yells of ‘Dada’ (Kate) and complete silence (Nelson).
    ‘She won’t guess,’ says Cathbad, twisting round to smile at Kate. ‘She won’t guess because it’s so unlikely.’
    Is it unlikely, wonders Ruth. She supposes it is. Unlikely that a man who is married to Michelle would ever look at an overweight, forty-something academic like her. Unlikely that the man who looked at her with outrighthostility could ever have … But she won’t think about that. She’ll file it away along with Max and the baby question. Things she will deal with when she feels strong enough. For now she concentrates on driving. They pass fairy lights, trams, a giant glitter ball.
    ‘Nelson looked furious, though, didn’t he?’ says Cathbad.
    Ruth doesn’t answer. She stops at a red light and a horse-drawn carriage draws alongside. There are hundreds of the things, bowling up and down the Golden Mile, skinny horses pulling fat tourists. This one is pink and glittery, shaped like a pumpkin.
    ‘Cinderella,’ breathes Kate.
    *
    Nelson, Michelle and Maureen are also on their way home. Maeve has gone back to Danielle’s house. Although the beach is within walking distance Maureen has decreed that they bring the car. Nelson agreed, partly to make up for refusing to go to Mass that morning. Now, as his mother embarks on a voluble critique of his driving, he’s beginning to regret this peace-making gesture. His patience with Maureen is wearing very thin. Thank God they’re going to Michelle’s mum’s place next week.
    In fact, Nelson, for him, is driving rather tamely. In Norfolk, he scorches round corners on two wheels and acts, in general, as if he is involved in a Seventies TV police series car chase. Now he contents himself with revving up furiously at the lights and stopping at the last possible minute. Maureen is exaggerating the effects ofthis, throwing out a hand as if to save herself, other hand clutching her throat.
    ‘For pity’s sake, Harry,’ she says, ‘take some care.’
    ‘It’s the idiot in front,’ says Nelson.
    ‘You were too close,’ says Maureen who, despite not having a licence, considers herself an expert on driving. ‘Does he always drive like this, Michelle? You should make him take a refresher course.’
    Michelle, wisely, says nothing. She knows, from the angle of his neck, that Harry is in a real rage. She tries not to think exactly why this is.
    ‘Well, she was a nice girl, wasn’t she,’ says Maureen, turning round to Michelle. ‘That Ruth whatshername. Quite a pretty face. Shame she’s a bit on the plump side.’ Maureen, who hasn’t seen her feet for decades, disapproves of women