Born Bad. Josephine Cox
of knowing what it meant, but it gave her a warm feeling inside.
‘Would you like to go over and see her, this Kathleen? You could ask her whose child it is. That would put your mind at rest.’
‘No!’ Shrinking from him, her eyes swam with tears. ‘I was wrong about the child. I know that now. Besides, Kathleen would not want to see me.’ Just then in that raw moment, she remembered it all. ‘She was my friend once, but I lied to her.’
‘I see.’ Although he didn’t see at all. Nor did he understand her reluctance to say hello to someone who had once befriended her. ‘All right then. You don’t have to see her if you don’t want to.’
‘I want to go now, please.’
He had seen her like this before and it was a sad thing. It was even sadder to see her so obsessed with the child. It concerned him greatly.
‘We’d best go. I’ll make you one of my special cups of hot chocolate – do you a power of good it will.’
She nodded. ‘In a minute.’ Alan was landlord of the Bedford Arms, the pub on the corner. She trusted him and his dear wife Pauline above all others, but she would not be drawn on Kathleen.
‘Did you have a falling-out with that lady?’ he persisted.
‘I did not fall out with her! I already told you, she was my friend.’
‘Then you really should talk to her. After all, you need all the friends you can get.’
‘I’ve got you, haven’t I?’ She gave him a hug. ‘And Pauline?’
‘Yes, of course you’ve got me, and you’ve got Pauline, but you can never have enough friends, and this Kathleen does look a kindly old thing. You ought to get in touch with her … make amends for whatever it was that made her send you away.’
‘She didn’t send me away. I left. We all left.’ Unwilling to get into any further conversation, she threaded her arm through his and set him walking. ‘Hot chocolate sounds nice.’ She licked her lips at the thought of it.
He chuckled. ‘You’re a stubborn little devil when you choose,’ he muttered. ‘But I suppose you know best, after all.’
Back at the Bedford Arms, she made her way to the Ladies toilets, where she washed her face and combed her hair and peeked at herself in the mirror. The image that came back was pitiful. The long fair hair was dull and lank, the skin blotchy with tears, and the grey cloudy eyes had lost their sparkle.
‘Who are you?’ she asked of the image.
‘Judy Saunders,’ came the reply.
‘No! Not Judy Saunders.’ She shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘Who are you … really?’
She gave a harsh little laugh. ‘You’re a bad woman, that’s who you are. You lie and you cheat, and you’ve done terrible things. It’s good that you’re married to a man you don’t love. It’s good that you’re paying the price.’
Bunching her fist, she thumped it into her chest. ‘You should be dead!’ When the tears began again, she couldn’t stop them, and then she was laughing, soft, wild laughter like someone insane.
Running the cold water tap, she cupped her hands and splashed the water over her face for a second time. For what seemed an age, she stared at herself again in the mirror; what she saw was a shadow, without substance, without life.
‘Judy Saunders.’ She gave a snort of disgust. ‘Look at yourself! You look dead, you feel dead, so why are you able to walk about, taking up valuable space; bothering ordinary good folks in the street? You are nothing! NO ONE! You’re not loved and you’re not wanted, so why don’t you just end it? Go on, Judy. Do it properly, here and now.’
‘Judy!’ The woman’s voice startled her. ‘Alan’s made you a hot drink. What are you up to? Come on.’ The woman’s voice became anxious. ‘JUDY. Come out of there!’
The young woman quickly composed herself. ‘It’s all right, Pauline. I’ll be out in a minute.’
She looked at the scars on her arms, her empty gaze following the long meandering red lines where the knife had split open the flesh. She was shocked. Whenever she caught sight of the scars, she was always shocked.
It was hard to realise how low she had sunk.
Taking a moment to loosely flick her hair, she then lightly stroked her lips, pinched her face to give it a glow, and finally she unrolled her sleeves to cover the scars.
One last look in the mirror to make sure she looked something approaching normal, then she painted on a smile, and was ready to face the world for another day.
Lately though, the days seemed to get longer and heavier. And the burden of living was almost too much to bear.
PHIL SAUNDERS WAS looking for trouble, but that was nothing new. ‘Who’s for a pint down the pub?’ Stripping off his overalls he scanned the room, his hard stare alighting on his work-mates who had yet to respond. ‘What? None of you fancies a pint? I don’t believe it!’
‘Looks like you’re on your own, matey.’ That was Jimmy Clayton, a stick-thin man in his late forties, with a straightforward, no-nonsense manner.
‘Oh, really?’ Incensed, Phil Saunders squared his broad shoulders. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means what it says.’ The other man made a wide gesture with outstretched arms. ‘Look around. Do you see anybody rushing to join you?’
‘Oh, so now you speak for everybody else, do you? Anyway, what makes you think I give a sod whether any of you come or not? Matter o’ fact, it’s just as well, ’cos I’m a bit particular about my drinking partners.’
‘There you go then.’
Clayton’s attitude was riling Saunders, who took a step closer. ‘Seems to me like you’re itching for trouble, mate.’
‘You’re wrong. I don’t want trouble. The thing is, I’ve had to work alongside you all week. I’ve put up with your foul temper and constant complaining, because I’ve got no choice. But the last thing I need is to go drinking like we’re “mates”, because we’re not mates and we never will be.’
Saunders continued to goad him. ‘The truth is, you wouldn’t dare come down the pub in case you might have to dip into your wages; the little wife wouldn’t like that, would she, eh?’ He gave a sneering laugh. ‘I bet she waits at the door every Friday with her greedy little mitts held out, waiting for the wages you’ve sweated for.’ He sniggered. ‘I bet she even gives you pocket money.’
For what seemed an age the smaller man looked Saunders in the eye, his jaw working up and down and his fists clenched together.
‘Want to punch me, do you?’ Saunders stuck his face out. ‘Go on then, matey, you try it. We all know who would come off worse, don’t we, eh?’
‘Leave it, Phil.’ That was Arnie Reynolds, a big bumbling lump of a man. ‘There’s no need to rile him. If Jimmy doesn’t want to come for a drink, that’s his choice, and whatever his reason, it’s not for you or any of us to question.’
Taking a deep noisy breath through his nose, Saunders let it out through his mouth, together with a torrent of words. ‘You’re all the bloody same. Can’t stand on your own two feet. Lily-livered, the lot of you.’
‘Hey! That’s enough o’ that.’ Stuart McArthy was a Scot with an attitude, though unlike Saunders he was not a bully. ‘I for one happen to have a real thirst on me, so why don’t we stop the gabbing an’ make our