The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane

       33

      Ruthie Carter phoned her mother at eleven a.m. every day. Not that she really wanted to. Her mother disgusted her and yet Ruthie still loved her. The daily phone call had become a habit and now it was a job for life. If Ruthie didn’t phone, Connie became waspish and cruel, accusing her of not caring, of not loving her mother, of being a bad daughter. None of which could truthfully be said of Ruthie, but when the drink was on her – and when wasn’t it? – Connie could come out with all sorts.

      Ruthie had started calling her every day because she was worried about her. Feeling worried was a prominent feature in Ruthie’s life. She worried about her failing marriage. She worried about how much she drank these days, she worried about Connie, who ought to be with her instead of living alone in London. Connie didn’t work any more. She couldn’t, truth be told. Most days she was too rat-arsed to crawl out of bed, let alone do a day’s labour.

      When Ruthie sat and thought about it she could trace this gnawing, constant anxiety back to when Dad left. It had been like the lunatics taking charge of the nuthouse on that day. Connie couldn’t run a piss-up in a brewery, and that was a fact. Running a household alone had turned out to be beyond her. When Dad went, everything started to crumble away; it was still crumbling. And now Connie wasn’t answering her phone and Ruthie felt her anxiety spiralling out of control.

      She couldn’t phone Max. He must never be bothered with domestic stuff, and her mother came in that category. She knew very well what Max thought of Connie. There’d be merry hell to pay if she troubled him because Connie was drunk again. Instead, she phoned her cousin Kath who was now married to Jimmy Bond, one of Max’s boys. Kath’s mother, Maureen, lived just three doors along from Connie.

      ‘Mum’s not answering her phone, Kath love. Could you get your mum to pop round and check on her?’

      ‘Of course I could,’ said Kath. ‘You’re all right, are you, Ruthie?’

      ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ said Ruthie.

      ‘I’ll phone Mum,’ said Kath, and rang off.

      Ruthie sat there, alone in the big Surrey house. The silence was oppressive. After a minute she got up from the couch and poured herself a Scotch.

      Maureen took Kath’s call and without hesitation went and knocked at Connie’s door. After a while of waiting in the rain, with her brand-new perm going frizzy, she swore and took out her spare key and let herself in. She and Connie had had the keys to each other’s doors since the Blitz, it was no big deal. But Gawd, what a mess the place was in.

      Curling her lip in disgust she went through to the lounge and there, as expected, was Connie spark out on the sofa. She was a mess. The cardigan she had on over her food-stained dress had two buttons missing. Connie’s gut was swollen, Jesus, she almost looked like she was up the duff. As if. Who in his right mind would lay a finger on Connie Bailey without fumigating her first? Connie had never been house-proud or tidy about her person, but she had now sunk to a new low. There was a trickle of drool running out of her half-open mouth.

      ‘Fucking hell,’ muttered Maureen, wrinkling her nose at the smell in there. Impatiently she shook Connie’s shoulder. ‘Connie! Come on girl, rise and shine.’

      She shook her again. Connie’s head waggled from side to side and Maureen saw the blood in the drool. ‘Jesus,’ she said, her stomach clenching in alarm. She shook Connie once more. She couldn’t rouse her.

      ‘Come on Connie,’ said Maureen nervously. ‘Don’t arse around.’

      But Connie was dead to the world. There were empty vodka bottles all over the front room, on the floor and on the coffee table. Fag ash everywhere too. The place was a tip. Maureen placed a tentative hand to Connie’s neck. Oh thank Christ. She wasn’t dead, anyway.

      Maureen looked at Connie’s sunken cheeks and yellowish colour and thought she’d seen better-looking corpses than this. She’d laid out her own mother and she’d looked as if she might sit up and start chatting away at any moment. Poor old Mum had looked a fucking sight better dead than Connie did alive, and that was a fact. Maureen went back out to the hall and unravelled the piece of paper with Ruthie’s number on it. She phoned her first, and then she called the ambulance.