Parallel Life by Ruth Hamilton

inherited from the deceased man two mortgage-free properties – her own home and the house next door. She had opened up both lofts, and Gustav’s trains occupied the whole attic area. The rest of the second house was rented out to a family, so Sheila had no real need to work. But work kept her sane. While supervising the local young, she congratulated herself repeatedly on her child-free state. Children were nasty, cruel, dirty little things, and she was better off without them. Yet, as she admitted begrudgingly on occasion, they did make her laugh. She had worked out that kids were OK as long as they were herded together well away from parents. School had rules, and children needed them. Kept in communes, they even managed to be mildly amusing.
    In truth, Sheila did have a child. Some three years earlier, when clearing out her husband’s belongings, she had found in a magazine an advertisement placed by a man who liked model trains. As her husband, too, had been a fan of miniature railways, she had replied, and Gus had been delighted. He took over the dead man’s stock but never took advantage of the widow, didn’t even try to kiss her, and he valued her company. His rent was seldom late, he contributed towards household bills, and she enjoyed taking care of him. Gustav Compton-Milne was a man in a million.
    With her part-time lodger, Sheila Barton played the role of a public school matron-cum-cook. All he had wanted was space for his hobby, but he received much more than that. He was cared for, fed good, comforting foods including custards, sticky puddings and blancmange. Like a competent mother, Sheila heeded current laws on nutrition, so Gus also received his fair share of salads, fresh fruits and vegetables. Gus was her project, her hobby. He was going to save the world; therefore, she must save him from an ignorant wife who clearly didn’t give two pence for his welfare.
    Sheila cared.
    She hung on his words, admired his cleverness, worshipped at the feet of the only truly intelligent man to have entered her life. With her, he was completely at home, speaking openly and with candour about his family and his work. Sheila was mother, sister, wife and friend to him, a safety valve that he could employ at will, allowing him relief and comfort in an atmosphere of tenderness and empathy. The fact that she understood little pertaining to microbiology was of no importance; she paid attention and warmed his slippers – that was enough for him. Home was here, on Wigan Road, because here he could be absent-minded stationmaster, railway-building professor – whatever. He could be himself, and that was what mattered.
    In her square, modern kitchen, Sheila peeled vegetables. She knew better than to expect him, so she kept ingredients prepared in order that a meal could be produced within half an hour at any time of day or night. If he failed to appear for a couple of days, she could consume the food herself. She was happy. For the first time in her adult life, Mrs Sheila Barton was completely contented.
    She heard his key in the lock and, without thinking, dashed into the living room to check her appearance at the mirror. Whilst he neither expected nor wanted glamour, he probably noticed if she was untidy. ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Did you get it?’
    â€˜Yes,’ replied the disembodied voice. ‘And it’s a beauty. I’ll go straight up. You can look at it later.’
    Sheila smiled to herself. ‘Have you eaten?
    â€˜I think not.’
    â€˜Half an hour?’
    â€˜Yes. Thank you.’
    She heard him running up to the landing, listened as the metal ladder dropped at his feet. Time would hold no meaning for him now; she would need to coax him down with promises of onion gravy followed by spotted dick. But none of that mattered. Gustav was in his own little bit of heaven, and all was well with the world.
    All was by no means well with Jimmy Nuttall’s slice of