Parallel Life by Ruth Hamilton Page A

the world. He waited in his mother’s bungalow for two events, neither of which he anticipated with any degree of joy. His mother, due to return from holidays, would arrive to find her only begotten son in situ. She would not be pleased. Freda Nuttall did not like men in a house – they got in the way. Men were built for fields, factories and public hostelries, and they had no place in a single-bedroomed retirement bungalow with panic alarms and only one lavatory.
    Jimmy also expected his wife. Annie, who could be dangerous when roused, had a tiny body that gave not the slightest hint of the strength in its limbs or the fury in its head. She was, and always had been, a force never to be ignored, especially at those times of her month when hormones bubbled in her blood. Although he had no idea of the current state of her menstrual cycle, he knew she could be hell on legs even when on a supposedly level keel. She needed to talk about the children – that was the official line, anyway. In truth, the woman probably wanted to kill him, and he was fed up. Should he move the rest of Mam’s pottery treasures in case they provided ammunition for Annie? Lisa had already caused a noticeable gap in the collection. Oh, to hell with it all.
    There would be a divorce, he supposed. He hoped to persuade her otherwise, since the easiest option for him would be a return to the bosom of his family, but he held very little hope in that direction. Sighing deeply, he fussed about, tidying his mother’s bedroom and kitchen before starting on himself. Unshaven and unwashed, he looked like a refugee from some terribly deprived quarter of a city under siege. God. He had as much chance of going home as George W. Bush had of being elected pope.
    Reasonably tidy after his small efforts, he returned to the living room and sat down. Life with Lisa had been good. She was feisty and full of mischief. Older than he was, she had proved hard to keep up with, as her hunger for life had never been satisfied by that dry stick of a scientist she called husband. Well, she was out of the picture now, as was Annie, as were his three children. Fatherhood had never been his favourite game, but they were his kids and, at the end of the day, he had rights. Didn’t he?
    Annie’s ageing car coughed to a halt outside the bungalow. Jimmy stiffened automatically. She would not be in the best of moods, would she? The door was on the latch, so she needed no key to reach her husband.
    When she entered the room, he gulped nervously. ‘Hi,’ he managed when his throat settled.
    â€˜I need a new car,’ came the quick reply. ‘That one couldn’t pass water, let alone an MOT.’ She looked him up and down before asking the air why a person never had a baseball bat when it was needed most.
    â€˜Sweetie,’ he began. ‘I’m a twit. We both know I’m a twit, but can’t we make some sort of effort here?’
    She looked over her shoulder. ‘Ooh, I thought somebody else had come in then. Were you talking to me? Listen, mate. If I’m a sweetie, I’ll have to be one of them Smarties, because I’m too clever for you. Just wait. Just you wait, Jimmy Nuttall.’
    â€˜Wait for what?’
    â€˜Arma-bloody-geddon is what,’ she shouted. ‘Life is about to catch up with you, lad. I’ve stood by you through thick and thin, you thieving, good-for-nowt layabout. Well, I’ve had enough. I don’t want my lads turning out to be criminals, do I? Following in Father’s Footsteps? Isn’t that a song? Aye, well, my sons will not be singing from the same hymn sheet as you, Nuttall. They’ll be gradely folk, not gutter-muck.’
    Jimmy looked up at the ceiling. Annie was off on one of her rants, and nothing short of an act of God would divert her. The chances of earthquake or hurricane were not strong, so he simply had to sit it out. Would she settle in a minute? Would she calm