The Girl From Barefoot House

by Maureen Lee

  Josie tiptoed downstairs, her hands clasped mutely against her breast. ‘Please, God, you can’t do this to me,’ she whispered. ‘Say something, Laura. Please, God, make Laura say something.’

  The first thing she saw was Jack. He was getting out of the car, and his face was a mask of horror. ‘I skidded on the snow,’ he said in a voice she’d never heard before.

  ‘Back up, back up,’ Josie screamed when she saw the body of their daughter jammed between the front of the crookedly parked car and the breeze-block wall. Her head had fallen forward, lying sideways on the bonnet. Blue Bunny was still clutched in her hand, and she was smiling because Daddy had come home.

  It was all over. Everything was over – the inquest, the funeral, their marriage. She couldn’t live with Jack again. He had murdered their daughter, though the coroner had called it a tragic error which Jack would have to live with for the rest of his life. Only Josie knew that Laura had never run to meet her father like that before. It was only because Jack had disappeared for two whole days that she’d been so anxious to see him, to touch him, to be kissed and cuddled by her dad.

  She didn’t tell him this, because she loved him too much to cause more suffering. He had suffered enough. Perhaps he blamed her for not closing the garage door, for allowing the snow to drift in and make him skid. He didn’t say anything, and neither did she. They hardly spoke to each other in the days that followed the death of their beloved only child.

  Josie felt as if her body was a bloody open wound that would never heal. She was sore all over, and her head threatened to explode with unbearable grief. Sometimes it was impossible to believe that it had happened, impossible. She would go into Laura’s room and expect to find her asleep in the white glossy bed or arranging her dolls in a row so that she could give them a lesson. But the room would be empty, the truth would assault her like a physical blow and she would double up, clutching her stomach, as the awareness sank in that she would never see her daughter again.

  Their grief was suffered separately and alone. Josie slept in the spare room. During the day Jack remained in his study, the typewriter silent. He had shrunk inside his clothes, and they hung loosely on his rapidly thinning frame. She never glimpsed him without a drink in his hand, yet he appeared to be stone cold sober. She never asked, and he never said, where he’d been during the time he was away.

  The house in Bingham Mews was put on the market to be sold fully furnished. They couldn’t live there any more, it held too many bad memories. Jack was returning to New York, Josie to Liverpool. She would go first, and he would wait until the house found a buyer. People had already been to look round, and several had expressed interest.

  ‘According to the estate agent, we’ll make a profit.’ Jack’s thin lips quivered in what might have been a smile. ‘It’s worth thousands more than we paid. I’ll finish off the mortgage and send you what’s over.’

  ‘I don’t want a penny,’ Josie said quickly. It would feel like blood money. That night she tore up the chequebook for their joint account and threw it away. She had enough money in her bag for the fare to Liverpool. Once there, she’d start again on her own.

  ‘As you wish,’ Jack said dully.

  Elsie Forrest was distraught. She had loved Laura deeply. ‘I felt like her grandma,’ she sobbed. ‘As if she were partly mine.’

  ‘She loved you, too.’ There would be other children for Elsie to love, but not for her, Josie thought bitterly. Laura was her one and only child. She would never have another.

  She was grateful Elsie was willing to clear the house of their possessions. ‘What about the dishes, the cutlery, all your lovely ornaments and pictures?’ Elsie wanted to know.

  ‘I don’t give a damn what happens to them,’ Josie said listlessly. Her suitcase was already packed with a few clothes, a few photographs.

  Charlotte had been a tower of strength. It was Charlotte who telephoned Mrs Kavanagh to relay the tragic news, because Josie couldn’t possibly have done it.

  ‘I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel, my dear, dear Josie,’ Mrs Kavanagh had written. ‘Your friend said you’re coming back to Liverpool. You know you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you wish.’

  It was her last day in Bingham Mews. The house had been sold. The final contract would be signed shortly. She said goodbye to Charlotte and promised to write, though she knew she never would. She made the same promise to Elsie, avoiding the woman’s kind, worried eyes.

  Jack was in his study when she went to bed. Tomorrow they would say goodbye for ever, and she wasn’t sure if she could stand it. If only they’d stayed in New York. The ‘if onlys’ could go right back to the start of time. If only she hadn’t worked for Louisa, she wouldn’t have gone to America in the first place. If only she hadn’t wanted to say goodbye to Tommy, then Mam wouldn’t have been in the Prince Albert when the bomb struck.

  ‘Comfort me,’ Jack was saying in a muffled voice which was almost a sob. ‘Comfort me, sweetheart. Say you forgive me. I already hate myself enough without knowing that you hate me, too.’ He began to weep. ‘I want to die, Josie. I want to die.’

  At first Josie thought she was dreaming, that it was part of yet another nightmare, but when she opened her eyes Jack was kneeling beside the bed.

  Without hesitation she put her arms around his neck and drew him to her. ‘I don’t hate you, Jack,’ she whispered. ‘I know you would never have done anything to hurt our darling Laura.’

  ‘I adored her,’ he wept.

  ‘I know, luv.’ She patted his back, as if he were a child. ‘We both did.’

  ‘I love you, sweetheart.’ She had never heard such anguish in a voice before. ‘Can’t we try and get through this together? Come back with me to New York. Please, Josie.’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head implacably. It was easy to dispense forgiveness, but she would never cease to blame him for Laura’s death. If he hadn’t been so childish, so foolish, as to disappear, Laura would be fast asleep in her room now. ‘I don’t think it would work,’ was all she said. Then she herself began to cry, and it was Jack’s turn to comfort her, to take her in his arms, stroke her cheek and kiss her eyes and say that she was his lovely girl, his sweetheart, and he was sorry, so sorry, for the way he had behaved, because he loved her more than words could possibly say.

  ‘Remember the night we met?’ he said huskily.

  ‘I’ll never forget it, Jack.’

  He kissed her, and she felt his lips quiver against her own. Incredibly, her body began to respond. Little hot darts of desire coursed through her veins, and she pressed herself against him, while all thoughts of everything fled from her brain, and all she wanted was for Jack to take her, swallow her up, so she would no longer exist.

  There was something raw and uninhibited about the way they made love, something desperate and tragic, as if they were the only two people left in a world that was about to explode in one last almighty bang.

  Afterwards, they clung to each other silently for a long while. Then Jack took her face in both hands and pressed a final kiss against her trembling lips. ‘Goodbye, sweetheart. I won’t be around when you leave in the morning.’

  ‘Goodbye, Jack.’

  Josie lay against the pillows and watched him leave. The door closed, and she slid under the bedclothes, sobbing uncontrollably. It was a long time before she fell into a restless, jerky sleep. At one point she woke up when she banged her arm against the wall, and a thought drifted through her head – Jack hadn’t used anything when they’d made love. But she wasn’t likely to conceive, not like that first time in his apartment. Her body felt barren, as juiceless and dead as the plants she’d pulled from Louisa’s garden.

  She looked at her watch. A quarter past six. This time tonight she would be in Liverpool. For good.

  Princes Avenue

  1960–1961

  1

  Josie had been back in Liverpool a week, living with the Kavanaghs, and had no idea what to do with herself. She
felt as if her body had seized up, like pipes in winter. She couldn’t read, she couldn’t watch television and conversation was impossible. Lily came to see her, as did Daisy and Marigold. She could hear them speak, but the meaning went over her head.

  She regretted her impulsive decision to tear up her cheque-book, because she had no money. When she telephoned the bank in London to ask for another, the joint account had been closed. Although Jack was the last person she wanted to talk to, she telephoned Bingham Mews, and was perversely disappointed when there was no reply. She called several more times over the next few days, and eventually Elsie Forrest answered.

  ‘Jack’s gone, dear.’ Elsie’s voice was husky with sadness. ‘He signed the final contract the other day. I’m just giving the place a final going over. The new people move in tomorrow.’

  He’d gone! Her heart turned over, and she knew she had made a terrible mistake. ‘Did he leave an address?’

  ‘No, dear. He didn’t know where he would be living. He said it might not be New York. He mentioned California.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you, Elsie.’ She rang off before Elsie could ask how she was, how was she feeling, how was she coping.

  Everyone thought she was coping extraordinarily well. ‘Gosh, I’d be devastated, me,’ Lily had said. Or something like that. Only a tiny part of Josie’s brain was working, the part that coped with getting dressed, getting washed, getting from one room to another, and now money.

  It was ironic because last week she’d had hundreds of pounds at her disposal and now there was only a few pounds left. She was almost grateful to have something important to concentrate on. It meant she’d have to find a job and support herself, which had been her intention all along, she recalled.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not too soon, luv?’ Mrs Kavanagh said cautiously when Josie brought up the subject of work.

  ‘It will always be too soon, but I need to occupy me mind.’

  The older woman looked dubious. ‘You’re not letting yourself grieve properly, Josie. I haven’t heard you cry once. You need to let go, get everything out of your system. Once that’s done, you’ll find time will heal.’

  ‘I daren’t let go,’ Josie said simply. ‘I’d go mad if I did. I try to pretend it didn’t happen. Not that Laura isn’t dead, but that she never existed, that I never had her, that I never met Jack. It’s seems the easiest way.’

  ‘That won’t work, luv. You’ll have to grieve some time.’

  ‘It’s worked so far.’

  She found a job with relative ease, with a builder, Spencer & Sons, in Toxteth, no distance from Huskisson Street where she’d lived with Mam. They wanted someone straight away.

  ‘The missus usually looks after the paperwork.’ Sid Spencer had interviewed her in the office, a wooden shed in the corner of the yard where the materials were kept. He was fiftyish, with a tough, kind, weatherbeaten face and an expansive grey moustache. She liked him immediately. ‘But now all three of me lads are in with me, and work’s growing all the time. Chrissie gets herself in a right ould tizzy. She can only type with two fingers, and me books are in a terrible mess. I don’t know what’s been paid, or what hasn’t, or if a bill was sent out in the first place.’ He indicated the desk, plied high with pieces of paper. ‘Nothing’s been filed for months.’

  ‘I’ll sort things out for you.’ She welcomed something she could concentrate all her attention on. The typewriter was a Remington, relatively modern, and there was a two-bar electric fire and an electric kettle. The shed was warm and cosy, and she could make tea whenever she felt like it. It was far better than a carpeted office, an officious boss breathing down her neck, other women who’d want to talk.

  Sid coughed, embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t expecting someone as posh as you after the job, luv. You look like the secretary to a millionaire. I’m afraid the lavvy’s outside. There’s only the one, and it’s in a disgusting state. I’ll get one of the lads to clean it up and put a bolt on the inside.’

  ‘I just want a job, any job,’ Josie said quietly. ‘And the pay’s good.’ She probably looked overdressed in the only coat she’d brought with her – camel with a fur collar, which she’d got in the Kings Road, and brown suede boots. Her handbag had cost more than she would be earning in a week.

  ‘Well, if something comes up in a nice, plush office, I’ll understand if you leave, luv.’

  ‘I won’t leave.’

  She put her mind and all her energy into the new job: made new files, giving one to each of the jobs in hand; typed orders, quotations, invoices, the occasional letter, and dealt with calls from customers, mainly wanting to know why someone hadn’t turned up as faithfully promised to instal a new bathroom or lay a new floor, or when on earth they would finish the extension started weeks ago – there’d been so sign of a bloody workman in days.

  Sorting through the papers, trying to tie quotations to invoices to payments received, Josie discovered that Sid was owed over five hundred pounds. ‘And you paid the builders merchants twice for those sheets of plywood you ordered last November.’

  Sid was thrilled. ‘That’s enough to pay your wages for over a year. You’re worth your weight in gold, Josie, luv.’ He looked at her respectfully. Josie sometimes felt like the employer, not the employee. His three curly-haired sons, Colin, Terry and Little Sid, called her ‘miss’.

  Chrissie Spencer came to inspect the paragon of a secretary her husband had hired. It was during Josie’s second week, just before dinner time. She was a glamorous woman with dyed blonde hair and a good-natured face, wearing a beaver lamb coat over a smart tweed costume. ‘I got done up in me bezzie clothes, so’s not to feel at a disadvantage, like,’ she grinned. ‘Sid ses you turn up looking like a fashion model every day. All he does is go on and on about you. Every time he ses “Josie”, I want to scream. D’you fancy a cup of tea, luv? It’s bitter outside.’

  ‘I’ve already had five this morning, but I wouldn’t mind another.’

  ‘And where’s Mr Coltrane?’ Chrissie asked.

  ‘In America. We’re separated.’

  ‘Really!’ She looked over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. ‘You were married to a Yank?’

  Josie nodded, dreading that the next question would be about children because she didn’t know how to answer. Instead, Chrissie asked, ‘D’you take sugar, luv?’

  ‘No, ta.’

  She brought the tea. ‘Here you are, luv, a nice hot cuppa. Where is it you’re living? Sid said you’re staying with friends.’

  ‘Childwall, but I’m looking for a place of me own.’ She yearned to be alone, ached for it. The Kavanaghs couldn’t possibly have been nicer or more sympathetic, but she felt in the way. They turned off the television if something funny was on, and Marigold hadn’t brought her children round once since Josie had come to stay. Lily’s pregnancy was never mentioned. Everyone was treading on eggshells, all because of her. Josie felt as if she’d cast a blight on their normally happy, easygoing life.

  And she wanted to be alone for her own sake, so she wouldn’t have to put up a front. She could look as miserable as she felt, get up in the middle of the night, do things, make tea when she couldn’t sleep, which was most nights, rather than creep around, worried she’d wake someone up.

  ‘You should ask Sid, luv,’ Chrissie said helpfully. ‘He’s just done up this great big house in Princes Avenue for some property company, turned it into flats, like. You never know, one of ’em might do you.’

  ‘I’ll ask Sid next time I see him.’

  Sid had a key to the house in Princes Avenue. ‘Have a look round, luv, it’s only five minutes’ walk. It’s empty, I’ve still got bits and bobs to do. I’d take you meself, but if I don’t get on with Mrs Ancram’s kitchen, she’ll do her bloody nut.’

  Josie went at dinner time. Princes Avenue was wide and stately, with a line of trees running down the centre. Like Huskisson Street, the houses had been owned by the Liverpool wealthy – importers and exporters, owners of shipping compa
nies and factories. Josie could tell by the different curtains on each floor that most had now been turned into flats.

  The house she was looking for was dark red brick, semi-detached, huge, with a wild, overgrown garden that showed signs of once having been carefully cultivated. The massive front door was freshly painted black, with three stained-glass panels in the upper half. There was a row of bells, seven altogether, she counted, with a little blank space beside each for a name. She found the lock stiff and awkward when she tried to turn the key. Once inside, she slipped the latch in case she couldn’t get out. Although the February day was dull, the hall and the wide, elegant staircase were speckled with vivid spots of colour from the stained glass. The woodwork was cream, the walls a pale coffee colour. Sid had said the owners intended to carpet the communal areas. ‘It won’t be let to riff-raff’ he’d said. ‘You’re just the sort they want. I’ll put in a word if you’re interested.’

  There were doors left and right. Josie opened the one on the right. The flat consisted of two immense rooms, a small kitchen and bathroom. The one opposite was identical. Sid had left the original fireplaces and painted the elaborately moulded ceilings white. On the first and second floors the rooms were just as large, the fireplaces and windows smaller. The walls were the same pale coffee colour as the hall, the woodwork cream.

  Her footsteps echoed eerily through the empty, unfurnished rooms, and the higher she went the narrower the stairs became. Steep steps, no wider than a ladder, led to the third floor and a doll’s-house door which she had to stoop to get through, to discover an attic that had been given an entirely new floor and dormer window at the back.