The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I know,’ Lucy repeated. ‘And when they’ve all finished with exams and what have you they can be shown copies of the truth if I so decide. Until then, it’s enough for them to have an absentee mother – the rest can wait. I don’t want them confused. Let them blame me for now.’

  Glenys disagreed, though she had voiced her opinions too many times. The Henshaws’ offspring should be told everything right away. Even now, Lucy was placing herself on a shelf marked Unimportant, was allowing herself to wear the villain’s hat. But the urge to speak overcame Glenys yet again. ‘What if Lizzie leaves RADA to come home and look after her dad? What if Paul gives up pharmacy and Mike abandons his history degree? That husband of yours can’t even boil an egg. One or all of the kids might decide to stay at home to take care of their father.’

  ‘They won’t give up their education.’ Lucy placed the cat in a brand new basket bought this very afternoon from a place on St John’s Road. The shops she had discovered were brilliant, the people had been helpful, and life had worn a pretty dress today. This was a good place. It had welcomed incomers for centuries, and all were treated the same. She had been told how to get to Bootle Strand, to Sainsbury’s, to a Tesco on the Formby bypass. ‘Yer’ll be all right, queen,’ one old lady had said. ‘We’ve our fair share of criminals, like, same as everywhere else, but you’ll settle.’

  ‘So you’re going to live downstairs?’ Glenys asked.

  ‘I think so. I can let six rooms, but the boxroom’s like a big cupboard. That can be for linen – towels and sheets and so forth.’

  ‘Right. And you won’t go back to nursing?’

  Lucy smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m hardly up to date with current practices, am I? If I returned to hospital nursing, they’d need to retrain me for years – not worth it. And I don’t think I could stand the noise. No. I’ll live and work here, and I’ll employ a couple of locals.’ A tanker was drifting into port. The new owner of Stoneyhurst stood at the window and watched the scene. ‘I’ll be fine here,’ she said. ‘When I stuck that pin into the map, God must have guided my hand. The river’s so peaceful.’

  Glenys Barlow made no reply. The Mersey was a notoriously changeable body of water. It had swallowed whole houses in its time, but there was no point in mentioning that. She had done her best to persuade this client and friend to be more open about her intentions, to sue the bastard she had married, but Lucy was stubborn enough to stick to her guns. At least she held the guns, and all were fully loaded. With that, the lawyer was forced to be satisfied.

  *

  Lucy decided to make her apologies before chaos began. She penned notes to neighbours on both sides, informing them of her intentions and promising that noise would cease by five in the afternoon, and would not begin until after nine o’clock in the morning. Since they had raised no objections when advised by Glenys of Lucy’s plan to open a guest house, she hoped they wouldn’t be fazed by the promised disturbances, but she was determined to be polite. As an invader, she needed to be courteous.

  After posting the notes, she returned to Stoneyhurst, pausing for a moment to admire the heavy front door. This was a well-built house, which description could scarcely be applied to the flimsy structures her husband had erected all over Lancashire. He was a cheat, a liar and a fraud, and she was by no means his only victim. Once his houses started to fall down, he’d be up to his neck in the smelly stuff. He would kill himself, though not quickly; he would drink until he fell into the grave.

  So here she was: new beginning, clean sheet, to hell with him. Bed and breakfast was no easy option, though. Already, there were fire regulations, a possible inspection of the kitchen, and a list of dos and don’ts as long as her arm. She could do without upsetting the neighbours, and—

  No sooner was she back in her own hallway than the doorbell rang. She turned, reopened the door she had just shut behind her and found a tall, handsome man outside. Without saying a word, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down the steps. Was she being kidnapped? Was the cat shut safely in the kitchen? But no, Lucy was dragged into the house next door, so it wasn’t kidnap. At last, the man released his hold. ‘Can you deal with the top half?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘It was a pretty bad fall. I’ll get her legs. There’s nothing broken.’

  A woman lay on the parquet floor. Nearby, a walking stick had fallen next to a coat stand, while slippers had clearly parted company somewhat abruptly with feet and with each other, as one was near the cane, while the second had landed against a door in the opposite wall. The woman was sweating profusely, and her spectacles, their lenses misted over, were perched at a rakish angle on her face. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Moira.’

  ‘Louisa, but usually Lucy. I take it you’ve fallen downstairs? How many stairs?’

  Moira nodded. ‘Four or five. He can’t manage me any more. Not by himself, anyway. He’s getting older and I’m getting fatter. It’s the bloody steroids.’

  The he in question sighed heavily. ‘She won’t do as she’s told, I’m sad to say. She just wants to make me look a failure, don’t you? Why don’t you shout when you need help?’

  Moira giggled like a child. The sound didn’t match the body on the floor, as this was a woman well into middle age, yet she acted like a young girl. Lucy thought she knew the reason. It was, she suspected, an attempt at bravery, a stab at separating the illness from the sufferer. Moira wanted to be seen as a person rather than as a bundle of cells attached to some disease, so she giggled and tried to stay young and well in her head. Sometimes, life was excessively cruel.

  Between them, Lucy and the man dragged the patient to a sofa. ‘Dump her here,’ he said almost cheerfully. ‘I’ll nail her to the blessed couch – it’s the only way, I’m afraid.’ He stood back and placed a hand on the mantelpiece. ‘Lucy,’ he said, ‘thank you for the note. Feel free to make as much noise as you like, because you’ll keep this one awake during the day, then I’ll get some sleep at night.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger,’ said Moira. ‘It was you kept me awake when we were first married, eh? It’s the other way round these days – and no sex, Lucy. Who wants sex with a woman who’s doubly incontinent?’

  The intruder felt her cheeks reddening. Scousers, she was discovering fast, were very open. They called a spade a bloody shovel, and if someone disapproved, they could dig with their bare hands. ‘I … er …’

  ‘Multiple sclerosis,’ said the husband. ‘I’m Richard Turner.’

  ‘Dr Richard Turner,’ announced his wife, who was still prone on the sofa. ‘But he can’t cure me. Can you, Rich?’

  There was tension in the room, and Lucy sensed it more acutely with every passing beat of time. It was as if Moira blamed her husband for her condition, yet … yet there was a kind of love here. But physical love could no longer be expressed, and the woman was upset, while the man was probably frustrated.

  ‘Surgery and waiting room are at the other side of the hall,’ he explained. ‘I have to work from home, since Moira can’t be left to her own devices.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘You can see for yourself what happens if I close my eyes for a moment.’

  ‘What about your home visits?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘A nurse comes in sometimes to cover for me,’ he replied. ‘And we have a cleaner built like the Titanic – though I can’t imagine any self-respecting iceberg daring to confront her. She’s fierce. She’s also retiring soon, because this one has probably worn her out. Even the Titanic goes down. She was a powerful woman till she came up against my wife.’

  ‘Deadly,’ agreed Moira. ‘Drags me round like a piece of jetsam dumped to make room for something better. You’re not from these parts, are you?’

  Lucy hesitated. ‘Lancashire,’ she said.

  Moira marked the pause. Because she was confined to a wheelchair, she watched life rather more closely than most, and had become a collector of people. This woman was in trouble. She might well cause trouble too, since Richard seemed quite taken with the new neighbour. Lucy was tall,
elegant and well dressed. And she tried unsuccessfully to conceal a chest that was probably magnificent. Richard was handsome, lonely and, at the moment, hormonal. After twenty-seven years of marriage, Moira knew her man well. He needed sex and was attracted to Lucy, who would be living next door. ‘Husband?’ she asked.

  ‘Deceased.’

  The invalid noted the lie. Lucy’s eyes betrayed her, which probably meant that she was an honest woman who had been forced into a difficult position. ‘Children?’ was her next question.

  ‘Grown and flown.’ Lucy folded her arms. Over the years, she had been forced to become used to people staring at her upper body. She usually wore loose clothes, but this attempt at disguise could not save her from unwelcome scrutiny. Even the doctor was having trouble pretending not to look at Lucy’s 34E breasts. Well, if everyone could experience for just one day the nuisance caused by large mammaries, they’d think again. Bras needed wide straps, because narrow ones dug channels in her shoulders. She suffered backache, neck-ache and even face-ache if she tried to smile through the discomfort. Had she not feared the knife, Lucy would have got rid of her extra flesh years ago.

  ‘Have you registered with a GP?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Not yet. But I’m used to a female doctor.’

  ‘My partner’s a woman,’ he said. ‘Celia. She’s part time. Not a part time woman, a part time—’

  ‘Doctor,’ Moira chimed in.

  ‘Oh. Right. I’ll think about it.’ Lucy fled the scene and bolted her front door. ‘What happened there?’ she asked the cat when she reached the kitchen. The cat simply twitched his tail and began a long monologue that was probably a complaint of some kind. ‘Oh, Smokey.’ Lucy picked up the heavy animal. ‘What are we to do?’ She didn’t want a doctor so close, was worried about having a doctor at all, because they all knew each other, didn’t they? And her notes, from Bolton, would very likely say more than Lucy wanted anyone to know.

  Next door, Richard Turner stood with his back to Moira and his gaze fixed on the river. He felt as guilty as sin, because he could no longer show love to the woman he had married. She had been a beautiful, tiny girl with a waist so small that his hands had spanned it. The more ill she became, the more he was forced to retreat. He could not manage to desire a person whose soiled underclothing he was sometimes forced to change. And the way she behaved was often embarrassing, as she carried on like a spoilt only child with doting parents who allowed her all her own way. Yet he did love her so much … Oh, what a bloody mess.

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘What?’ He didn’t turn.

  ‘She’s got magnificent assets.’

  ‘Who?’ He knew that the skin on his face had reddened.

  ‘Lucy.’

  He lowered his head. He had loved Moira for as long as he could remember – since his teenage years. ‘Behave yourself,’ he said eventually. ‘And stop trying to find concubines for me.’ At last, he turned. ‘I love you. There’s more to life than sex.’ That was his brain speaking, but the rest of him craved … oh, well. Best not to think about all the other stuff. Like the warmth of a woman, the sweetness emerging from between parted lips, his hand on a breast, on a belly— ‘There’s more to life,’ he repeated.

  ‘There has to be,’ she replied sharply. ‘Because you can’t make love to a woman in a nappy. So how have you been managing?’

  He shrugged and, as ever, was honest with her. ‘A few one-night stands with women I’ve met online. And a quick fumble with one of the temporary practice nurses – it came to nothing. But it has to be somebody for whom I only feel desire – no more than that. I can’t get involved.’

  ‘Why?’

  He walked across the room. ‘Because you’re my wife in sickness and in health, you daft cow – it’s in the bloody contract. Because we have three children and, with luck, we’ll be grandparents in the fullness of time.’

  Moira struggled to sit still. The shakes had started again, and there was no way of controlling her hands. ‘I can’t feel anything any more, Rich. Only pain, no pleasure. Even if I’m clean, it must be like making love to a side of beef. I don’t need to remind you that secondary progressive means no more remissions.’ She swallowed with difficulty. ‘You’re relatively young, and you need to sort this out, prepare for the time when I’m no longer here.’

  ‘Stop this. I mean it, Moira.’

  She laughed. ‘Is there nothing like a pizza parlour? You know how people phone if they want food – don’t they deliver thin crust or thick crust women with or without anchovies?’

  When she wasn’t being childish, she was priceless. He saw the crippled woman, heard the clever soul within. ‘With or without chips?’ he asked.

  ‘Without. Get a side salad. So, you want a busty woman with good legs and an undressed salad. Keep your figure, love.’

  Sometimes, he needed to weep and scream. He wanted his Moira back, and he knew he would never get that. These days, she was barely capable of swallowing food, and he feared that she might choke to death. Her breathing was impaired and she couldn’t walk any distance without becoming completely exhausted or falling on the floor.

  ‘I’ll love you just as well if you take a mistress, Richard.’

  He was definitely a breast-and-legs man. Lucy Henshaw had two of each, and all four seemed to be in excellent condition. She also wore the air of a woman who had not been touched for some time. Children grown and flown? She didn’t look old enough for—

  ‘Rich?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just want you to be absolutely sure that whatever, whoever or wherever, I’ll understand. But be careful. There’s a lot of disease out there.’

  ‘I know.’ He closed his eyes and pictured his beloved wife in her wedding gown, plain satin, yellow and white flowers dripping from her hands all the way to her shoes, hair loose in heavy waves down her back. He hadn’t wanted her to put it up. The severity of her clothing had served to emphasize that hourglass figure. She had been and would always be the most beautiful bride in the world. It was so damnably clumsy, this wretched disease. Steroids had affected her badly, and she had gained weight at a terrifying rate, so those particular drugs were used only in the direst of emergencies. The problem lay in the fact that emergencies were frequent these days.

  Sex had been important to both of them, and fate had now removed any chance of physical closeness. It felt akin to bereavement, because a vital part of their marriage had been killed off by an enemy that could not be defeated.

  ‘Richard?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Was I thinking aloud?’

  She shook her head. ‘Only I can hear it, darling. The rest of the world is deaf.’ If she tried now, she might manage. Sometimes, her hands were almost cooperative, and she could just about find the strength to use pestle and mortar. Anyway, the coffee-grinder would make short work of it. The happy pills. A sheet of eight was all she needed, but she’d take a damned sight more – who wanted to survive with a buggered liver? They’d need to be crushed, as swallowing was hard and needed concentration. Everything did. People breathed without thinking, ate without thinking, walked and talked without worrying. Sometimes, she didn’t even have control of her speech.

  She looked at him. Love was a strange thing. It meant needing to die before he did, knowing that she daren’t choose an obvious way of self-disposal, because that would break him. Yes, her suicide would kill him, too. And with him being a doctor, the powers could blame him, pin murder via overdose on him—

  ‘Moira?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stop it.

  It worked both ways. She could almost hear his thoughts, but he was similarly gifted – or cursed. When it came to theory, Richard was of the opinion that every man and woman owned his or her own life. Suicide was not always wrong, and he was of the school that approved of assisted and heavily supervised exit.

  But when it came to Moira, he was seriously prejudiced and out of his dept
h. He knew that the time had come – he would have to hide her drugs. And he suddenly thought again about the theory of dignified death. As long as it was someone other than Moira, it was a good idea. Yet all those someones had relatives who didn’t want the sufferer to kill him or herself. He’d been wrong. Again.

  ‘I don’t want to die in Switzerland,’ she said. ‘Or to endure a life in a wheelchair with my head clamped back so that it won’t droop, and a tube into my stomach, and oxygen on tap—’

  ‘I know, love.’

  He didn’t know. No one could possibly understand the dread that accompanied her from day to day along the pathway to perdition. It was hard work pretending not to care, carrying on as if she’d never felt better in her life. Only another sufferer would have an idea of the thoughts that circled in her head like buzzards searching for carrion. And there was more than one way to skin a cat. It didn’t need to be pills, didn’t need to be here. But it had to be soon, while she could still drive her motorized chair. The Liverpool–Southport line had three or four level crossings nearby. No one would blame him if she arrived home squashed. It needed to look like an accident. He would accept an accident.

  ‘Don’t leave me, Moira.’

  She grinned. ‘Remember the first time I went out in my trolley? I ran over a traffic warden, a woman’s shopping and a post office. Mind, the post office hardly had a dent in it. I wish I could say the same for the warden’s foot and that poor woman’s eggs.’

  He left the room. She could hear him sniffing back tears in the hall. Then her eyes closed and she was gone. They were running into the sea in Cornwall, chasing waves, being chased by waves. Every night in that huge hotel bed, talking, loving, talking again. And all the time, something followed them. Sometimes it was a shadow, a pale thing that hung back whenever she turned. But it grew. It came closer, its colour darkened and consumed her, and she was back in Liverpool with the children and …