For the second time that day, Lucy acted on a whim. She draped a cardigan over her shoulders and walked over to the next house. ‘I couldn’t have slept,’ she told Richard, when he opened the door. ‘She acted out of love for you, but I had to nip her idea in the bud, because other people might react in a different way. I understand her fear, and I appreciate your position, but she goes too far.’
‘And you told your sons.’
‘Of course. I have nowhere else to turn. For years, I kept my children behind a safety curtain. They’re now adults, and they will protect me just as I protected them.’
He sighed heavily. ‘I’m not a rapist, Lucy.’
‘No. You’re an attractive man with humour and wit – and a wife. I suggest you channel your surplus energies in her direction, because life isn’t just about your demands and expectations. Many men have to manage life without a woman. Are you so weak? How stupid can one doctor manage to be?’ She heard herself, yet scarcely believed that she was saying the words. ‘Look after her, Richard. She loves you enough to go to any lengths to keep you happy. But put a stop to this behaviour, because it could land either or both of you in serious trouble.’
She found Moira weeping in the sitting room. ‘Moira?’
‘Lucy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—’
‘Shut up for a minute, will you? The disease you have makes you vulnerable in many ways – it’s not just physical. You love him enough to give him away, and that’s a huge sacrifice, but you can’t arrange the future – none of us can. I’m not prepared to lose you. You’ve helped me so much. You’ve given me strength and – hey – I can almost paint a tree!’
Moira dried her eyes. ‘Your trees look as if they died in the Chernobyl disaster.’
‘Yeah, but they’re getting better.’
‘Are they? I can’t say I’ve noticed. Lucy?’
‘What?’
‘Be my friend.’
‘I’ll always be that, Moira. I shouldn’t have slammed out of your house earlier. What is he, after all? Just another man. In my scheme of things, they are there, and we have to cope with them. He’s no more important than the next fellow, love. You didn’t get ill on purpose, did you? And you’re acting like his mother, for God’s sake. Leave him to his own devices. You know, sweetheart, you’ve done more harm than good. I was becoming fond of him until you forced the issue. So, in future, think before you speak.’
Moira managed a slight smile. ‘You’ve always thought too much before speaking. Until now. Am I right?’
Lucy nodded. ‘Spot on.’
Outside in the hall, Richard Turner trimmed the conversation he had overheard until it contained just six words. ‘I was becoming fond of him,’ she had said. He opened the door to his surgery, walked to his desk, and stared across at the chair in which patients sat during consultations. Should any one of them turn up and describe symptoms like his own, he would possibly make an appointment with a psychiatrist. ‘You are obsessed,’ he told himself quietly. ‘And her breasts are magnificent. So, you have a magnificent obsession. And that’s a film you saw with your wife.’
Moira was not stupid. He should never have used that word, because she was having trouble with memory, with acting appropriately, with life itself. But what she failed to understand was that his interest in the woman next door had deepened. Yes, it was sexual, but he was falling in love with more than a body. Lucy was a good woman, his kind of woman. Moira wouldn’t mind if he slept with her, but she might create a fuss if he fell down into the unfathomable depths of real love.
So he did what he’d been doing for a fortnight. ‘Just going back to check on that terminal old lady,’ he called to his wife before leaving the house.
The old lady was not a patient, was neither old nor a lady, and was very much alive. She was thirty-two years old, firm of flesh and morally lax, and she was his release. This would be his second visit today, but he needed her. A brassy blonde, she had no idea of Richard’s real identity, and she was excellent in the sack. She was his sanity.
Four
Days and weeks passed. Lucy Henshaw found herself to be in an interesting condition. Didn’t that mean pregnant, she reflected as she made her bed. In which case, she would rename her condition fascinating. Yes, that was quite a good word. She couldn’t get pregnant, anyway. It wasn’t just because of her age; it was a choice she had made after the birth of Elizabeth. She feared the knife, but she’d feared pregnancy more, and had opted for tubal ligation. Yes, fascinating was definitely a better term, since her days of being in an interesting condition were long gone.
Two men were in love with her. Well, it probably wasn’t real love on the part of either of them just yet, but she had apparently been reborn in the forty-sixth year of her life. She’d had a renaissance, had gone from frumpy to desirable simply by changing her address. It certainly added a slight frisson to her existence, because David was on the phone every day, while Richard was pretending to have lost interest.
A man who lost interest was interesting. She was using the word a great deal this morning, and was in danger of wearing it out, but it was apt. Richard Turner always left the house in a hurry when surgery was finished, as he needed to visit people who were confined to their homes. Until lately, he had looked for her, always giving a smile and a wave if he caught sight of her. Now he had lost interest – that word again.
He stared at the ground while he walked to his car, and though his face might not care whether or not Lucy was visible, the back of his neck betrayed him daily. It was an unusual colour, slightly north of pink, a short distance south of bright red, but it was definitely not normal. He was afraid of her. She didn’t want him to be afraid. All she wanted was the respect due to her, which she’d certainly never got from the man she had married.
He scuttered round the car, bent rather too low when opening the door, and drove off at a speed that spoke volumes about his need to escape. ‘Behaving like a criminal in the getaway car,’ she told her image in the mirror. ‘And you have changed, madam. You, Miss Proper, are advertising yourself very boldly.’
Oh, yes, she had changed, all right. Gone were the loose blouses and huge don’t-look-at-me cardigans. She had invested in some top-of-the-range bras and a few pairs of Bridget Jones-style undergarments that had enjoyed, during their manufacturing days, a passing relationship with something called Spandex. They weren’t belly-crunchers, so they were probably second cousins several times removed from corsetry, but they emphasized her shape. It was time to become proud of her hourglass figure. The world was full of stick insects, and Lucy had decided to stand out from the crowd. And she certainly stood out, especially at mezzanine level. Hating her own body was a thing of the past; she would embrace herself, embrace life and live it to the full.
Like a silly teenager, she was enjoying herself, preening from time to time, looking at designer clothes and bags. She’d always had a good wardrobe, but she was now investing in a capsule collection to which she added something or other almost every week. It was hardly a capsule now; it was more a complete pharmacy with a full complement of treatments, lotions and potions. Her skin was smoother and less wrinkled, as she was working with expensive creams to achieve a better appearance. If she wasn’t satisfied, she knew where to go for Botox, though she did hold reservations when it came to something that sounded suspiciously akin to botulism.
She named the cause of all these symptoms the butterfly syndrome. Some people were grey, dull caterpillars for a very long time, but after a period of metamorphosis they emerged as Painted Ladies, beautiful creatures with splendid colours on their wings. ‘You have hidden your light not under a bushel, but under a cardigan. From this day forth, cardigans are for cold days.’
Yet the main changes in Lucy were hidden ones. She was relaxed, positive and almost unafraid. The mouse she once was could never have been so forthright about the Richard and Moira situation. That tiny rodent would have run away, but the new Lucy caused Richard to do the running. ‘I
n control of myself at last.’ But she didn’t want to control others, didn’t wish to become like her soon-to-be-ex-husband. The quiet life would suit her very well. In just days, she looked better than she had in years – felt better, too. At last, she was winning. Soon, business people would sleep and eat breakfast in her house.
Work in Stoneyhurst was travelling along at speed. It was becoming increasingly plain that she still needed to provide for her children, so her bed and breakfast accommodation had been whittled away until she could take only a handful of guests. It didn’t matter any more. For the first time ever, she was enjoying a sensation named freedom. It was wonderful. But she must get cleaners. This place was far too big to be tackled by one woman, and Lucy liked company – the sort of company that went home after work. And she needed to think about Moira next door, as her long-term carer was about to disappear into Wordsworth country.
After watching Richard drive off, Lucy made the daily phone call. It was her duty to ask how her husband was faring, since she was paying all his bills. He was settling. That meant he was sedated so that he wouldn’t rant and rage for a bottle of whisky. Heart surgery would be happening soon, probably tomorrow. He had lost enough weight, and his chances of survival were improved. What the hell was she going to do about him? He was a human being, and she couldn’t simply eradicate him from her life.
Today, her wonderful daughter, who had been working for over a month in Manchester, was coming for lunch. She had missed an earlier planned visit, because she had been busy, but she was on her way. The subject of Tallows would be discussed, because David needed an answer. He was expected this evening. The child in Lucy hoped that Richard Turner would notice the handsome visitor. ‘Behave yourself, Louisa,’ she said sharply. She remembered reading somewhere that newly divorced women often went wild, sometimes performing a complete U-turn in the area of character and personality. But Lucy wasn’t divorced just yet. She felt divorced, but that didn’t mean a thing, because she needed the paperwork, the final decree, that passport to absolute liberty, before she was legally free.
The chrysalis had opened, and the butterfly had begun to dry out her wings. But she wasn’t a Painted Lady. Neither was she a Cabbage White. The first implied a lot of make-up, and the second was the colourless character she used to be. Now she found herself able to visit Moira without running away when Richard returned. She talked to him, laughed with them both, and was becoming quite a hard case. The Hard Case butterfly? That sounded as if it had emerged from something wooden, like a coffin. Lively Lucy? No. This new butterfly would be the Coloured Courageous. But she had better keep that to herself, or people might believe she had lost the plot altogether …
He was in prison, and it was a jail of his wife’s making. She had condemned him to this, and he didn’t deserve any of it, because he’d always been a damned hard worker. It wasn’t fair. He’d been a successful property developer, for God’s sake. He didn’t belong here. This place was for losers, failures, drug addicts and … and alcoholics. It was bloody boring, and he wanted to get out.
There were books, TVs, radios, DVD and video players, bars at the windows of his room, and enough staff to preclude the possibility of escape. They kept telling him he was over the worst. What they really meant was that they were over the worst, because he was sedated to the gills, and no longer had the energy to fight his way out of here. There had been a few scenes. The most memorable involved a straitjacket and a needle in his backside, so he’d been forced to calm down. They had some bloody big bouncers here, men who would not have looked out of place in the doorway of one of those seedy clubs in central Manchester.
Time didn’t mean anything. He was given breakfast – fibre-intensive cushion-stuffing with skimmed milk, of course. Lunch was almost always fish with vegetables, while the evening meal was chicken or turkey with salad or more vegetables. He had no idea what day it was, and he was ceasing to care. They were killing him an inch at a time, and he seemed to have been here for ever. He remembered the other hospital, chest pains, machines, and people running about every time his heart monitor went off. There was another memory, but it was vague. Two policemen, a car, flashing lights, and some sort of siren, but it was all mixed up with impressions of Lizzie, Mags, power of attorney and bloody Lucy.
His pyjamas were loose. He could see his feet when he stood up, and that was all very good news for nurses and doctors, but he was being starved to death with malice aforethought. He wouldn’t need the operation, because he’d be long gone by the time his name came up on the list. How many days or weeks had he been in here? No bloody idea. He’d probably be leaving in a wooden overcoat, but who gave a fig? Sleep was his only escape, but even that wasn’t perfect. He had dreams. Most were nightmares, and the few good ones reminded him of what life might have been had he got away with his supposed misdeeds.
No visitors, either. That was, perhaps, a good thing, since even his daughter seemed to have turned against him. He hadn’t seen Lucy since the day on which she’d grabbed power of attorney, while his sons had always stood by their beloved Mums. She’d been so passive and non-confrontational, and her change into a higher gear was something he would never have expected. The most annoying thing was that he had failed to guard himself, because he’d always known that she was a clever bitch underneath all that calm. ‘Bloody women,’ he cursed yet again.
Mr Evans-Jones walked in. So damned full of themselves, flaming surgeons. ‘Go to hell,’ Alan muttered under his breath.
‘Mr Henshaw?’
‘I think so. It was the last time I looked in the mirror, though even I had a job to recognize me. I look like a bloody scarecrow. If you think of it another way, I’m escaping this dump a pound at a time, and you’re doing nothing about it. Don’t bother with a coffin – a plastic bag will do.’
The surgeon sat down. ‘I shall operate on your heart tomorrow, probably in the morning. You’ll be glad to have it over with.’
The item nominated missed a beat or two. ‘Right. So that means no breakfast. I can’t tell you how much I’ll miss the crap you serve in here. It’s a bit like trying to eat your way through a mattress or three. And the milk’s like white water.’
‘The anaesthetist is satisfied with your progress, though it is my duty to tell you that there are always risks. However, those short walks and the gentle exercises have done some good. You will need time to recover, of course, but we expect a good result.’
Did these bods ever listen to anybody? Were they all deaf and ignorant? Alan fixed his eyes on the enemy. ‘Does it never occur to you soft arses that some of us die in our own way? I’d sooner go as pissed as a newt and up to my eyes in fish and chips on the back of a drayman’s cart.’
The doctor answered after a short pause. ‘Then there’s your answer. Go home. I can’t force you to accept this operation.’
‘What?’
‘Withhold your consent for the procedure. Then go home and die. The choice is yours. You would be completely within your rights.’
‘I can’t go home, because I have no bloody home. And if I don’t do as she says, my last weeks on earth will be spent under the arches at Turner Brew. No money, you see. She has it all.’
The surgeon decided that Mrs Henshaw was a sensible woman, though he kept the thought to himself. ‘I shall need to know some time today. This may be a private facility, but I have a list to complete, and I shall have to—’
‘Give it here.’ Alan held out a hand. He opened a drawer and took out a monogrammed Cross fountain pen, signing the consent form with a flourish. ‘Cremate me when you fail to save me,’ he said. ‘No service, just throw my ashes to the winds. Because I don’t give a shit.’
Surgeons were not supposed to have opinions. They dealt in flesh and bone; they could not be expected to communicate with the inert, even when the inert was technically mobile. But sometimes, just sometimes … ‘Mr Henshaw, your wife is paying almost three thousand pounds a month for your residence here. A further nine thousan
d will just about cover the operation, the anaesthetist, theatre time and medications. She is a generous woman.’
‘Oh, bugger off and sharpen your cleaver. I’m past caring.’
‘And you must never, ever drink again,’ was the doctor’s parting remark a moment before he closed the door. Yes. Sometimes, just sometimes, there was a patient who didn’t actually deserve the chance to be saved.
Alan stood at his window. He’d been through one hell of a time, and it wasn’t over. There would be pain, and there would be danger. But yes, it was time to take stock. He had survived a terrible withdrawal. No delirium tremens, no creatures crawling up walls, but physical torture so acute that he had railed and ranted against his wife, his family, God, Davenport Plumbers’ Merchants who always overcharged, Mags for forsaking him, and the man in the next room, who cried most nights.
It was time to be sensible. Tomorrow, he would get the chance for a fresh start. If he survived the surgery, if he kept off the drink, he would go to live with Lucy in Liverpool. Once there, if he behaved himself, he might persuade her to start him up in business again. Nothing strenuous, of course, but something to keep him occupied. A shop, perhaps. No. There was no future for small retail businesses. But he would do something, and he would do it without the support of malt whisky. He had no choice. All his options had been removed, and tomorrow he might die.
Lucy loved to cook for her children. Preparing food for Alan had been no fun, because he would eat just about anything from tripe to caviar without noticing a difference. She could have served shop-bought meat pies at every meal, and he wouldn’t have noticed as long as there were chips. He slurped his drinks, ate with his mouth open and, just as her mother had foretold, behaved like a pig at a trough.
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 9
