The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  He crept downstairs and listened guiltily at the door, which was too thick to allow sound to pass clearly through its panels. After a few moments, he knocked and entered. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I heard a noise and thought I’d better … Is this Lizzie?’

  Lucy nodded and motioned him to sit in an armchair. ‘What’s the matter?’ he mouthed.

  Liz dragged herself out of her mother’s arms. ‘Sorry,’ she sobbed.

  ‘Don’t apologize on my account,’ he said. ‘I was having difficulty sleeping among all this splendour. Brilliant wallpaper,’ he told Lucy. ‘Bold and brave. It works. Now, why is this beautiful girl crying?’

  Liz, slightly calmer, focused on the stranger. ‘Dr Vincent? Glad to meet you, though I’d have preferred to be in a better state. I think I’ve run away. I’m supposed to be in Manchester.’

  ‘I know I’ve run away,’ Lucy said.

  ‘I used a car to get here.’ David smiled at the weeping girl. ‘I gave up running when I stopped playing cricket.’

  ‘He was rubbish at cricket, anyway.’ Lucy stood up and walked into the kitchen. She knew that David would make her daughter feel better; she remembered the kindness he had displayed in childhood.

  Behind her, David addressed her daughter gently. ‘Is this about your dad, Lizzie? Because if it is, that’s perfectly reasonable. You say you’ve run away?’

  She nodded, too upset for speech.

  ‘Sometimes, life’s too hard to face.’

  She blurted it all out to this stranger. The words were crippled by emotion, but she managed to make herself understood. She had to be a trouper, had to go on stage tomorrow no matter what. Except that it was already tomorrow, and she was going to be exhausted. If she phoned the hospital at one and learned that her father was dead, she would be unable to perform, and that would be unprofessional. Even if he didn’t die, he’d be on the edge, fastened down in some high dependency unit – so was she really an actor? The show had to go on, no matter what.

  David listened intently to every word. ‘Your mother has a cleaner starting tomorrow, I believe. To be honest, I find the prospect of this particular woman terrifying, but Louisa will need to be on hand. I’ll go with you to Manchester. I’ll be there in whatever you call the wings when you’re out in the open. You don’t know me, but I knew your mother thirty-five years ago.’

  Lucy entered with mugs of hot chocolate on a tray. ‘Carol Makin can manage without me, David. In fact, if I stayed, she’d be organizing me as if I were an untidy wardrobe. We’ll both come, Lizzie. I’ll make the phone call, and we’ll talk about it after the play.’

  Liz shook her head. ‘No. I have to know right away. Stuff happens all the time to people in the theatre, but they carry on. Because a real performer can march ahead, and—’

  ‘And you’re still a student.’

  ‘The will to continue no matter what – that sort of thing isn’t learned, Mother. It’s either in you or it isn’t. It’s all part of being an actor. An actor wouldn’t need his mother tonight, because he’d be completely wrapped up in tomorrow. I’m too engrossed in my selfishness. It’s not even the idea of his death that’s frightening me – it’s my own pathetic reaction to it. I shouldn’t be so worried about me, should I?’

  ‘And a doctor whose wife has just died shouldn’t be coming over all hare krishna on top of a mountain in India while his son develops leukaemia,’ David said.

  This statement put a stop to Liz’s tears. ‘No,’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘We all have failings. The secret is to learn from them. Hare krishna might have helped me reach a purer state of inner consciousness, but it did nothing for my boy. Might he have been saved? I’ll never know. So. Did you drive here after a panic attack?’

  Liz mopped her eyes with a tissue. ‘I visited my dad. I’ve no illusions about him, but he’s still my father, part of my family. Even when Mother divorces him, he’ll be a huge portion of my history. I don’t want to lose him. He’s shrunk in the past few weeks. He looked ancient. He’s not fifty yet, but he looks about eighty.’

  It took both of them the better part of an hour to calm Liz to the point where she fell asleep on a sofa. Lucy pulled a car rug over her child, then left the room with David. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And I mean that. I’m glad you were there. She needed me for the love, you for the sense. Will you drive tomorrow? I’m a bit jittery, too.’

  ‘Of course I’ll drive. I’ll need to make a couple of calls to get my patients diverted to other doctors, but it’s all doable.’

  She put her arms round his shoulders. ‘You’re a good man, David Vincent. I’m not ready for you yet, but I promise you that when I am I’ll show no mercy. You’re lovely, you are. I managed you when you were a child, and I can manage you now.’

  ‘I would question that,’ he said before attempting a change of subject. ‘Doesn’t she look like Diane? Lizzie, I mean.’

  ‘Yes. I think my sister came back to me in my youngest child. She’s talented, lively and afraid. Whereas you are talented and afraid without the lively bit.’

  ‘And you’re going to be my lively bit?’

  She smiled. ‘I’ll poke a stick through the bars of your cage and see what happens.’

  ‘And if I bite?’

  ‘You’d better.’ She abandoned him and returned to the main job. She was still a mother, and David would keep.

  *

  Sleep eluded Alan. They’d given him something, but it wasn’t going to work. Perhaps the dose was low, as he was to be anaesthetized in the morning. It was two o’clock. In a few hours, he would be a piece of meat on a slab with that bloody Welsh butcher standing over him. Meat. ‘Will I ever taste steak again, will I ever have another cup of tea?’

  Starvation was now total, something to do with the operation. Easterly Grange had always skimped on food, supposedly for his own good, but this was ridiculous. He had no appetite, and he reckoned that was because they had shrunk his stomach to the size of a walnut. He wasn’t afraid, he told himself repeatedly. But he was lying, and he knew he was lying. Death was not a pleasant prospect, but neither was life if he could never have another drink, a smoke, or a decent plate of northern fare.

  The chap next door was moaning again. Night after night he did this, but the staff had been unable to move him. Alan’s room was no longer locked, because he was supposedly through withdrawal, and this was one of his small rewards. He walked into the corridor and listened, an ear against the door behind which the wailing man was parked. Very quietly, he turned the knob and let himself into the room.

  A woman sat next to the bed. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘He’s being shifted upstairs tomorrow, because the rest of you need some peace. You can come in. He won’t know you’re here. Sometimes, he doesn’t know I’m here.’

  Alan closed the door. ‘What’s up with him?’ he asked.

  ‘Brain tumour,’ the woman whispered. ‘They did what they could, but there’s damage and that’s why we’ve had all the crying. He went a bit childlike, and now … What about you?’

  ‘Heart op, nine o’clock. I can’t sleep. Nothing to do with your husband – I think I’ve got used to him, and I have a thing that plays music through headphones. It’s not him. I’m nervous.’

  ‘You must be. I’m Trish, by the way.’

  ‘Alan.’

  They sat and stared at the frail, sick man in the bed. He looked a lot older than his wife, Alan thought. Just a shell, he was curled and twisted as if left out in the weather for months on end, no shelter, no care. ‘How long’s he been like this, Trish?’

  ‘Months. It started with headaches and a bit of double vision, some dizziness – could have been anything, but it wasn’t anything, it was something, something big. They had a go – took away about eighty per cent of it, but they damaged some of the good cells as well. We managed. Till it kicked off again for its second bloody half. Too late for chemo. So we just sit and wait. I sit and wait, that is. Howie lies there moaning whil
e I try to keep the business going.’

  ‘Howie? That’s never Howie Styles.’

  She turned slowly and looked at Alan. ‘The same. Biggest builder in Manchester, and now look at him. You knew about him?’

  ‘I did. I’m Alan Henshaw. Had to give up work because of my health. The wife and kids are gone – I made sure they had all the money. Because after tomorrow, I’ll be dead or an invalid.’

  ‘Henshaw the developer from Bolton?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘So – where’s your missus?’

  He shrugged. ‘Buggered off somewhere or other, pastures new, I reckon. The kids are all at university, so I’ve done my bit.’

  Trish Styles stood up and took Alan’s hand. ‘Good luck, lad. I’m going home now, but I’ll ask after you tomorrow.’

  He sat for a while with his neighbour after Mrs Styles had left. This man in the bed wasn’t much older than Alan, but he looked about the same age as Adam. His wife was a nice little body, ordinary, decent and probably very rich. She would soon be a rich widow, but she’d be able to pick and choose. Trish Styles wouldn’t want anything to do with a knackered builder from Bolton, would she?

  Anyway, he’d probably be dead, so what was the point of speculation? In this cheerful frame of mind, he left Mr Styles and went to try again to fall asleep. Or should he stay awake for his last few hours on earth? What did it matter? This was a holding bay for the undertaker’s parlour anyway. This dump was already dead.

  Six

  Carol Makin in her fighting gear was a sight to behold – easily as impressive as the average galleon in full sail. She slammed the door of her van and kicked a rear wheel with one of her Doc Martens, and had Lucy been able to lip-read she might have been privy to some good, old-fashioned Anglo-Saxon curses. Wearing leggings stretched to within an inch of their lives and a tabard that was clearly home-made, Carol looked like a modern-day Valkyrie, armed to the teeth with buckets, mops and a box of implements that would not have seemed out of place in a torture chamber, or on a field of battle. She stepped into the living room. ‘You off out?’ was her greeting to Lucy, who explained that she was bound for Manchester.

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s a shame. Wouldn’t go there if you paid me. Still, I suppose someone has to do it.’ She sniffed and gave David the once-over. ‘Who’s this one, then?’

  ‘A long-standing friend,’ Lucy replied.

  ‘Then he’d best sit down, eh? You can get very-close veins from being stood up all the while. Me mam was a martyr to them. Worked at the biscuit factory all her life, God love her, ended up with legs like blue ropes twisted all over the place. At the end, she couldn’t look a custard cream in the eye.’ She stared hard at David. ‘Have you got very-close veins?’

  ‘Close enough,’ he said.

  Disdain coloured her expression. ‘I do know the right words. I just like to keep folk on their toes, that’s all. Unless they’ve got varicose doodahs, in which case they should be sat with one or both legs in an elevated position supported by whatever. Now, I don’t need no help from nobody, Lucy, but have you anything particular wants doing?’

  ‘Just find your feet.’ Lucy tried not to grin, because the enormous woman had probably not seen her feet in a decade at least. ‘And leave the boys in bed – in my experience, they’re less trouble when asleep.’

  ‘And how long have we had a dog? I seen the cat yesterday, but—’

  ‘My dog,’ said David. ‘And he’s coming to Manchester.’

  ‘Bloody cruel,’ Carol said under her breath as she walked away. ‘RSPCA wants telling.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Manchester?’ David whispered when Carol had left the scene.

  ‘Nothing.’ Lucy grinned. ‘This, in case you hadn’t noticed, is Liverpool. There’s been a war on for the better part of fifty years, but Manchester’s nearly twice the size of Liverpool, so Scousers depend on their wits. I’m on their side, actually. They need a bigger airport and a huge conference centre, then they could pinch some of the Manks’ business. But I’m not proud, so Lizzie and I will shop at the Trafford Centre while you take Samson home. Ah – here’s Lizzie now.’

  The girl entered the room. She looked rather wan, but at least she wasn’t weeping. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Mums,’ she said.

  Lucy’s face lit up. ‘That’s the first time you’ve ever called me Mums.’

  ‘Is it? When I talk about you with the twins, you’re Mums sometimes. But Mother suited the old you. You were too dignified and patient for any baby names. Seeing you with your top shelf hanging out of that little black number last night, I thought – yes, the boys are right. She’s a Mums, and she’s sexy. Mind, having a sexy mother can be a bit unnerving.’

  David agreed, though he said nothing.

  Carol walked in. She had now added a pair of orange Marigolds to her delightful ensemble. ‘Well,’ she said, a rubber-gloved hand on each bulging hip. ‘Sight for sore eyes, or what? You’re a stunner, girl.’ The ‘girl’ emerged as ‘gairl’ again, but no one was counting. ‘I seen you last time, but you look bloody great today. Sort of pale and perfect. Tell you what, love. Yer mam says you’re an actress, and if you don’t get snapped up in the blink of me eye, I’ll eat me golden retriever.’

  The room stopped for a beat of time. ‘You have a dog, then?’ Lucy managed eventually.

  The cleaner shook her head mournfully in the face of such stupidity, returned to the kitchen and came back with a brass-coloured rod in an orange hand. ‘See? It goes down the back of radiators and retrieves stuff. You click it and it grabs hold of socks and knickers what have fell down the back, like. Some people don’t know nothing.’ She laughed. ‘It was me dad’s. He couldn’t walk proper at the end, and this was his golden retriever.’

  Lucy glanced at the clock. ‘We have to go, Carol. Just one thing – don’t let the cat out through the front door and make sure any front room he’s in has all the windows closed. I know it’s a nuisance, but he’s precious, and he knows it. There’s food in the fridge if you’re here through lunch, and I’ll see you soon.’ She turned to go. ‘Oh, and if you do eat, stay with your food, or he’ll pinch it. He thinks everything here is his, and we’re allowed his leftovers.’

  The three of them went out to the car. With the dog lead in her hand, Lizzie asked her mother, ‘Where do you find these wonderful people? You had a collection of oddities at Tallows over the years, didn’t you?’

  ‘It’s my magnetic personality,’ she replied. ‘And I love folk who’re just that little bit different.’

  ‘She’s a big bit different,’ David whispered.

  Lucy dug him in the ribs. ‘Sizeist,’ she accused.

  Lizzie said nothing. But she took it all in. David was made for Mums. And Mums was made for him.

  She looked good. Richard Turner peered through a gap in the blind and watched while she got into that bloody man’s car. Her daughter followed. Lizzie must have decided to leave her car here, because she was now sitting with a large black dog in the rear seat of the visitor’s Audi. The visitor was a pocket-patter, one of those who seemed to look vague most of the time. He was also a leukaemia specialist and an old friend of Lucy’s, someone she had known for most of her childhood.

  Paul and Mike had been full of news last night. Apparently this Dr Vincent was going to occupy Lucy’s pile, a grand house of whose existence Richard had not been fully aware. So. She was sexy, clever, beautiful and loaded. She was also a benefactor, since she intended to allow the doctor to use the house free of charge as a respite care centre. She had volunteered as a fundraiser, so she would be seeing a lot of Dr Vincent.

  Lucy was in a dark suit today, one of those cleverly cut things that probably cost an arm and both legs. She had good legs. She had good everything, but Moira had muddied the waters so badly that Richard could scarcely look Lucy in the face these days. He’d been forced to settle for a pale imitation, one Lexi Phillips, supermarket worker, bleached blonde, owner of two large breast
s and three or four brain cells. When in her bed, he closed his eyes and thought of Lucy. Lucy, Lexi, the same initial, but miles apart. There was no after-talk with Lex. Why couldn’t Moira learn to keep her trap shut?

  Alexandra Phillips had no idea of Richard’s place in society. As far as she was concerned, he was a businessman, one who dealt in this and that. Liverpool had many this-and-that-ers, so she probably thought he was a crook. He didn’t care. Moira was out of bounds, as was Lucy, so he had to take what he could get, because a man had needs. An educated man had many needs.

  Dr Vincent had stayed the night in Stoneyhurst. ‘It’s none of my business,’ Richard whispered. ‘But oh, God, how I wish she’d never come here, because she’s turned me upside down.’ She was ruining his life – no, he was doing that himself. But the sight of her, the sound of her – these were pleasure and pain, and he’d be better off if she moved back to Bolton, or wherever she’d come from.

  It was almost time for surgery, and the car was disappearing at the end of the road. Never before had he desired a woman this strongly. No, that wasn’t true. The poor, wonderful, crazy creature he had married had been perfection, but a disease had stolen her, and he would never find her like again. Without informing himself fully, he had fallen in love with the woman next door. A song bumbled about in his head, words and music colliding before arranging themselves until the whole thing began to make sense. Phil Collins? ‘The First Cut is the Deepest’. Was it? Moira had been ill for so long that he could scarcely recall how he had felt when the diagnosis first arrived. Was it Phil Collins or Genesis?

  But this second cut felt like major surgery without pain management. He hated a man he hadn’t met, a man Lucy had known for many years. What chance did Richard have? His wife was alive. According to Lucy’s twins, David Vincent was a widower, an expert at Scrabble and a good sort. He had arrived with no attachments, no dependants apart from a large black dog. The man was an exact template of the sort of partner Lucy might want.