Richard felt tears pricking. He turned to fetch glasses. ‘Give up, Simon,’ he advised. ‘There’s only ever one winner, and its gender isn’t male.’ He poured the bubbly, raised his flute and drank to bride and groom. Then he passed each of them a full glass, sat down and told them about Moira, how they had met, how beautiful she had been, how wonderfully naughty. ‘She was mad,’ he concluded.
Simon offered his sympathies, saying he knew how that felt.
‘You have no idea, son. Picture the scene. We’re in Scotland, and I’m doing a Queen Mother – waders, rod, walking into the water. So I’ve a keep net with beautiful wild salmon thrashing about in it, and your mother puts them back in the river.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she felt sorry for them. Then we went back to the guest house, and she ordered local salmon for dinner. I could have sold them my catch. I could have been a classic hunter-gatherer getting food for my bride. But no. She thought they were too pretty, so she put them back.’ He shook his head. ‘Never expect sense, Simon.’
‘I’m sensible,’ Lizzie protested.
‘You?’ Simon threw up his hands. ‘The washing up was there for two days till I explained about E. coli.’
‘Are you incapable of doing dishes?’ Richard asked his son. ‘Don’t take her for granted. Don’t assume that there are jobs for men and jobs for women. Now, tell me about Guy’s.’
Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief. When the conversation turned medical, she went next door to visit Smokey. Cats were easier than doctors.
Eleven
Ian Wray, the new gardener, was serving his apprenticeship alongside Hal in four gardens attached to the terrace, and in several of the park gardens on the opposite side of the road. He was happy. Hal was Ian’s preferred kind of old-time gardener, the pay was good, his employers seemed OK, and life was beginning to look up after a long spell without sufficient employment. He registered as a working man, paid his dues, and was no longer dependent on the state, which was fine by him.
But there was something wrong with the doctor whose car he had helped to clean. He seemed edgy, and he was giving shorter than normal shrift to anyone who addressed him. His wife was away with the woman next door, and both houses were being run by a pair of strange creatures named Carol and Dee, because Hal’s wife was busy packing in preparation for the retirement move.
When Ian and Hal went into Lucy’s kitchen to eat sandwiches and drink tea, the subject under discussion was the evil nature of Litherland Lexi, which topic sounded rather Agatha Christie to the new man. So the two gardeners ate lunch and made a hasty exit, because listening to the pair of cleaners was a confusing business, whilst flowers were easy, since they didn’t have a lot to say. ‘Come on,’ Hal whispered. ‘Before we get dragged into whatever this is.’
‘Are they always like that?’ Ian asked after their escape. ‘Those two women, I mean.’
‘No,’ came the swift reply. ‘Sometimes they’re worse, because my Shirley’s with them. When she’s part of the mix, it can get a bit like the three witches at the start of Macbeth. Toil and trouble? You’ve seen nothing so far, lad. Give me a plague of greenfly any day.’
Inside the house, Dee and her mother had reached somewhat of an impasse. Dee was all for keeping her head well below the parapet if and when the bullets began to fly, but her mother wanted to wade in, Marigolds, Doc Martens, drain rods and the lot. ‘She was here again last night,’ the big woman said. ‘Another letter through his door. She doesn’t bother with stamps no more. Hard-faced bugger, she is. And Moira’s coming back any minute. I won’t be here to keep an eye on things during the night. Dog dirt and horrible messages? Whatever next? She’s got to be stopped before she does somebody a real mischief.’
‘Moira comes back Friday.’ Dee was fed up to the back teeth, which were not yet accustomed to their new role, the rearmost four having recently been removed. ‘Sorry, Mam, but I’m having nothing to do with it. I love Moira and Lucy, I do, I really do, but you’re going about this all cack-handed, and you’ll do more harm than good if you’re not careful. It’s none of our business, and that’s the top and bottom.’
Carol remained on track, though her words indicated a diversion. ‘But our Beryl’s in a wheelchair.’
Dee’s jaw dropped for a split second. ‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’ Dee rephrased the question, because Beryl loved her salmon and trout when they could be afforded. ‘Mother, listen to me. What’s our Beryl being chairbound got to do with him next door, Litherland Lexi and letters? Eh?’
Carol was thoughtful for a few seconds. ‘Look. If he gets one of them letters in his hand, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And if he has his window wide open, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And if he reads that letter aloud to his wife while Lexi’s outside listening, right?’
‘Wrong, Mam. Because Moira’s with Lucy.’
Carol wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. ‘We don’t need Moira, because we’ve got our Beryl. Lexi’ll see a woman in a wheelchair with its back facing the window. She doesn’t know what Moira looks like, does she?’
‘I don’t know,’ Dee sighed.
‘Well, even if she does know what Moira looks like, the wheelchair will be the wrong way round, and she’ll think it’s Moira. So if Moira – I mean Beryl – laughs out loud at the letter, Lexi likely won’t send no more.’
Dee sat down and lit a hand-rolled cigarette. In her opinion, Lexi would carry on doing this that and the other until the cows came home, or until she found a new victim. If the letters stopped, worse might happen. The woman was crazy, and she could get dafter if she thought her letters were the subject of mockery. ‘Leave it, Mam. For a kick-off, Lexi doesn’t come every night. On top of that, the doctor won’t want our whole family knowing what he’s been up to. And you could drive Lexi all the way to mayhem and murder. You know she’s a bad bugger. So stop it. Learn to keep your nose out. I mean it, Mam.’
Carol stared hard at her daughter. Dee was thin, frail-looking, and as strong as a horse. She was also clever and streetwise. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she admitted with reluctance. ‘But I even feel a bit sorry for him, and you know he’s not my flavour of the month. I mean, we know Lexi, so we expect her to be bad. He’s not used to her type of carryings-on. I know he’s done wrong, but she’s wronger. She’s wronger than anyone I know.’
‘But we’re leaving it, Mother.’
‘Poor Moira.’
‘Mother!’
Mother. That word was a sure sign that Dee was serious. They had to carry on working here, because the van was at death’s door, and these two houses together would be convenient. Also, Lucy wanted someone to run the business from time to time, so the fortunes of the Makin/Baxendale clan looked promising, as long as they kept their noses clean. It was tempting, though. Carol would have dearly loved to get Lexi’s face and push it through the old mangle in the back yard. Along with dolly tub and zinc bath, the geriatric wringer served now as decoration, its top and base covered by greenery and flowers. Lexi wasn’t worth the spoiling of so beloved an article. ‘She wants killing. We should get the health department in to shift her, because she’s vermin.’
Dee stood up and grabbed her tickling stick. She waved it under her mother’s nose. ‘See this? We clean houses, Mam. Let priests, doctors and police deal with the rest, because it’s none of our business. Who do you think we are? MI5? Sometimes, we just have to accept that we can’t do nothing, and this is one of them times.’
‘And they passed by on the other side? Remember that one, Dee?’
‘I do. Good Samaritan. If somebody was lying here battered and bleeding we’d do something about it, because we’re decent people. But this lot’s different. You can make it worse by wading in. So stop paddling and piddle off.’
Carol laughed. Dee was definitely her daughter. ‘All right, babe. But I’ll not stop worrying over that poor Moira.’
/> That poor Moira was having the time of her life. It all felt like a fairytale: a tiny house, woods, country lanes and rides out in the van. She’d been to Lancashire markets, to the moors, to Yorkshire, but today the world was coming to her. ‘So this woman who’s giving us a bit of glamour was your husband’s girlfriend?’
‘That’s right. He even took her away to Crete not too long ago. She was just the latest in a long string of mistresses.’
‘And you’re not bothered?’
‘Not in the least bit. In fact, she’s been extremely helpful, because she found the disappearing man for me. And now she’s going to make us beautiful.’
Moira looked into a hand-held mirror. ‘Does she do remoulds? Because my tyres seem to have lost a fair bit of their original tread. In fact, I could do with a whole new body. Does she bring a selection? I kid you not, Lucy, if I were a car, you’d keep the number plate and fasten a new vehicle behind it.’
Lucy had learned to laugh at her companion. Some of the statements from Moira might appear to elicit sympathy, but now that Lucy knew her neighbour better, she realized that Moira was just being Moira. ‘We’ve a ramp in the main garage,’ she said helpfully. ‘Mags could jack you up on it, and she could have a good look at your undercarriage. New exhaust, better suspension – who knows?’
‘I’d do better with a catalytic converter and without my husband. I think I’ve gone off him for good this time. He’s getting on my bloody nerves, and I don’t know what to do about him.’
Lucy refused to rise to that one. Having phoned Carol on several occasions, she had endured an earful of Litherland Lexi, dog muck and nasty letters, but she hadn’t said a word to Moira. Richard would have to do the honours. His wife already suspected that he’d used the services of a prostitute, but Richard had to say the words. Until he unburdened himself, Moira would probably remain angry with him. But there was one thing Lucy could say, and she said it. ‘Just before we came here, he told me he wanted to tell you something, but that you were too ill. Remember? You came over all shake, rattle and roll. That was when he started attacking the car and setting fire to rubbish in the back garden. Has he phoned you recently?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did he discuss anything apart from Simon and Lizzie’s marriage?’
‘No.’
It was hopeless. Lucy would have to wait until they were back in Liverpool. But it was all building up inside her, and she needed to stay calm. The urge to batter Richard and to put a stop to the poster of packages and letters made her angry, and anger was an emotion she had sat on for some considerable time. Tomorrow she was to face the widow of Howard Styles, because a parasitic plant had fastened itself to the woman, and Lucy knew how hungry that creeper could get.
Meanwhile, David was getting … not exactly desperate, but keen. He was doing things to his house, and Lucy knew that he was doing those things for her. But she had to be one hundred per cent sure of his readiness. The man could employ cleaners, buy new furniture, get his gardens landscaped, but that was all mayonnaise. For almost a decade, he had mourned a wife and a son; for less than three months, he had moved in the direction of Louisa Buckley, a child he remembered and looked back at through rose-tinted lenses. He was a big, strong, beautiful man, but he was vulnerable. ‘As am I,’ she whispered.
‘What?’ Moira was still looking in the mirror and was clearly displeased with what she saw.
‘Nothing. I was just trying to remember the lyrics of a song.’
Moira studied her friend. ‘You worry too much. And you’ve nothing to worry about. Look in the mirror – you don’t need a facelift. I need an everything lift. When are you going to put poor David out of his misery?’
‘Don’t you start. It’s complicated.’
Moira clicked her tongue. ‘Rubbish. Unless you intend to work your way through the Kama Sutra, it’s simple. You just—’
‘Stop being obtuse, love. You know what I mean. He’s still a bit up and down, and—’
‘There you go, then.’
Both women burst out laughing. This was almost a repetition of last night’s discussion, the body of which had been embedded in the vulgarity of women when no men were present. Lucy pulled herself together. ‘He blames himself for not getting Anne’s car checked – he carries a huge weight of guilt.’
‘And for the boy,’ Moira added. ‘Going to India like he did, he’s bound to feel awful. But Lucy, he’s so happy in your company. His love for you will save him, so just get on with it. You are the cure. He needs you, babe. Also, he’s one of the best men I ever met in my whole life.’
‘I know. He’s so special that I can’t believe my luck. I could well turn out to be a disappointment, Moira. I’m no seasoned athlete when it comes to sex.’
Moira shook her head slowly.
‘Well I’m not!’
‘Neither is he,’ Moira declared. ‘Just love him. Just get into bed and hold him and let things happen. Whatever you do, don’t let him slip through your fingers.’ Once again, both women dissolved into laughter that was near-hysterical.
Moira’s turn of phrase might be accidental. On the other hand … Lucy doubled over. Even thinking ‘on the other hand’ was torture, since she knew that if she repeated those words, last night’s conversation would begin all over again, and at full volume. Moira Turner had clearly led an interesting and full life before multiple sclerosis had claimed her. She stuck rigidly to her opinion that men were amateurs in the field of vulgarity, and that a roomful of women left to itself became a hotbed of sexual allusions. ‘The men tell the jokes,’ Moira had said. ‘The women live the bloody jokes, because they invented them in the first place. We’re the ones who see the opposite sex in baggy Y-fronts and socks …’
‘Straighten your face,’ Moira ordered now. ‘You want to think less and act more before he gets fed up with waiting.’ She sniffed. ‘Daft cow.’
Mags arrived. She ‘coo-eed’ before opening the door. ‘Are we decent? Oh, and I’ve driven my car all over your lawn, Lucy.’ She hauled in some bags. ‘Instruments of torture. And you must be Moira. MS, isn’t it?’
Moira nodded.
‘My Auntie Jessie had that,’ Mags said. ‘Went to Lourdes with some nuns in a big bus.’
‘Cured?’ Moira asked.
Mags shook her head. ‘No, but when they got her out of the water, her wheelchair had come up lovely – new tyres and a complete respray.’
Moira laughed. ‘She’ll do,’ she told Lucy. ‘Mad as a box of frogs, and the old jokes remain the best.’
They were both subjected to facials, Indian head massage, manicures and pedicures, and new hairstyles were to be next on the agenda. Mags was merciless. Lucy found herself staring at the floor on which her tresses were spread. ‘But I’m not sure—’
‘Shut up and be grateful,’ said Mags with mock severity. ‘I’m taking ten years off you.’
‘Oh, she is,’ Moira agreed. ‘When you see it, you’ll drop dead ten years before your time.’ She turned her attention to the beautician. ‘What style do you call that?’ she asked.
‘My own. It’s called Cause Célèbre, though I can’t say it properly. Every applicant for the Styles job had to invent a hairdo. It was a bit scary, because I was in Paris, and they were all jabbering away, but there were a few other English stylists there and they helped me out a bit with the language. I won. I got the cordon rouge et blanc – striped like an old-time barber’s pole – a trip down the Seine with Monsieur Charles, lovely dinner on the boat with champagne and all that, and a visit to somewhere called Versales.’
‘Versailles?’ suggested Lucy.
‘That’s the chap. Dead boring, just a load of old furniture and beds. But best of all, I won a week observing at Tête à Tête. And now, I get Styles.’
‘What’s it like?’ Lucy asked.
Mags, who certainly proved herself to have an eye for detail, launched into her current favourite subject. She described marble columns, sweeping staircases, mins
trels’ gallery, swimming pool, rooms for treatments, grounds into which Monsieur intended to extend. ‘It’s massive,’ she concluded.
‘And Mrs Styles?’ Lucy asked.
‘Lovely woman. Mind, she sounds a tough cookie when it comes down to business. The firm paid top whack, and I believe she got a house in France as part of the deal. And yes, Lucy. Before you ask, I think he’s still with her. Blackpool, I believe.’
Lucy said nothing. Tomorrow, she and Glenys Barlow were to meet Trish Styles in a coffee shop. Tomorrow, the woman of Alan’s choice would learn the truth, since Lucy’s conscience refused to allow her to let sleeping dogs lie.
‘You’re done, missus.’
‘Am I bald?’
‘Not quite.’
Lucy stood at the mirror and gasped. ‘I love it,’ she cried after close scrutiny. ‘I look – oh, I don’t know how I look, but the hair’s brilliant. You are one talented woman.’
Moira chuckled. ‘Dr David Vincent’s going to get arrested as a paedophile. Isn’t it a bit like the urchin cut, Mags?’
The beautician agreed. ‘But you need a lot of hair to get the height at the crown and the depth at the back. Now, Lucy.’
‘What?’
‘To keep it like that, go to Herbert every three weeks – four at the outside. He’s the only man with staff who’ll be able to keep up with it. Then watch out all over Liverpool, because Cause Célèbre will be popping up just about everywhere.’ She sighed. ‘I’m famous, Moira.’
‘Oooh! Give us your autograph.’
‘I’ll do better than that. See the black bag over there? It’s full of products, and they all come with instructions. Use them regularly, and you’ll both slow down the ageing process.’ She began to tackle Moira’s hair. ‘Bloody hell. I thought Lucy’s was thick, but you could weave a hearthrug out of this lot. What have you been using? Fertilizer?’
‘Yup. I stand in a bucket of horse poo every night.’
While Moira’s hair was work in progress, Lucy went to make tea and put together a few tasty morsels. Mags was a decent woman who seemed to have escaped unscathed after contact with Alan. Would Trish Styles be as lucky? Or would Alan learn her signature and start emptying her bank accounts? The woman had just lost her husband, for goodness’ sake. Yet the other part of Lucy continued to raise its ugly head. She could simply turn away, walk away and stay away. But she wouldn’t. She knew full well that she was unable to leave the recently widowed Trish to the untender mercies of Alan Henshaw.
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 28
