The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  The answer from Alan was affirmative.

  Christine mopped her face with a tea towel. ‘Who visited him yesterday?’ she asked. ‘Two young men, we were told.’

  Paddy, who felt sick with relief, light-headed through exhaustion, managed a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘You know how your grandfather was, Chrissie. His door was always open, and he had friends of all ages. They might have been ferret-fanciers, rose-growers – whatever. Will I have a quick look round for clues? Because if we can find them, they might want to be at the funeral.’

  So while Extreme Unction was delivered by a priest, Paddy got the freedom of the house. After making sure that nothing of her grandsons remained, she re-entered the kitchen. The priest had gone. ‘No idea who his visitors were,’ she told Christine’s husband. ‘But they’ll perhaps read the announcement in the newspaper.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Christine said absently. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘He has oil on his head.’

  ‘Leave it be.’ Paddy stood by the grieving woman. ‘It’s holy oil.’

  ‘It’ll be a big funeral.’ Alan sniffed back all emotion. Grown men didn’t cry.

  But Paddy did. She finally opened her mouth and released a sound that was almost primeval. Like a sad, wounded wolf baying at an unresponsive moon, she mourned her brothers, her sons, and this man who had represented all that was good, all that was disappearing with Ernie’s generation. She, a child of the later Victoria years, had done a poor job of keeping in touch with her wider family, of rearing her boys to be decent. As for today’s youngsters – she disapproved wholeheartedly. Some people, somewhere, had got it all wrong. And she was one of those people.

  ‘Paddy?’

  She pulled herself together, though it took some effort. ‘I’d better get home.’ Her breathing wasn’t right, so the words were born fractured.

  She was forced into a chair and given a glass of brandy. Alan went off to borrow a car. He would be back to take Paddy home once he’d dealt with the doctor and the undertaker.

  Chrissie patted her companion’s hand. ‘I never expected you to be as upset as that,’ she remarked.

  Paddy sipped her brandy. ‘I’m tired,’ she admitted finally. ‘The wedding and so forth. I’ll be better shortly, but.’

  She didn’t remember much after that. The brandy seeped into her blood, and she began to nod off. Alan helped her to the car, and she returned to an empty house. In the overheated living room, she slept on a sofa. Reen and Jimmy had probably gone to look at the O’Garas’ prefab, and Kev was … somewhere. He was with Seamus.

  Paddy slept for six whole hours.

  People don’t bother with me, yet I could have been something of a wit. I went home one day to the Dingle hovel, and Edie next door told me that Dad had gone out. ‘Pour some more petrol on him,’ I told her smartly. I was only about nine at the time. Another evening when he was following me home, a man asked me, ‘Is that your dad?’ So I told him no, I was just looking after him till the appropriate authorities found him a place. But I didn’t become a comedian, did I? Instead, I’m a street cleaner. I clear away the human rubbish. Oh, and I work in a shop.

  Five

  Tess was about to put her foot down and, when she did place it on the floor, it would be cushioned by Skaters’ Trails. The carpet had become a symbol, a physical expression of her depression and frustration. Don didn’t want to live, eat or sleep with her; he had the money to buy her a house on Menlove Avenue, and he was prepared to spend it to be rid of her. Hating him should have been easy, but she couldn’t quite manage it. How easy life would be if she could detest him. But she could annoy him, oh yes. What she failed to work out was her reason for needing to upset him. He held all the trump cards, and he might well withdraw his offer of a house if she stepped too far away from the oche.

  She was still pretty. Her reflection in every shop window she passed proved that point. Men looked at her. They saw beauty, yet knew nothing of her mindset, her secrets. For behind the handsome facade, a disconcerting thought niggled. She was not a loving wife, had never been a satisfactory one. And she’d been stupid enough to believe that he would stay in the marriage because of his leg.

  Don was a good-looking man. Lately, she had begun to view him differently, and the limp gave him character. Everyone liked him. Leader of a local pub’s championship darts team, he was greeted with smiles and waves every time he walked out of the launderette and into the street. His popularity had been earned because he was a decent man and a good player of darts. Don deserved to be treated well.

  Tess, on the other hand, was seldom spoken to. She could sometimes be a bit cool when customers asked for change to dispense a cup of detergent or to work a machine. They should have sorted all that before dragging their dirty washing through the streets. I am already a bitter old woman, she told her inner self while walking to the carpet shop. And the kids love him more than they love me, because he raised them while I was busy filling daily needs and saving towards freedom. Freedom? Customers can’t even remember to bring the right change or a packet of soap powder … And now, he’s going to abandon us, and the children will hit the roof, since it’s all my fault. But even though I might well be leaving the flat, I’m still going to have this carpet. The carpet had become a matter of principle.

  But a husband was a prerequisite. Widowhood carried with it a degree of dignity, but widowhood was impossible to arrange without committing a mortal sin, and she didn’t want him dead anyway. Divorce, for a Catholic, was supposedly impossible. It was also an admission to the world that a woman had failed, that she had been placed in the reject bucket. Do not touch, do not feed this animal. Tess dreaded the shame of it. Those who had suffered her terse replies in the launderette would gossip. They’d say she deserved it, had pretended to be a cut above and no wonder poor Don had left the scene, bless him with his bad knee.

  ‘I’ll have the grey,’ she told the shopkeeper. Red was such a common colour, and grey was the only available alternative. She gave him the address of the flat and asked him to measure and fit before lunch time tomorrow. When Don came home from work, he would see her statement; whether or not she stayed in the flat, the carpet would be a fait accompli. Axminster square, indeed. Everyone had fully fitted these days, because polished floorboards or lino edging were very pre-war. Even if the flat was to be let, a new carpet was required.

  The kids knew there was something wrong. Their father was sleeping on the sofa, which was doing his knee no good at all, while Sean had been heard to deliver the quiet opinion that his mother’s face looked like a squeezed lemon. But neither Don nor Tess had spoken to them yet about the planned separation. Would they suffer? Well, they weren’t babies any more, and this world was full of hard knocks …

  She sat with a cup of stewed tea in a small café that could not be listed as having seen better days, since it had always been scruffy. But Tess needed space to think, and there was plenty of that in this oily hole. The flat no longer felt welcoming, the launderette was noisy, the streets were too busy. She was the only customer here. Even the cup stank of rancid fat, while the table was chipped and marked by the scratched initials of today’s young. The decadent establishment was soon to change hands and become a milk bar with a juke box and non-alcoholic drinks for a generation of nomads.

  They wandered. They came home from work, ate in a hurry, then beggared off to places they would never discuss. Sean was a quick wash man, but Anne-Marie took hours to get ready. She was now apprenticed to Dolly Pearson, a hairdresser from … from Menlove Avenue. The hairdressing shop was a Smithdown Road lock-up. Dolly was divorced, and was looked upon as damaged goods, though she seemed not to care. Was that the answer, then? A hard shell, a layer of nonchalance, a permanent smile and a permanent wave always well set with a fringe on the forehead?

  Sean was old enough for pubs, but Anne-Marie wasn’t. She was, however, old enough to spend her leisure time riding pillion behind a man who had renamed himself Marx. His real name, Ma
rk Wells, was clearly not good enough. Mark, as Tess insisted on calling him, was something of an oddity, since he was a quiet Christian of sorts with a loud motorbike. He’d brought the doctor, had ushered everyone out of the launderette while Tess had sat stupidly with a paper bag. Mark voted Labour … Still, he’d got rid of Pea-Green, which was surely a good thing?

  Oh, she couldn’t drink this tea. Was it tea? It smelled like something that should go straight down the toilet without the need for processing by a digestive tract. But it was her ticket to silence, so Tess remained where she was. Mark. He was doing accountancy, seemed decent enough apart from motorbike and leathers, and he knew John Lennon. Anne-Marie had been a devotee of the Quarry Men for at least three months, so perhaps Mark was merely the key to a golden gate? Children were so secretive these days.

  Anne-Marie would favour a move to Menlove Avenue. To be near her hero, the girl would probably move to the moon. Sean was different. For a start, he was male and not particularly communicative. Anne-Marie, now under the influence of a male, was slightly less talkative these days. Men were the deciders, the breadwinners, the leaders. But not in Tess’s household. Her husband had returned damaged by his very brief war. Because of his disability and periods spent in hospitals, Tess had taken the reins, and she had held on to them tightly.

  Look what you’ve done today, she chided herself silently. Should she cancel the carpet? Should she take the policy money and move to Menlove? Answers on a postcard, Tess. No matter what, you’ve lost him. So. Do you want to be abandoned on Smithdown Road or on Menlove Avenue? Answers, as already stated, on a postcard to … I am definitely going strange. If I don’t buck up. I might well find myself in a padded room strapped down in a straitjacket, and that’s not my style.

  A degree of intelligence prevailed. While the greasy tea cooled, Tess Compton found some of her senses. On Smithdown Road, Don’s abandonment of his family would be noticed immediately, and she would be stuck in that flat with boisterous women and noisy washing machines below. On Menlove Avenue, fewer people would comment at the start, and she would own a house. It was time to talk to the children. It was time to take the money and to plan a graceful exit.

  Tess Compton left the café. She returned to the carpet shop and cancelled the order, offering as reasons the fact that her husband hated Skaters’ Trails, and the almost-lie that they had decided to move from the flat. ‘I’ll be back,’ she promised. ‘I’d no idea about his plan to buy a house. It was meant to be a surprise.’

  She walked homeward, though she passed the launderette and carried on all the way up to Menlove Avenue. There were two for sale at this end, both stating Apply within. So she applied within. Each house had separate living and dining rooms, a decent hall, three bedrooms and a bathroom. The kitchen was small in one, extended in the other. There were gardens front and back. The extended house had a slightly smaller rear garden because of the improved kitchen, but the owner was leaving carpets and curtains at no extra cost, and the front sitting room had Skaters’ Trails, the grey version, of course. Surely this had to be an omen?

  Tess sat down there and then in ‘her’ new kitchen and wrote a contract of sorts. She left a small cheque as deposit, returnable should a survey find fault. Meanwhile, the For Sale sign must be removed. And that was that. She stood in the front garden and admired the house. It was beautiful, newly painted in black and white, while Anne-Marie’s hero lived diagonally opposite. Also, this was a good address, since Woolton was, for many people, a statement of arrival. Don worked just outside Woolton, so the children would be able to see him …

  She looked up and down the avenue, her heartbeat suddenly louder and erratic. Lots of trees, houses well cared for, several cars and … And he had another woman. This sudden realisation arrived like a punch in the solar plexus. Why did I never turn to face him when he was ready in the bed? Why was I stupid enough to make him use me in that way? Even a prostitute would serve him better. I am a cold country, and he has gone somewhere with a warmer climate. How stupid am I? Men need relief and release – my mother warned me about that. Who is she?

  Joy about her semidetached paradise evaporated. How much did she have left after that deposit? Was there enough to pay Injun Joe, the private detective? But there was really no point, because she couldn’t apply for a divorce. Still riveted to the spot, she worked on her breathing. A panic attack threatened. Sometimes, she had one because of worrying about having one. And she couldn’t have one here, not on Menlove Avenue. People here owned new cars and Skaters’ Trails, bay windows, even an oriel in the smallest bedroom, and decent net curtains. Some had gone as far as Venetian blinds and pretend shutters on outside walls …

  No, she couldn’t have a panic in this place. It was a coffee morning area, a cheese and wine evening location, a keep-your-garden-nice avenue. She managed her breathing before walking back towards home. You did well, Tess. A person looking for a house is expected to stand and stare at neighbouring buildings. But keep taking the pills, woman.

  No. She couldn’t apply for divorce, but he might. Wasn’t there a get-out-of-jail card after seven years of separation? If there was, she wouldn’t contest it, because she was being bought out, wasn’t she? It was a house, a house, my wifedom for a house. That was Shakespeare’s King Richard, she seemed to remember from school, but his had been a kingdom and a horse.

  The only other way to get a quick divorce was via Injun Joe and his photos. Joey Dodds had earned his nickname in childhood, because he’d always chosen to be an Indian rather than a cowboy. Now, he’d decided to be a private detective, and he earned most of his money by catching people in flagrante and in seedy hotels. Well, Don would find no evidence of that behaviour from her, though she could get it from him and his partner in adultery. Because there had to be another woman. But was proof required? The truth was that no matter what, a Catholic remained married. Even if Don had the marriage terminated after seven years, she would not be free to marry again. She would never do that, anyway. Once was enough for any woman with a degree of common sense.

  Yet if she looked at it another way, knowledge was power. She wanted the extended-kitchen house, so she needed to move fast. If she knew the identity of his mistress, she might be able to apply pressure and negotiate for some new furniture and a washing machine. It was September, and she didn’t want to spend another winter in that flat if she could help it.

  Even so, there was a huge void where her stomach had been, because she was losing a massive thing – her status. She was going back on the shelf, would be considered soiled goods, a reject, even a danger. A pretty divorcee was to be avoided in case she made a move towards someone else’s husband. It worked the other way round, too, as many men didn’t want their wives to associate with a female who might lead them astray. Did they think separation was a communicable disease?

  She’d never been inside Injun Joe’s wigwam. It was above a tobacconist shop, and was reputed to have totem poles, feathered headdresses and, on the walls, pictures of native Americans. That was where Joe’s flamboyance began and ended. Access to his office was through a rear yard, and he was the soul of discretion. Dolly Pearson was reputed to have used him, though no one was completely sure.

  Tess lingered outside the wool shop. At this time of year, she had used to start on her children’s winter knits, but they were beyond the winter knit stage. Should she make one for Don? No, he’d think she was trying to get round him. Was she thinking of arranging another attempt to get round him? Seduction had failed, so she couldn’t imagine a cable knit making any difference. But she went inside, picked up a pattern and some blue double-knit wool. It would emphasise her startling, bright blue eyes. Tess would begin to knit for herself and live for herself, since the kids would leave sooner or later.

  She entered the launderette where four women were doing their weekly wash. ‘I’ll be upstairs, ladies. If you need change for something or other, just ring the bell. Oh, and you’ll have a tea and coffee machine soon. I ordered it
about a week ago. I think it even serves cocoa or drinking chocolate of some sort.’ She then delivered a beaming smile before climbing the stairs. The expressions on those four faces had been priceless.

  Becoming nice was not going to be easy. ‘We’ll have to work at it, won’t we?’ she asked her shepherd’s pie before leaving it next to the oven. It would be heated through for tonight’s meal, and the children would remain at the table this time, because they needed to be told properly and by both parents. Menlove Avenue. She kept saying the name in her head. She needed to continue excited.

  Sitting near the window, she began to cast on the bluebell-coloured wool for her new sweater. No one could have everything. There was even space for a small breakfast table in that kitchen. A house was nearly everything, and a husband was not absolutely essential. And the gardens were neat and simple. It was her pride that was giving her pain, and pride was expensive. She might assume the air of the grievously wounded, one whose man had been whisked away by a younger woman. That would work with other single females, she supposed as she began the first row of ribbing.

  He was on the stairs. Her insides trembled slightly, and her knitting picked up speed when the door opened.

  Don glanced at her. It was clear that she had a plan, because her back was ramrod straight, and she was occupied by something that didn’t require too much concentration. Tess was a poser, though she seemed happily oblivious to that fact. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  Tess bit her lip; he thought he knew her so well. Perhaps this was a demonstration of familiarity breeding contempt. ‘I found a house,’ she replied. ‘On Menlove. This end, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I put down a deposit out of my own money. She’s leaving carpets and curtains, so that’ll save a few bob. Do you want to look at it? We could go together.’