The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘There’ll be blood pouring out of yours in a minute if you don’t bugger off. Go and see your friend. I’ll have a bath and listen to the wireless.’ She flounced out of the living room.

  Tom sat for a while, scarcely realizing that he was engaged in a countdown. Then it happened. He strode down the hall and into the bathroom. Maureen cried like a child, wholeheartedly and with great enthusiasm for the job. Even when her face was screwed up like a sheet of paper in a bin, she remained beautiful. The presence of children and in-laws often stopped the cure, but the couple were alone this time. Roy would be expecting him, but Maureen was, as ever, top of Tom’s list of priorities.

  He marched away to bolt the outer doors, then lifted his soggy spouse, carried her to the living room and medicated her. She lay in his arms afterwards. ‘You’re all wet, Tom.’

  ‘I know. So are you.’

  She kissed him. ‘Why does that always work?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Releases tension. I suppose we’re lucky. Some women can’t abide it. You’ve always been an easy little tart.’

  ‘I’ll bite your ears, Thomas Walsh.’

  ‘Really? Then we’ll be forced to deal once again with matters arising therefrom—’

  ‘Braggart.’

  ‘Matters arising,’ he repeated, ‘and I have to go to Roy’s house. You coming?’

  ‘No. I’ll go to bed and wait for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Matters arising.’

  He watched as his wife walked away. There were little white indentations on her belly where unborn children had stretched her out of shape, and the flesh on her thighs was no longer firm, but she was gorgeous. Her beauty lay in the fact that she didn’t make herself precious, didn’t concentrate on faults resulting from the natural process of ageing. ‘A whole week of you all to myself,’ he told her.

  Maureen stood in the doorway. ‘Depends,’ she replied.

  ‘On what?’

  She shrugged. ‘New milkman. Haven’t tried him out yet. Oh, and you have to stop Mam going to London. She’s not ready for London.’

  Tom laughed. ‘I wonder if London’s ready for her?’

  ‘Oh, I’m going to warm my bath up and start again. Tell Roy hello from me, but I’m out of order due to matters what arose. And on your way back, you can fetch me cod, chips and peas.’

  Tom sighed. He would sleep with the smell of malt vinegar, would wake to the same aroma mingling delicately with the odour of cooled fat. There would be newsprint on sheets, escaped chips in the bed, bits of batter adhering lovingly to parts of his person. But it didn’t matter, because she was his girl.

  As he drove towards Waterloo, he thought about Roy. Roy loved a woman across the road. He busied himself with work and his allotment, enjoyed decorating and improving the house, yet every waking moment he thought of this Rosh woman, the widow of his best friend. He spoke of her with reverence, and repeatedly expressed the opinion that she would never look at him because he was substandard in the walking department.

  ‘What’s a bloody game leg at the end of the day?’ Tom asked the windscreen. ‘He’s good-looking, has a smart job, grows his own veg and flowers – what the bloody hell does she want? Gregory flaming Peck?’

  He parked the car. Roy was waiting for him at the gate. A neat, proud little garden showed off its residents, early cheerfulness and the gladiatorial threats of daffodils preparing to show their colours. ‘Hello, there,’ said Tom.

  ‘I’d given you up.’

  Tom shrugged. ‘Listen, with my family, you never know whether you’re fish, fowl or faggots from the cheap end of the market. We had a situation.’

  ‘Oh. Everything all right now?’

  Tom cleared his head of Maureen, the sight of her, the sound of sobs slowing with every move he made. ‘It was our youngest threatening to leave home for a while. I had to stay and calm my wife down – she gets upset. Maureen sends her apologies, by the way. She says she’ll meet you when she’s in a better frame of mind and not in the bath.’

  Roy laughed. ‘Unusual things, women. I’ve sometimes wondered whether we’re the same species as them. We’ve one at the bottom of Lawton Road who collects operations. I’m not joking. She looks in medical books, finds an illness she fancies and works on it. Come in.’

  Tom hung up his coat in the small hallway. ‘You’ve done a good job in here, Roy. Glad you kept the original mouldings and so forth. So. What’s the operation woman working on now?’

  ‘As far as I know, it’s ingrowing toenails. She’s wearing her sister’s shoes – too small for her – and binding her feet at night. If she gets this operation, it’ll be number twenty, then she’s retiring. The thing is, the hospitals are cottoning on at last. She’s had her appendix out twice.’

  Tom blinked.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Roy sighed. ‘But she came over all acute one day, and off she went in a bell-clanger. Turned out to be wind. They rooted round in her belly for a few minutes, but all they found was methane. She stunk out the theatre and three corridors. There was talk of issuing gas masks, and the water board dug up the drains …’

  Tom held up a hand. ‘Enough. I come from a mad Irish family, so I get plenty of this at home.’

  Roy, acting in the mode of estate agent, led his ‘client’ through the house. In spite of his difficult leg, he had turned the place into a miniature palace. ‘I hadn’t the heart when he was alive.’ There was no need to nominate the ‘he’, since Tom already knew about Roy’s worthless, cruel father. ‘But once he’d gone, I noticed what a pretty little house I had. Dirty, untidy, but attractive, it begged to be restored.’

  ‘For her?’

  Roy shook his head. ‘For me. Though I suppose showing her what I can do did no harm. No, she’ll never live here. If – and that’s a big word – anything came of our so-called relationship, we’d sell both houses and get a bigger one. She has three children, two cats and a mother.’

  Tom tutted. ‘I have a mother-in-law. She’s a great woman, but she could talk the legs off a grand piano. Good-hearted, she is, only she’s always right. When she’s totally wrong, she’s righter than ever. Now. What’s that lovely smell coming from your kitchen? I could eat a bald man on a butty, I’m telling you.’

  They dined on a fruity curry served with coconut, sliced banana and home-made pickle. ‘By, that was good,’ Tom declared when he’d finished off everything apart from the pattern on the plate. ‘A lot nicer than a bald man on a sarnie. The last time I had one of them, he was all gristle.’

  They ate very English apple tart and drank coffee in the front living room. Tom noticed that Roy placed himself in a chair angled to get the best view of the house opposite. ‘Is she in?’ Tom asked.

  Roy shook his head. ‘Isle of Man while the schools are on Easter break. She’ll— I mean they’ll be back in a couple of days.’

  Tom took a sip of coffee. ‘You’re in pain, aren’t you? Like I was when you found me down at the Pier Head. Come on, lad, you can’t go breaking your heart over the impossible. She’ll either come round, or she won’t. Do you want to be sitting here when you’re eighty wondering if she’ll have you? Wouldn’t you be better off looking for a life elsewhere? Selling up and moving on?’

  ‘I can’t. In case she needs me. I help with the kids sometimes, and I do stuff round the house for her.’

  ‘You sound like a servant.’

  Roy shrugged. ‘I’d rather serve her than be master of anybody else. Over twenty years, I’ve felt like this. When she chose Phil, I grinned and bore it, but he’s dead now, and … and … well—’

  ‘You’d like to take his place.’

  ‘Not really. Nobody could ever take his place. I just want her. Mad, isn’t it?’

  Tom was no longer sure. The idea of life without his Maureen was horrible, but he’d been with her for a long time … Yes, he’d been lucky. He took a photograph from his wallet and handed it to his companion. ‘There’s my trouble and strife,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn
’t part with her for all the riches in the world. Roy? Roy?’

  ‘I’ll … er … just a minute.’

  Roy staggered to the bureau, opened a drawer and pulled out a photograph. ‘Here. Have a look at that.’

  Tom looked. ‘But it’s—’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Roy, they could be twins, except mine’s a good few years older than yours.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Each man stared at a picture of the other’s beloved.

  ‘We all have a double, or so they say,’ Tom said.

  Roy cleared his throat. ‘And they’re not exactly the same. The mouths and eyes are slightly different, but look at the hairlines, the cheekbones.’

  ‘I know. It’s uncanny. We could swap photos, and we’d hardly know the difference except for the clothes and the backgrounds. You’ve good taste, Roy.’

  There seemed to be little left to say. Both men sat and stared at the walls for a few minutes, each aware of the other’s inexplicable discomfort. Tom picked up the photograph of Maureen. ‘She wants fish and chips,’ he said quietly. ‘If I go now, I’ll avoid the rush after the pubs close.’

  On his way back to Bootle, he found himself strangely close to tears. Tonight, he had eaten in the house of a grand chap who loved the spitting image of Maureen. As he waited for fish, chips and peas, Tom counted his blessings once again. ‘Plenty of vinegar, please. My wife loves her vinegar.’ And I love my wife, his inner voice said. Between us, me and Maureen will get Roy and Rosh together.

  He drove the rest of the way to Stanley Square. Maureen and Rosh had to meet.

  Well, I’m really done for now. Old Mr Bailey’s gone, and his wife wants the shop shutting for a while as a mark of respect? Respect? He loved his tobaccos and his customers, liked chatting to other pipe-smokers about all the different flavours. Respect should mean keeping the place running, but no. She’s a woman. Women are daft.

  Nine

  The house on Menlove Avenue was a huge part of Tess’s dream come true. It was pretty, solid, cosy, and it was hers. Housewifery was her main skill and chief employment, but she was spreading her wings, working, making a difference.

  Another possession about which she rejoiced was her driving licence, that cute little red book with her name and address printed inside. It didn’t record the fact that she had passed first time with scarcely any effort on her part, but that didn’t really matter. Well aware of what she’d achieved, she made sure that most people within her sphere were aware of that particular truth. Tess knew of women who had failed five, six or seven times, so she held her head high every time she opened the door of her Morris. The van was not a thing of beauty, but she was in control of it, and that was what counted. Tess now considered herself to be a woman of substance, and that attitude was demonstrated in her demeanour. It was very much a case of Look out world, here I come.

  She had two jobs, neither of them connected to the Smithdown Road launderette. The tenant in the flat above took care of the business, and she seemed a decent body, grateful for cheap accommodation and a wage. So Tess was free at last and could make her money as she wished. Containment on Smithdown Road had never suited her, and she felt as if she had been released from prison after a long sentence. They were a proper family in a proper house, and Tess had finally reached her main goal.

  On Saturday mornings, Tess wove her way round Liverpool, stopping at various small agencies, usually newspaper shops, to pick up football pools coupons and cash, all of which had to be delivered to Littlewoods long before matches kicked off. There was paperwork involved, and Mark rode shotgun, as he put it, so that he could add up and fill in forms while she drove. Tess was beginning to be impressed by her daughter’s boyfriend. He wore leathers, had a loud, huge motorbike and a decent shirt-and-tie job during the week. He also hung in patiently while Anne-Marie flaunted herself in front of the Quarry Men, seemed not to mind while the wayward child chased after the Lennon boy, Paul McCartney and anyone else with a guitar or a drumstick.

  ‘Why?’ Tess asked him often. ‘When she’s so … silly?’

  And he would smile his slow, beautiful smile, displaying perfect teeth. ‘I’m here for the long haul,’ he said. ‘Anne-Marie may even turn out to be as pretty as her mother, and her mother’s the bonus. I like being seen round and about with a beautiful older woman in a clapped-out Morris van.’

  ‘There’s nothing at all wrong with my van, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘That’s not what your Sean says. He thinks if it were a horse you’d have to put it out of its misery, or the RSPCA would haunt you.’

  ‘All mechanics talk like that, Mark. Plumbers are the same, just drama queens with toolboxes. They do that sucking in of breath through their teeth, then tell you to get new taps, not just washers. Our Sean does the same with gearboxes and what have you. Sharp intake of air, head shaking because the job isn’t going to be cheap. You don’t fool me, any of you. No man can ever fool a woman, and even other women have a hard time fooling me.’

  Tess’s other work involved clothing. Again, she picked up from assorted agencies, mostly shops, and took the clothes to Johnson’s Dye Works, a huge employer in the Bootle area. She would deliver the dirty, pick up the dry-cleaned, then return items to the same shops from which she had collected earlier. Always aware of the dangers of chemicals, she drove windblown and rain-damped, because carbon tetrachloride was a killer. But she loved driving, enjoyed being out and about with just herself or Mark for company.

  Life was good and safe. The fear of a return to childhood poverty had lessened in its intensity. She had a beautiful home, two attractive and hardworking children, a car of sorts and, on Saturday mornings, the company of an interesting and very handsome young man. All was well. No. All was almost well. There was a niggle in her head, and it was making its relentless way to the forefront of her consciousness.

  She pulled into the driveway. She had dropped Mark in town, where he had muttered darkly about an expected invasion by Mods wearing army greatcoats and riding girlie scooters. It was Saturday lunch time, and the children were out. They would be home shortly, since both the garage and the hair salon worked just a half-day on Saturdays. Don’s car wasn’t there. He worked some weekends for just a few hours, but he had spent more time at home of late. They were closer. She liked being closer, being valued, even loved. He was delighted with her, and she enjoyed his delight.

  ‘I gave him a hard time,’ she told her nutkin tree. She had no idea of the tree’s real genre, but she called it nutkin because of the squirrels. A slight smile decorated her features. ‘What the hell were you doing with a frying pan, a rose bowl and two tins of peas?’ she remembered Don asking.

  ‘Merely temporary measures,’ she had replied loftily. He had thought she was crazy. She was a long way from that.

  The tins of peas had been replaced by bricks, then by a bit of carpentry performed by Don. The tins of peas, then the bricks, now the proper fixings kept steady a plank along which the squirrels scampered to their little house, another item built by Tess’s husband to her design. They travelled along rope, frail branches and tree bark, tails positioned for balance, one eye on the birds, the other on fellow squirrels. They were cunning and fun, and they had become Tess’s hobby.

  The frying pan had held the creatures’ water containing a tiny pinch of salt to hold off the ravages of frost, while the rose bowl was filled with nut-and-fat lollipops pushed through the metal grille into a mass of Plasticine. Tess’s hope that the squirrels would stay in the nutkin tree had been a vain one. They ate anything and everything, while the birds, intended beneficiaries of the lollipops made by Tess, had to be grateful for scraps left by the rodent invaders. She didn’t feed any of them during these months of summer. They were wild, they were foragers, and they could get foraging for a change. If they wanted room service fifty-two weeks a year, they were in the wrong hotel.

  ‘Nobody ever said it would be fair,’ she mumbled as she stepped out of the van.
/>
  ‘Talking to yourself, Mrs Compton?’

  She turned and found herself gazing into the amused eyes of the Lennon boy. He was another good-looking lad. If he’d get rid of the Presley quiff, he’d look nearly normal.

  ‘Well, I’m sure of an audience that way,’ she replied.

  ‘True,’ he said. ‘I see you’ve got some squizzles. They come down from Strawberry Fields. See you.’ He walked off, hands in the pockets of a fashionably scarred leather jacket, jaw moving as he chewed his statutory gum. Squizzles. She would remember that word for the rest of her life.

  The house was echoey without the usual number of humans. Tess shoved some braised steak into the oven to heat through before starting on her vegetables. The niggle continued to niggle. There was something wrong with Don. Peas scraped from the pod made music as they tumbled into a metal colander. Where were the carrots? He was awkward, uncommunicative, quiet during lovemaking. No need to worry about gravy; that was in with the steak. He wouldn’t talk about how he felt. Don was giving her a taste of her own medicine, and it was not pleasant. No, he wasn’t punishing her. There was not a single bad bone in the man, and he enjoyed the new closeness, as did she. ‘Surprised yourself, didn’t you, Tess?’ she said. ‘Life in the old girl yet, what?’ But yes, he was quiet.

  She had been a terrible wife. She should have spoken to him about her faith, her need to abstain because contraception was sinful. These carrots were tough to cut. Sinful? Older and wiser now, she wondered whether Rome wanted millions of Catholics, thereby reducing its women to the status of brood mares. ‘I was so bloody selfish,’ she told the wall. ‘Bitter. I was a bitter, nasty bitch, and he’s a good man.’ Early menopause had arrived like a gift from above, though she hadn’t felt too well of late. A woman’s lot had never been, would never be a happy one. There was pain in her belly. She had better go and see the doc again next week.

  Carrots, peas, braised steak and a bit of mash; yes, all that would do nicely for Saturday lunch. Weekends were high tea days. The main meal was produced at lunch time, while high tea was a feast of home-made scones, sandwiches with the crusts removed, and Tess’s speciality, her cakes or pies. He wasn’t completely happy. He pretended to be happy, but he wasn’t. She’d made a banana loaf for tea, and a feather-light sponge cake with real cream. Oh, she was a lucky woman, because she had a light touch with pastry and cakes. Edgy. Yes, that was the word for Don. As if he could never get really comfortable.