‘Where’ve you been?’ Maureen snapped. ‘Three-course lunch and a pint, was it?’
Talk about frying pan and fire! He was stuck between a cauldron and the Liverpool Blitz. ‘I had to look for it. Get out of my way while I fix the hinge properly. Builders? They couldn’t make a sandcastle in Blackpool.’
Maureen gazed round her new home. It was all right, she supposed, though it needed a bit of colour. ‘When can we paint and decorate?’ she asked. ‘I fancy a nice shade of mauve in the kitchen.’
‘Three months.’
Maureen’s jaw dropped. ‘Three months? Three months living with this dirty pink stuff all the way through?’
‘It’ll go lighter as it dries.’
Maureen was further appalled. ‘You mean we’re living in a damp house? More to the point, are you telling me that my mam and dad are living in a damp house?’
Tom descended to terra firma. He slammed down the screwdriver and awarded his wife a laboured smile. ‘Right. Go and get the removals men again, pack up here, tell your mother and our Reen to pack up, and we’ll go back to our prefabs. All right?’
‘No. I don’t want to live in a tin hut either.’
‘A tent?’ he suggested.
‘No.’
‘The Park Lane in London?’ He wagged a finger under his wife’s nose. ‘Now, think on before chucking stuff. I kept the right sized window glass down yonder for the prefab, but I’ve nothing for here, so don’t go throwing the pans.’
She glared at him. ‘When was the last time I threw things?’
‘When Seamus took the school camp money to run away and find his brothers.’ Tom looked round. ‘He’s disappeared again, hasn’t he? No flaming wonder, with his mam and dad going at it hammer and tongs. Maureen, this is a fresh start in a new house. Don’t quarrel with me. Don’t turn into your mother, queen of all she surveys, controller, nuisance—’
‘There are kids round here who wouldn’t eat except for Mam lending families a few bob.’ Maureen calmed herself. ‘But she’s up to something. I can feel it. I can almost hear it crackling in her head like a wireless not tuned in properly.’
Tom recognized his chance, but said nothing. If he started a war between mother and daughter, it could take a document far more complicated than the Treaty of Versailles to straighten things out. With three houses stuck together in the terrace, any argument would spread like plague before becoming the subject of gossip throughout the whole neighbourhood.
The rest of the day passed without incident. Dockers arrived, beds were carried upstairs effortlessly, as were wardrobes and chests of drawers. Seamus returned, muddy and frowning. When asked how his circumstances had deteriorated so terribly, he made no reply, but was heard muttering under his breath about poor drainage at this side of Bootle, and he wasn’t going to be a builder when he left school.
Maureen placed him on the stairs and went to light a fire. ‘Don’t move,’ she called while balancing coals on newspaper and firewood. ‘Don’t even think about moving; don’t think at all. In fact, don’t even breathe deeply, cos this is a new house. The water will be hot enough for a bath once this fire gets going.’
Seamus sat on the uncarpeted stairs and thought about not thinking. But thinking about not thinking was thinking, wasn’t it? How could a person not think? Even asleep, he thought about things. That was called dreaming. The trouble with adults was that they had all the authority but no sense. ‘Straighten your face before the wind changes.’ ‘Don’t swallow chewing gum, because it’ll wrap itself round your heart and kill you.’ Where were their brains? On holiday somewhere? He was fed up.
Mam arrived with a paper poke containing chips. ‘There you go, my lad. From the chippy. After your bath, I’ll do you a nice fried egg butty. That’s if I can work out the flame-throwing monster in the kitchen. Then you’ve got that great big bedroom all to yourself, a lot bigger than in the prefab. We can’t decorate till the plaster’s gone off properly, but when we do, it’ll be red and white for Liverpool FC, eh?’
The nice thing about mams was that they kept you right. You got cooked meals, clean clothes with no creases, and your hair looked at every week for nits. They tucked you in, helped with homework and saved up for a television set. Dads were OK, too. They mended bikes, built go-carts out of pram wheels and wooden boxes, took you on the ferry or for a kick-about with a football. So life wasn’t all mud and tellings-off. It was a mixed bag with a fried egg butty for supper. Oh, well. The chips were good, but his hands were filthy …
Don’s head couldn’t rid itself of a picture of Molly floating round in that big house all by herself. Was she still going out George Formbying? Was she eating properly, was she happy, had she found someone to talk to? She and Matt had been so close, so wrapped up in each other. After his death, poor Molly had fallen apart until Don had entered the picture. Had he not become close to her, the business might have died of neglect and— Oh, what a mess. He’d caused more trouble than enough, hadn’t he?
He felt as guilty as Cain, as original sin, as Lucifer, the fallen angel who turned his back on glory before moving south to create hell. Molly had her lovable dogs, some tropical fish, her temperamental cookery and her money, but what she really needed was human company. Could he be that? Just that? Why was life so bloody complicated? Why couldn’t a man and a woman remain friends when an affair ended? Humans were an odd lot.
Tess mumbled in her sleep. She often did that, and he found himself almost praying that she wasn’t stuck in that apparently endless nightmare about the caravan, the hunger, the bed-wetters. For how long had he cursed her selfishness? Why hadn’t he remembered her beginnings? More to the point, why hadn’t she trusted him enough to explain to him about her fear of more pregnancies? He couldn’t have got life any more wrong if he’d tried. Was he some sort of Jonah?
Because Tess was no cold fish. Recovered at last from the surgery, she often instigated lovemaking, and he quickly realized that she had been denying herself as well as him, and that she, too, had suffered. Had he been a Catholic, he might have understood, but he’d promised only that any children would be reared as Catholics, no more than that. Perhaps he understood at last the Roman disapproval of mixed marriage.
He loved her. She wore him out with her butterfly mind, her sudden enthusiasms and her squirrels, but he wouldn’t swap her for all the tea in China. Squizzles, she called her pets these days. The Lennon boy had donated the word free of charge. The pretty little rodents now ate out of Tess’s hands. She wore gloves, because the buggers had teeth like razors.
Molly. There had been no phone calls, no meetings, no work. She had ordered him to stay away until Tess was well, and Tess was well. She was so well that Don was sometimes exhausted by her; his marriage had travelled at the speed of sound from famine to feast. He was happy to be tired, yet miserable about poor Molly. Today, he would visit her. The business was up for sale, but it needed to be in good order, and he should make sure that it was, that the books were clean and that no custom had been lost. She must not miss out; this could well be his last chance to be of service to her.
Tess reached for him. ‘Bad dream,’ she said. ‘Just hold me.’
‘With pleasure.’ He was at his most contented when his face was in her hair, when her head tucked itself into his neck. This was the wife he had almost lost, and he had no intention of misplacing her again. But Molly mattered. Molly had been good to him in many ways, and this was a debt of honour that demanded to be paid. He had to tell her that his concern for her remained, that she was by no means forgotten.
When Anne-Marie and Sean had left for work, Don advised Tess of his intentions. She was melting fat for her bird lollipops. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said, her tone nonchalant. ‘I’d quite like a little outing.’
Don shuddered and sat down rather suddenly at the kitchen table. ‘You can’t do that, love. I have to talk business with her, look at the books and so forth. It wouldn’t be right in a business meeting.’ Molly was a sen
sible woman, but Tess remained capable of creating a stir if her feathers got ruffled.
‘I’ll be very quiet,’ she promised. ‘Like a little mouse, but without all the squeaking. You will scarcely know I’m there.’
‘You will be quiet, because you won’t be there.’
She turned from the cooker and looked at him. Little strands of hair framed a face any artist would be pleased to commit to canvas. ‘I’m not letting you out of my sight, Don Compton. I’ve been lonely for too long. She’ll want you back, I know she will.’ After a pause, she continued, ‘You’re handsome and good and kind. She’ll be missing you.’
Two lonely women, both of them his own fault. ‘I’m not going to the house, Tess. I can’t go to the house, because I’d have trouble tearing myself away from the dogs. Anyway, she’ll be at work.’
‘Then so will I.’ She turned off the burner and mixed hot fat with birdseed and bits of bacon.
‘You don’t trust me,’ he accused her.
‘I don’t trust her, either. She shouldn’t have messed about with somebody else’s husband. She’s a … a lowlife.’
Don hung his head. Molly was nothing of the kind. She was isolated, and he knew how that felt. ‘You took it so well when I told you.’
‘I was too busy worrying about stitches and thanking God that I’d come out of the slaughterhouse alive. Now. As soon as I’ve got this lot in their moulds, we’re going. If you leave before I’ve finished, I’ll follow in my van. So stick that in your pipe and blow bubbles out of it. My mind is made up.’
Don decided in that moment that honesty wasn’t always the best policy. He would have done better with a lie, a tale about meeting Injun Joe in connection with a job, or a story concerning the planning of darts matches. When truth hurt, it was best left to one side like a bit of jetsam that might float away on the tide of life. ‘All right,’ he said after a lengthy pause. ‘But no trouble.’
‘Fair enough.’ She went upstairs to make herself beautiful while Don sat and tried to read his newspaper. This promised to be an interesting morning. He would be unable to talk privately with Molly, and that was a grave disappointment, since he wanted to make sure she was all right. Doing the books under Tess’s gaze might prove difficult, and he wished he’d kept his stupid mouth shut. But the damage was done, and her highness was upstairs making herself inappropriately smart. This time, she would be applying war paint. He allowed himself a tight smile. Tess would look wonderful in a potato sack, and she knew it.
Madam returned gowned and crowned, a very straight spine adding further to her regal appearance. The crown was a hat with a tiny veil that covered none of her face and precious little of the golden blonde hair. A matching suit fitted so well that it looked tailor-made to show off wonderful calves and ankles, while the ensemble was completed with good shoes, good bag and kid leather gloves. As was the way with many women, she planned to make her non-spoken statement via the outdoing of the perceived opponent by leaving her behind in the area of fashion and general appearance.
‘You look wonderful,’ he said.
‘I know.’
She knew. And she wasn’t shy about her beauty, wasn’t prone to dismissing her looks as unimportant as most females did. An undersized child had blossomed into a stunningly attractive woman. ‘You may have gone a bit over the top for a builders’ merchant’s yard, love.’
‘Yes, perhaps. But that’ll be because we’re going on somewhere when your business at the yard is over.’
‘Like Windsor Castle?’
‘No. Like a posh restaurant in town.’
He couldn’t tell Tess how much she owed to Molly. If she were to learn how he had come by this house, God alone knew how she might react. ‘She’s a good person, Tess.’
‘Good women don’t mess about with someone else’s husband.’
Don sighed. ‘You and I weren’t happy, love. I didn’t know you were ill and that messed-up hormones were making you worse and giving you panic attacks. Molly was company more than anything else. She was alone, and I was alone.’
‘But you weren’t going to stay with me, were you, Don?’
After a quick shuffling of his thoughts, he came up with a reply. ‘She didn’t know that. She thought we were moving as a family, because she knew I loved you. I didn’t realize it then, but she did. In fact, she was always on your side, always asking after you and telling me to get back home. She’s good, Tess. Even good people sometimes do wrong.’
Tess sniffed and tapped a toe two or three times. ‘All right, Romeo. I’ll give you twenty minutes’ travelling time – that’s ten each way – and half an hour to say goodbye and check her books. So it’s fifty minutes. Out of the goodness of my heart, I’ll stretch it to an hour. One hour. When you get back, I want you booted and suited, then you can take me somewhere plush for lunch. I’m still in here, you know.’ She placed a hand on her chest. ‘Inside, there’s still a hungry infant who turned into a silly, selfish woman. And I want four courses.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Including sorbet.’
‘Who?’
‘It’s a palate cleanser.’
Don nodded. ‘Can’t you just take your toothbrush?’
For answer, she clouted him with the best handbag. ‘Get gone. And don’t let me down, or your privileges will be curtailed.’
‘Oh. Do I get a general anaesthetic?’
‘No. You’ll feel the pain and enjoy it.’
He folded his paper and rose to his feet. ‘Ah. Now we enter the sado-masochistic phase, eh? Can I tie you to the bed and talk to you in Greek?’ He kissed her very fiercely.
When she regained the ability to absorb oxygen, she hit him once more with her bag. ‘You’ve ruined my make-up,’ she accused him.
‘That’s all right, then. You’ve won an hour to put it right.’ He left.
Tess smiled to herself. He wouldn’t walk out on her. Mind, there was a clause in the marriage ceremony, a piece that contained the words ‘till death us do part’. Nobody got out of here alive. The smile faded. He couldn’t die before she did. She had to go first. Oh well, she needed to sort out her face. People with smudged lipstick couldn’t enter a place that served sorbet.
Meanwhile, Don followed a familiar route to the place where he had worked for over ten years. Although Molly understood that their close relationship was over, she surely deserved a visit, an update and another thank you. Oh. An Under Offer notice had been pasted over the For Sale sign. He got out of the car and saw that the gates were padlocked. What now?
He looked at his watch. She Who Needed To Be In Charge had imposed a limit, but he had to get to Molly’s house. There was no anger in him; being annoyed by Tess was no longer allowed. Few people in life escaped undamaged, but some were more damaged than others. Inside Tess’s core dwelt an unloved child who would never be satisfied.
Molly wasn’t at the house, and there was no barking. A Sold sign stretched diagonally across the estate agent’s board informed Don that he was probably trespassing. Pressing his nose against the living-room window, he discovered that the tropical fish had been removed. She would never have left without letting him know, surely?
The answer? He knew exactly where it lay. Instead of using his key to the front door, he walked down the side of the house to the huge back garden. And there it was, in a flower bed well away from the house. A gardening glove that seemed to have been dropped accidentally lay on frozen soil. With difficulty, he eased his already cold fingers into the icy item before using it as protection while reaching into a holly bush. And there he found the black box inside which he and Molly had occasionally left messages for each other whenever plans went awry.
Firstly, there was a folded note for him – no name, no address, just a small piece of lined paper with a few words scribbled on it. Lots of luck to you, D. Every good wish for the future. Be happy. The other letter can be read by anyone, even T. Bye, my love. M xxx
Don carried the sealed envelope back to the
car. His name was written on the front. As he sat staring at it, a dart of sadness pierced his heart. It was possible to love two women simultaneously. Molly had been his anchor, his best friend. He could still hear her laughter, remember the smell of a disastrous moussaka, fumes from which might have been used against an enemy in the event of war. Somewhere far away, tucked in the back of his head, he heard the strumming of a ukulele and her ‘turned out nice again’ voice delivering a rendition of ‘My Little Stick of Blackpool Rock’.
Would he never see her again? Never was a long time to be without a best friend. But there was Tess, his re-enlivened wife, and he absolutely adored her. The extra layer in Molly’s make-up was probably connected to her age, because she had babied him. Where was she? Where the bloody hell had she gone with the wonderful dogs and the satanic angel fish?
He checked his watch. Unless he wanted to run into extra time, he’d better get this read, since the referee was waiting for him. Waiting for him. When they’d lived above the launderette, she’d taken little interest in his whereabouts. He could have been in Timbuktu for all she’d cared. He’d been steak pudding and peas, no more than that. Now, like most other wives, she wanted to know the location of her man.
But no. He didn’t need to open the envelope here in the car, because the extra little scrap of paper, now discarded in the dustbin, had reassured him. Even Tess could read this letter without taking umbrage. They might read it together, then. But as he drove away from the past, from an area of his life that had contained love, kindness and consideration, he felt a great hole widening in his chest. No Molly, no daft dogs, no hum from the filter in the fish tank. He remembered the trout. They’re staring at me. Do I cut their heads off? That had been followed by another trip to the chip shop. Molly. A mistake a minute, a laugh a minute. But no man could have two mistresses, and he had to be satisfied with his lot. Nothing on the planet would ever persuade him to abandon his Tess.
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 106
