Laceys Of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  ‘I don’t know, do I? I didn’t ask. But whatever she’s done, John, she’s still ours. We’ve got to stand by her. Now, about the parlour

  ‘She’s not having the parlour,’ he said brutally. ‘If this house had twice as many rooms, I wouldn’t have her, or that Micky, under me roof. She’s made her bed, let her lie on it.’

  ‘I see.’ Alice’s voice was cold. ‘You know, John, when that fire burnt your face, it burnt something else an’ all. It sounds a bit daft to say it burnt your heart, but that’s what it seems like. There’s not a drop of charity left in your body. You’re as hard as bloody nails. It’s not fair. You’ve no right to behave like this with your family.’

  His wife and daughters all seemed part of the accident. When his face had been destroyed, something had happened to the love he felt for the people in this house, even Cormac. It had been damaged, perverted in some way, riddled with suspicion. He had changed from Dr Jekyll into Mr Hyde.

  He wanted shot of them. They were no longer his concern, more like an intrusion into his present happiness. He felt like fleeing Amber Street there and then. He longed for Crozier Terrace, for Clare and his other family with whom he felt completely at ease.

  He stood abruptly. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘Will you come with us to the Lavins tomorrer night?’

  ‘No! I’ll sign the necessary forms so she can get married and off me back, but Orla can rot in hell for all I care.’ He couldn’t believe he’d just said that. He stopped at the door, turned to say he hadn’t meant it. He was confused. He always felt confused in Amber Street. But Alice had picked up the cups and was taking them into the kitchen, and he couldn’t be bothered calling her back.

  The following evening Orla went on her own to Micky’s house in Chaucer Street to tell him he would shortly become a father. Alice followed an hour later, apprehensive and nervous, worried the Lavins would react as badly as John had and there’d be a scene. She was surprised to find Micky had already told his mam and dad and they were delighted at the news.

  She was taken into the shabby parlour, which had obviously been given a quick dusting because there were still smears of dirt left on the sideboard. A broken orange box burnt in the grate. To her further surprise the room contained one of them new-fangled television things, which she later learnt had fallen off the back of a lorry – one of the Lavin lads just happened to be there at the time.

  ‘They’ll be wed with our blessing,’ Mrs Lavin said grandly. ‘Won’t they, Ted? We can have the do afterwards in the Chaucer Arms – our Kathleen works there as a barmaid.’

  ‘I doubt if Orla will want much of a do. Will you, luv?’

  ‘No, Mam.’ Orla was sitting as far away from Micky as she could in the small space provided by the parlour. She looked pale and subdued, as if they were planning her funeral rather than her wedding. Micky was watching her anxiously. He was crazy about her, Alice realised, and a lump came to her throat. Were two lives about to be destroyed by this marriage? Three, if you counted the unborn child. Last night she had suggested Orla forget about Micky and go away to have the baby.

  ‘And what would happen to it?’ Orla asked thinly.

  ‘It would have to be adopted.’

  Orla shook her head. ‘No, Mam. That would be dead irresponsible. I’d feel terrible for the rest of me life.’

  ‘So would I, if the truth be known. I couldn’t stand the thought of me first grandchild being brought up by strangers.’

  One of the younger Lavins was being despatched to buy a bottle of sherry so a toast could be drunk to the about-to-be-married couple. Mrs Lavin wondered aloud if it was too late to go round St James’s church that night and post the bans: ‘So they can get spliced at the earliest, like.’

  Alice found herself warming to the good-natured, red-faced woman, with her kind, generous manner and her equally kind husband. She felt deeply touched when the subject of where the young couple would live was raised and Mr Lavin said instantly, ‘They can sleep in the parlour. We don’t want our Micky giving up his apprenticeship and we wouldn’t ask a penny off him, would we, luv? Not when he’s got a wife and a kiddy on the way.’

  Mrs Lavin’s plump, worn face creased into a broad smile. ‘The good Lord always seems to provide sufficient food for the table. At least, so I’ve found.’

  It was so different from John’s attitude the night before. ‘John and I will help out, of course,’ Alice said, feeling obliged to include her husband in the offer.

  ‘They’ll get by,’ Mrs Lavin said placidly.

  Orla uttered a strangled cry and fled from the room.

  They got married, Orla Lacey and Micky Lavin, on the first Monday in March. The Nuptial Mass was at ten o’clock. Although the bans had been called for the last three weeks, few onlookers turned up at the church at such an early hour. There were no wedding cars to attract attention, no bouquets or buttonholes, no bridesmaids.

  In place of the bride’s father, who had unfortunately been struck down a few days before with a severe bout of flu – or so Alice told the extravagantly sympathetic Lavins – Danny Mitchell gave his granddaughter away. Lacey’s hairdresser’s was closed for the day. Maeve was on afternoon shift at the hospital, so had no need to ask for time off. Cormac, who found the whole situation completely baffling, stayed away from school. He’d thought people only got married because they made each other happy, but all Orla did was snap people’s heads off every time they spoke, particularly Micky’s.

  Bernadette Moynihan took the morning off to be with her friend on such a stressful day.

  ‘I’d imagined having a great big bash when the kids got married,’ Alice confessed tearfully as she got ready. ‘Y’know, picking the bride’s and bridesmaids’ dresses, ordering flowers and the cake, arranging a nice reception with a sit-down meal. But this is going to be awful and John not being there only makes it worse.’

  ‘What’s Orla doing about her job?’ Bernie asked.

  ‘She’s given in her notice. She had no choice, did she? Any minute now she’ll start to show.’

  Orla looked like death in the simple blue suit her mother had bought. She held a white prayer book in her white-gloved hands. Throughout the ceremony, Micky couldn’t take his troubled eyes away from her stony face.

  ‘She’s going to make his life hell.’ Alice’s heart sank. This was a nightmare of a wedding.

  Chapter 6

  ‘The letter came this morning to say he’d passed, which means he’ll be off to St Mary’s grammar school in September. You should see the list of things we’ve got to buy!’ Alice laughed and made a face. ‘He was a bit put out to find he’s got to wear a cap, but he’s going to keep it in his blazer pocket till he gets to school.’ Blazer! She never dreamt she’d have a son who’d wear a blazer.

  ‘I suppose it’s nice to have some good news for a change,’ said Mrs White who came once a month for a shampoo and set. ‘Your Cormac passing the scholarship makes up a bit for Orla.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Alice enquired in an icy voice.

  ‘Well . . .’ Mrs White must have been put off by Alice’s tone. ‘Nothing, really.’

  ‘We’re all very happy for Orla, if you must know. Micky Lavin is a fine lad who’ll make a good husband. And we’re dead pleased about the baby.’

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘She’s so young to be a mother,’ Mrs White said lamely.

  ‘She’s seventeen. I was only a year older when I had our Fionnuala.’

  ‘You’re fastening the curlers too tight, Mrs Lacey. Would you mind undoing the last two and rolling them up a bit looser.’

  Alice sniffed. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I understand you’re about to expand.’ Mrs White must have decided this was safer ground. Alice Lacey was a brilliant hairdresser, the best in Bootle, and it wouldn’t do to annoy her. She was relieved to be rewarded with a smile.

  ‘Yes, I’m taking on a trained assistant, if you c
an call that expanding: Doreen Morrison, only part-time. She used to work in this exclusive salon in town till she retired.’

  ‘She’s old, then?’

  ‘Only fifty. She retired because of a heart complaint, but feels she can manage four afternoons a week and Sat’days. She only lives down Cowper Street, so she won’t have that big journey into town.’

  The salon was getting busier. Women were coming from further and further afield, and Alice was often booked solid for weeks ahead. As well as taking on an assistant, she had felt obliged to have a telephone installed.

  She placed a net over Mrs White’s curlers, tucking two large cotton wool pads inside to cover her ears, sat her under the dryer, then went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, leaving Fion in charge. Though not for long — there was a trim arriving any minute, followed by a tint, and Mrs Nutting would shortly need combing out.

  It was a lovely, hot August day. The schools had broken up a fortnight ago – Cormac had gone to Seaforth sands with his mates and stern instruction only to paddle, not swim. Alice took her tea into the backyard to drink, glad to escape from the salon for a few minutes and not just because it was so warm in there.

  The trouble with Bootle, which she loved with all her heart, was that everybody knew everybody else’s business. She was sick to the teeth with women making remarks about Orla, who’d only been married five months, but was already as big as a house. The baby was due at the end of next month and she wondered, grimly, what people would have to say then.

  It was annoying that Mrs White had taken some of the sheen off Cormac’s achievement – she must go round and tell Orla as soon as the salon closed. It might cheer her up a bit.

  Only might! Alice sighed. Orla was behaving as if the world had ended, giving poor Micky a terrible time. His mam, whose patience seemed inexhaustible, was full of sympathy.

  ‘I was out of sorts when I was having a couple of mine. She’ll be all right by the time the baby comes.’

  Somehow Alice doubted it. Being confined to the Lavins’ cramped, noisy parlour with a baby to look after was likely to make Orla even worse. What was it that film star, Jimmy Durante always said? ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet!’

  If only she could afford to rent them a little house! Hopefully, once Doreen Morrison started, the profits would go up and she’d ask Horace Flynn if he had a place going.

  There were all sorts of ‘if onlys’. If only John earned a bit more from the business. Instead, he gave her less housekeeping than when he’d been working as a turner. He was always vague when he handed over the money, muttering about needing new tools, more stock, increasing overheads. If it hadn’t been for the hairdresser’s, Alice wouldn’t have been able to manage. She would, though, insist John contribute towards the cost of Cormac’s uniform and all the other stuff required – she remembered there was a tennis racquet on the list.

  ‘When will I see Dad so I can tell him?’ Cormac had asked that morning when the letter came.

  Alice pursed her lips, angry that John was never there when something nice happened – or something bad, like that business with Orla, with whom he had cut off contact altogether. ‘I dunno, luv. Not till Sat’day, probably.’ It mightn’t even be then. They seemed to be seeing less and less of him, even at weekends. ‘I’ll wait up late and give him the news,’ she promised.

  ‘Can I come down if I’m still awake?’

  ‘Of course, luv.’

  There was yet another ‘if only’. If only she hadn’t been so stupid as to sign away a third of the business to Cora! It was galling to think that the money her sister-in-law took every week would have been enough to pay the rent on three, or even four, small houses.

  ‘Mam!’ Fion yelled. ‘Geraldine O’Brien’s here for her trim.’

  ‘Coming, luv.’

  Maurice Lacey had had nothing to eat or drink all day, having been confined to his room ever since the letter had come to say he’d failed the scholarship. Now he reckoned it was nearly teatime, and he was starving hungry and aching for a drink.

  ‘You’re bloody thick, you are,’ Mam had screeched. ‘Get up to your room, I’ll punish you later. I daren’t do it now, else I might kill you I’m so bloody mad. I thought you’d be dead clever like your dad.’

  This was a very strange remark, as Mam usually claimed his dad was as thick as two short planks. He wondered if Cormac had passed and would like to bet he had. He’d also like to bet that Auntie Alice wouldn’t have made a huge big scene if Cormac had failed. He felt envious of Cormac, having Auntie Alice for a mam. She didn’t hug him and squeeze him and kiss him, the way his own mam did, but nor did she hit him either — there was no sign of a cane in Amber Street.

  For the first time in his eleven years, Maurice was struck with the thought that life wasn’t fair. There’d been nearly forty children in his class, but only a few had been expected to pass the scholarship. Were all those others who’d failed shut in a dark bedroom with the threat of the cane hanging over their heads? They were more likely playing football in the street or in the park, or had gone to the shore, like Cormac. Why was he always treated differently from everyone else?

  ‘It’s not fair!’ A ball of misery rose in his parched throat, where it stuck and he couldn’t swallow. He badly wanted to cry because he felt so unhappy.

  The front door slammed, indicating his mam had gone out. Maurice tried his own door, but it was locked from the outside. He glanced out of the window, where the sun was shining brightly enough to split the flags, and felt a longing for fresh air, the company of his mates from school. He was rarely allowed out on his own.

  In a garden behind he could hear the sound of children playing and through the trees he spied a swing. They actually had a swing of their own!

  His heart in his mouth, he slid open the window, climbed out on to the kitchen roof, then shinned down the drainpipe to the ground.

  He was free! There’d be hell to pay when Mam got back and found him gone, but right now Maurice didn’t care. He’d always done his best to be good. He was never naughty, never got into trouble, never answered back. He’d tried with all his might to pass the scholarship. It wasn’t his fault that the questions were too hard. Anyroad, his brain had gone numb. He couldn’t think.

  Without any idea where he was going, Maurice began to run. If he went to North Park he’d be sure to find someone to play with. Instead, some ten minutes later, he found himself outside Auntie Alice’s hairdresser’s. He wanted to see her pretty, kind face light up in surprise when he went in. She was fond of him, he could tell. He’d only been in the hairdresser’s a few times, but he liked it very much. It was a cheerful place and everybody there seemed happy.

  He opened the door and a bell chimed. His cousin, Fion, was brushing the floor and another lady was washing another lady’s hair. There was no sign of his aunt.

  ‘Hello, luv,’ Fion exclaimed. ‘Is your mam with you?’

  Maurice shook his head. He liked Fion, who was inclined to make a fuss of him, but it was her mam he wanted.

  ‘You look hot. Would you like a glass of cherryade?’ Fion enquired. ‘We’ve got some in the kitchen.’

  ‘Yes, please!’

  ‘I’ll get it you in a minute, as soon as I’ve finished this floor. Me mam’s in the yard, having a quick breather. It’s been like a Turkish bath in here today. Fortunately, we’ll be closing soon. Why don’t you go and say hello.’

  Maurice trotted down the salon, through the kitchen and into the yard, where Auntie Alice was sitting on a chair. Her face was a bit sad, he thought, but brightened considerably when she saw him.

  ‘Hello, Maurice, luv.’ She beamed. ‘Are you out on your own? That makes a change.’

  He had no idea what came over him, because all of a sudden he’d thrown himself at his aunt and she’d dragged him on to her knee, and he was sobbing his heart out, and she was stroking his face and saying, ‘There, there, luv. Tell your Auntie Alice what’s wrong.’

  ‘I�
�ve failed the scholarship,’ he bawled. ‘Me mam shut me in me room and tonight she’s going to kill me.’

  ‘Oh, she is, is she!’ his aunt said in an ominous voice.

  ‘I didn’t mean to fail. I tried dead hard, honest.’

  ‘I’m sure you did, luv. The best anyone can do is try.’

  ‘I’m dead stupid.’ He sobbed.

  ‘If everyone who failed the scholarship was stupid, then the world would grind to a halt,’ his aunt said wisely. ‘None of our girls passed, nor did I, nor your Uncle John. Neither did your mam, come to that. Anyroad, you’re good at other things – footy, for instance. You’re a much better player than our Cormac.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Maurice conceded with a hiccup.

  ‘And you’re dead handsome.’ She ran her fingers through his dark curls. ‘I bet you’ll break lots of hearts when you grow up, by which time you’ll find yourself good at all sorts of things. Me, now, I used to think I was as daft as a brush, until I discovered I was good at doing women’s hair.’ She hugged him very tight. ‘Now, don’t you ever call yourself stupid again, do you hear?’

  The bell went on the door and his aunt said, ‘That’s probably me final customer. All she wants is a trim. You can keep me company in the salon for a while, then I’ll take you home.’

  He pressed himself against her. ‘I don’t want to go home!’

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to, luv, otherwise your mam will call out the bobbies and I’ll be charged with kidnapping.’

  ‘I’m hungry, Auntie.’

  ‘In that case I’ll give you your tea, then I’ll take you home.’

  It’s not right, Cora,’ Alice said. ‘To deprive an eleven-year-old of food and drink all day just because he didn’t pass a silly exam . . . well, it’s just not right.’

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ Cora argued hotly. ‘How I treat me son is nobody’s affair but me own.’

  ‘It is my affair when I become involved,’ Alice replied just as hotly. ‘The poor little lad was forced to come to mine for summat to eat. He drank a whole bottle of cherryade and I don’t know how many glasses of water. His throat must have been as dry as a bone.’