by Maureen Lee
My father was disgusted, my mother horrified: a Catholic, getting divorced! Even so, Mum did her utmost to persuade me to come back home. My younger sister, Trudy, had found her own escape route via Colin Daley and had also married at eighteen, though Colin had been a better bet than Gary. After ten years they were still happily together.
Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me back to Kirkby and my family. Instead, I rented a bedsit. I had my English A level by then, and until I bought my flat, nothing in life had given me more pleasure than the certificate to say I’d achieved a grade C. Armed with a dictionary, I’d made myself read the books I’d been set, struggled for hours to understand them in the bedroom at my motherin-law’s, while downstairs Gary watched football and game-shows on television. It seemed no time before the words started to make sense, as if I’d always known them, as if they’d been stored in my head waiting to be used. I shall never forget the day I finished reading Pride and Prejudice. I’d understood it. I’d enjoyed it. It was like discovering you could sing or play the piano.
Once settled in the bedsit, I took courses in typing and computing at night school, left Peterssen’s, and began to wonder if it had all been worth it as I drifted from one deadend office job to another—until three years ago, when I became a receptionist/typist with Stock Masterton, an estate agent’s in the city centre. Of course, I had to tell George Masterton I’d worked in a factory until I was twenty-four, but he had been impressed. “Ah, a self-made woman. I like that.”
George and I hit it off immediately. I was promoted to “property negotiator”. Me! Now George was contemplating opening a branch in Woolton, a relatively middle-class area of Liverpool, and I was determined to be appointed manager, which was why I was writing the report. I’d driven round Woolton, taking in the number of superior properties, the roads of substantial semidetacheds, the terraced period cottages that could be hyped and sold for a bomb. I’d noted how often the buses ran to town, listed the schools, the supermarkets . . . The report would help George make up his mind and show him how keen I was to have the job.
It was through Stock Masterton that I’d found my flat.
The builders had gone bankrupt and the units were being sold for a song, which was unfair on the people already there who’d paid thousands more but the bank wanted its money and wasn’t prepared to wait.
“I’ve not done bad for someone not quite thirty,” I murmured to myself. “I’ve got my own place, a job with prospects and a car. I earn twice as much as Gary.”
No, I’d not done badly at all.
Yet I wasn’t happy.
I leaned on the iron rail and rested my chin on my arms. Somewhere deep within I felt a deadness, and I wondered if I would ever be happy. There were times when I felt like a skater going across the thinnest of ice. It was bound to crack some time, and I would disappear for ever into the freezing, murky water beneath. I shook myself. It was too lovely a morning for such morbid thoughts.
I’d forgotten about James. He appeared on the balcony tucking a black shirt into his jeans. Even in casual clothes, he always looked crisp, neat, tidy. I turned away when he fastened the buckle of his wide leather belt.
He frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“You shuddered. Have you gone off me all of a sudden?”
“Don’t be silly!” I laughed.
James sat in the other chair. I swung up my bare feet so they rested between his legs and wriggled my toes.
“Cor!” he gasped.
“Don’t look like that. People will realise what I’m doing.”
“Would you like to do it inside where no one can see?”
“In a minute. I want to take a shower.”
He smacked his lips. “I’ll take it with you.”
“You’ve just got dressed!”
“I can get undressed pretty damn quick.” He looked at me quizzically. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
“For what?” I was being deliberately vague.
“For proposing. I’d forgotten you modern women take an offer of marriage as an insult.” He took my feet in his hands. I was conscious of how large and warm and comforting they felt. “As an alternative, how about if I moved in with you?”
I tried to pull away my feet, but he held them firmly.
“The flat’s only small,” I muttered. “There’s only one bedroom.”
“I wasn’t contemplating occupying the other if there were two.”
No! I valued my privacy as much as my independence.
I didn’t want someone suggesting it was time I went to bed or asking why I was late home—and did I really want the living room painted such a dark pink? I wished I could start the day again and stop him proposing. I had been quite enjoying things as they were.
James put my feet down carefully on the balcony floor.
“Between us we could get somewhere bigger.”
“You’ve changed the rules,” I said.
He sighed. “I know, but it’s not the rules that have changed, it’s me. I think I’m in love with you, Millie Cameron. In fact, I know I am.” He tried to catch my eyes. “I take it the feeling isn’t reciprocated?”
I bit my lip and shook my head. James turned away and I contemplated his perfect profile: straight nose, broad mouth, pale, stubby lashes. His hair lay in a flattering corn-coloured quiff on his broad, tanned forehead. He didn’t look as if it was the end of the world that I’d turned him down. According to his mother, who never failed to mention it, there’d been an army of girls before me. How many had he fallen in love with? On reflection, I didn’t know him all that well. True, -we talked a lot, but never about anything serious; the conversation rarely strayed from films, plays, mutual acquaintances and clothes. Oh, and football. I sensed he was shallow and also rather weak, always anxious still to do his father’s bidding, even though he, too, was twenty-nine. I felt irritated again that he’d spoiled things: I didn’t want to give him up. Nor did I want to hurt him, but I couldn’t be expected to fall in love with him just because he had decided he was in love with me.
“Perhaps we can talk about it some other time?” I ventured. In a year, two years, ten.
He closed his eyes briefly and gave a sigh of relief. “I was worried you might dump me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” I jumped to my feet and ran inside. James followed. Outside the bathroom, I removed my dressing-gown and posed tauntingly before opening the door and going in. I stepped into the shower and turned on the water. It felt freezing . . . but it had warmed up nicely by the time James drew the curtain back and joined me.
“Hello, luv. You look pale.”
“Hi, Mum.” I made a kissing noise two inches from my mother’s plump, sagging cheek. Whenever I turned up in Kirkby, she claimed I looked pale or tired or on the verge of coming down with something.
“Say hello to your dad. He’s in the garden with his tomaters.”
My father -I couldn’t even think of him as Dad -had always been a keen if unimaginative gardener. Dutifully, I opened the kitchen door and called, “Hello.”
The greenhouse was just beyond the neat lawn, the door open. “Hello there, luv.” My father was inside, a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. His dark, sombre expression brightened at the sound of my voice. He threw away the cigarette, wiped his hands on the hips of his trousers and came inside. “How’s the estate-agency business?”
“Okay.” I managed to keep the loathing out of my voice. He told everyone I was a property negotiator.
Nowadays he claimed to be proud of his girls. “Where’s Declan?”
“Gone to the pub.” Mum couldn’t have looked more harassed if she had been preparing a meal for royalty. She took a casserole out of the oven, then put it back. “What have I done with the spuds? Oh, I know, they’re in the top oven. Declan’s promised to be back by one.”
“Will the grub be ready on time, luv?”
“Yes, Norman. Oh, yes.” Mum jumped at her
husband’s apparently mild question, though it was years since he’d beaten her. “It’ll be ready the minute our Trudy and Declan come.”
“Good. I’ll have another ciggie while I’m waiting.” He disappeared into the lounge.
“Why don’t you have a talk with your dad and I’ll get on with this?” Mum said, as she stirred something in a pan.
As if I would! She’d always tried to pretend we were a perfectly normal family. “I’d sooner stay and talk to you.”
She flushed with pleasure. “What have you been up to lately?”
I shrugged. “Nothing much. Went to a club last night, the theatre on Wednesday. I’m going out to dinner tonight.”
“With that James chap?”
“Yes,” I said shortly. I regretted telling them about James. It was when Declan had jokingly remarked he was thinking of trading in his bike for a Ferrari that I’d told him about Atherton Cars where several could be had. The following Sunday, my father had driven over to Southport to take a look and I was terrified that one day he’d introduce himself to James.
Mum was poised anxiously over the ancient cooker, which had been there when we moved into the council house in 1969. I was three and Trudy just a baby; Declan and Alison had yet to arrive. These days, Mum wasn’t just stout but shapelessly stout. Her shabby skirt, with no waist to fix on, was down at the front and up at the rear, revealing the backs of her surprisingly well-shaped but heavily veined legs. I always thought it would have been better if they had grown fat with the rest of her. As it was, she looked like some sort of strange insect: a huge, round body stuck on pins. Her worried, good-natured face was colourless, her skin the texture of putty. The once beautiful hair, the same ash-blonde as her children’s, she cut herself with no regard for fashion. She wore no makeup, hadn’t for years, as if she was going out of her way to make herself unattractive, or perhaps she just didn’t care any more. She was fifty-five but looked ten years older.
Yet she’d been so lovely! I recalled the wedding photo on the mantelpiece in the lounge, the bride tall, willowy and girlish, the fitted lace dress clinging to her slim, perfect figure, though her face was wistful, rather sad, as if she’d been able to see into the future and knew what fate had in store for her. Her hair was long and straight, gleaming in the sunshine of her wedding day, turning under slightly at the ends as mine and Trudy’s did. Declan and Alison had curly hair. None of us had taken after our father, with his swarthy good looks and bitter chocolate eyes. Perhaps that’s why he’d never liked us much; four children and not one in his image.
The back door opened and my brother came in. “Hi, Sis. Long time no see.” He aimed a pretend punch at my stomach and I aimed one back. “That’s a nice frock. Dark colours suit you.” He fingered the material. “What would you call that green?”
Declan had always been interested in his sisters’ clothes, which infuriated our father who called him a cissy, and had done his brutal best to make a man out of him.
“Olive, I think. It was terribly cheap.”
“It was terribly cheap!”” Declan repeated, with an impish grin. “You don’t half talk posh these days, Mill. I’d be ashamed to take you to the pub.”
A shout came from the lounge. “Is that you, Declan?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“You’re only just in time,” the voice said pointedly.
Declan winked at me. He was twenty, a tall, lanky boy with a sensitive face and an infectious smile, always cheerful. He was currently working as a labourer on a demolition site, which seemed an entirely unsuitable job for someone who looked as if a feather would knock him down. I often wondered why he still lived at home and assumed it was for Mum’s sake. He shouted, “Scotty met this smashing bitch. I had a job getting him home. I forgot to take his lead.”
“Where is Scotty?”
“In the garden.”
I went outside to say hello to the little black dog that vaguely resembled a Scotch terrier. “You’re an oversexed ruffian.” I laughed as the rough hairy body bounced up and down to greet me.
A car stopped outside, and seconds later two small children came hurtling down the side of the house. I picked up Scotty and held him like a shield as Melanie and Jake launched themselves at me.
“Leave your aunt Millie alone!” Trudy shouted. “I’ve told you before, she doesn’t like kids.” She beamed. “Hi, Sis. I’ve painted you another bottle.”
“Hi, Trude. I’d love another bottle. Hello, Colin.”
Colin Daley was a stocky, quiet man, who worked long into the night six days a week in his one-man engineering company. He was doing well: he and Trudy had already sold their first house and bought a bigger one in Orrell Park. I sensed he didn’t like me much. He’d got on well with Gary and perhaps he thought I neglected my family, left too much to Trudy. During the week, she often came over to Kirkby with the children. He nodded in my direction. “Hello, there.”
“Do you really not like kids?” Jake enquired gravely
He was six, two years older than his sister, a happy little boy with Colin’s blue eyes. Both Trudy’s children were happy—she’d made sure of that.
“I like you two,” I lied. As kids went they weren’t bad, but talking to them got on my nerves. I hugged Scotty, who was licking my ear. I would have had a dog of my own if I hadn’t spent so much time at work.
Jake looked at me doubtfully. “Honest?”
“Cross my heart.”
We all went indoors. Mum shrieked, “C’mon, you little rascals, and give your gran a hug.” The children allowed themselves to be kissed, then they cried, “Where’s Grandad?”
“In the lounge.”
Mum looked wistful as Melanie and Jake whooped their way into the other room. She said, “They’ve got a thing about their grandad.”
“I know.” It was strange that Trudy’s children adored the man who’d once nearly killed their mother. She still bore a scar from his belt buckle above her left eyebrow.
When I went in Trudy was standing in the lounge, hovering near her children who were sitting on their grandad’s knee. I noticed her eyes flicker to the big hands, one resting on each child’s waist. We looked at each other in mutual understanding.
As usual, the meal was revolting. The mound of mashed potatoes, watery cabbage and stewing steak on my plate made me feel nauseous. “I’ll never eat all this, Mum,” I protested. “I asked you not to give me much.”
“You look as if you need a decent meal, luv. There’s a nice apple charlotte for afters.”
It’s a sin to waste good food,” my father said jovially.
I caught Trudy’s eye and Declan hid a grin. The final Sunday of the month was a day for catching eyes and making faces. Odd phrases brought back bitter memories: “It’s a sin to waste good food,” was not said so lightly in those days.
On the surface, it was a civilised gathering, occasionally merry, a family united for Sunday lunch, except for Alison, of course. But I always felt on tenterhooks, as if I were watching someone blowing up a balloon, bigger and bigger until it was about to burst. Perhaps it was just me. Perhaps no one else remembered how Colin detested his father-in-law, how nervous Mum was, what Sunday dinner used to be like when we were little. Even now, I was still terrified that I would drop food on the tablecloth and that a nicotine-stained hand would reach across and slap my face, so hard that tears would come to my eyes, even though I’d sworn at an early age never to let him see me cry.
The conversation had turned to Auntie Flo. “We were friendly for a while before I married your dad,” Mum said. “I went to her flat in Toxteth a few times, though your gran never knew.” She turned to me. “Actually, Millicent, that’s where you come in.”
“What’s Auntie Flo got to do with me?”
“Your gran wants her place cleared before the rent runs out, otherwise the landlord might chuck everything away.”
“Why ask me?” I could think of few less welcome things to do than clear out the belongings of an old la
dy I hadn’t known. “Why not you or Gran or Trudy? What about that woman you mentioned, the one who rang?”
Mum looked hurt. “It’s not much to ask, luv. I can’t do it because . . . ” she paused uncomfortably “ . . . well, your dad’s not very keen on the idea. Gran’s too upset, she’s taken Flo’s death hard. Anyroad, she never goes out nowadays.”
“And Trudy’s already got enough to do,” Colin growled.
“As for the woman who rang, she’s just someone who lives upstairs. We don’t want a stranger going through Auntie Flo’s precious things, do we?”
“What precious things?” I noticed my father’s fists clench. I reminded myself that he could do nothing to me now. I could say what I liked. “I don’t know what she did for a living, but I can’t imagine Auntie Flo having acquired many precious things.”
“She worked in a launderette till she retired.” For a moment, Mum looked nonplussed. Then she went on eagerly, “But there’ll be papers, luv, letters perhaps, odds and ends of jewellery your gran would like. The clothes can go to one of those charity shops, Oxfam. I’m sure you’ll find someone to take the furniture, and if there’s anything nice, I wouldn’t mind it meself. Declan knows a lad who has a van.”
I tried to think of a way of getting out of it. My mother was looking at me pleadingly, her pasty face slightly moist. She would probably thoroughly enjoy going through the flat, but Dad had put his foot down for some reason, not that he’d ever needed a reason in the past. The mere fact that Mum wanted to do something was enough. Maybe I could get it done in a few hours if I went armed with several cardboard boxes. I had one last try. “I’ve always avoided Toxteth like the plague. It’s full of drugs and crime. People get murdered there, shot.”
Mum looked concerned. “Oh, well, if that’s—” she began, but my father butted in, “Your auntie Flo lived there for over fifty years without coming to any harm.”
It seemed I had no choice. “Oh, all right,” I said reluctantly. “When’s the rent due?”
“I’ve no idea.” Mum looked relieved. “The woman upstairs will know. Mrs Smith, her name is, Charmian Smith.”
