by Maureen Lee
“But they must cost the earth!” Diana protested.
“I don’t care. I don’t want them.” I changed the subject.
“How’s your father?”
Diana’s face brightened. “Much improved. We think he might be in remission. It happens sometimes with cancer. Yesterday I took him to Otterspool, and we had a picnic in the car. I can’t think why we’ve never done things like that before.”
“My mother was talking about moving away from Liverpool, and I suddenly realised how much I’d miss her.” I’d never mentioned anything about my family to Diana before, and felt that I’d made the first gesture towards friendship.
We came to the conclusion that most children took their parents too much for granted, and agreed to lunch together if we could get away at the same time. Diana hissed, “Is George still cross with me over those notes? I suppose I’ve blown my chances with that job I was after.”
“The job’s Oliver’s. It always was. As for the notes, I bet George has forgotten all about them.”
“God, I hope so.” Diana pursed her lips. “I made a terrible cock-up there. I envy you, Millie. You never do anything to rock the boat. You’re always so meek and pliable. Men prefer women they think they can control.
George doesn’t like me because I’m too independent.” It might have been unintentional, but there was a strong note of spite in her voice. She touched a rose. “No one’s ever sent me flowers like this.”
Whether she meant it or not, I still felt affronted. Meek and pliable? Me? I bent my head over my work, and decided to be too busy when Diana suggested it was time for lunch.
After work, I drove to Blundellsands to do some washing and take a shower. There was a message from. James on the answering-machine, which I refused to listen to. I switched off the machine and rang my mother. “Is everything okay, Mum?”
“Everything’s fine, luv. Why?”
“It’s just that my answering-machine’s broken, I’ll be out most nights this week and I didn’t want you to worry.”
Nor did I want a repeat of the Birmingham episode.
During the week ahead, a minor crisis of one sort or another was bound to occur in the Cameron household and Mum would need someone to talk to. “Call me at the office if something important crops up,” I told her.
“As long as it won’t get you into trouble, luv.”
It wouldn’t, I assured her. “What will you be up to the nights you’re out?” she asked.
I imagined telling the truth: that I would be sleeping with the grandson of the man who’d broken Flo Clancy’s heart almost sixty years ago. I said, “I thought it was time I put in a few more hours at Auntie Flo’s. I’m getting nowhere at this rate.”
“I’m sorry you were landed with it, Millicent. I never thought it’d turn out to be such a mammoth task.”
“I’m quite enjoying it.”
“Gran said you’d met Bel Szerb.”
“Bel who?”
“Szerb. At least, that’s how I knew her. I think she got married again. She was a dead scream, Bel was.”
“She still is.” After impressing on her that she must nag Declan to apply for a college course, I rang off. The washing had finished its cycle so I hung it over the bath, packed a bag and made my way to William Square and Tom O’Mara.
When I got out of the car, Peter Maxwell was going down the steps to his flat with several files under his arm.
He wore jeans, a thick check shirt and a donkey jacket.
He grinned at me through the railings. “Hi! Fancy a coffee and a chocolate biccy?”
“I wouldn’t mind.” His laid-back, easy-going manner was welcome after James’s histrionics.
His flat was completely different from next door: red-tiled floor, red curtains and white walls hung with abstract paintings. It was a man’s room. Apart from the paintings and a single white-shaded lamp, there were no other ornaments and the furniture was minimal, mainly of natural wood. Two armchairs were upholstered in black and white check. The effect was cool and airy, tranquil, giving the impression that the occupant was at peace with himself, which I envied.
“This isn’t a bit like Flo’s,” I remarked. Another difference was that everywhere was warm due to the two large radiators, one at each end of the room.
“I know. I’ll just put the kettle on.” He took off his coat, hung it behind the door and disappeared into the kitchen.
When he came back, he said, “I used to see your auntie at least once a week. It was my job to get rid of the bottles.”
“What bottles?”
He grinned. “The sherry bottles. She didn’t want Charmian, the binmen and that aged but gorgeous redhead to know how much she was drinking. Flo was knocking back more than a bottle a day over the last year. She was a nice old girl, though. I liked her.”
“I only saw her once, at another great-aunt’s funeral.”
“I wish I’d known you two were related. Flo would have been tickled pink to know we’d been in the same class at school.” He disappeared into the kitchen again, returning with two mugs of coffee and a packet of Jaffa cakes. “I’m a lousy house-husband. I’m afraid my cupboards are bare. I hope you’ve eaten.”
“I keep forgetting to eat.”
He ran his fingers through his beard, which already looked like an untidy bird’s nest, and said thoughtfully, Tin sure there’s a tin of corned beef and a packet of instant spuds out there. I’ll knock you up a plate of corned-beef hash if you like?”
“No thanks.” I shuddered. “That’s one of my mother’s favourite dishes. It would remind me too much of home.”
“I used to feel like that about Coronation Street,” he said. The mam never missed a single episode, and the house had to be dead quiet. You daren’t sneeze else you’d get a belt around the ear. For years afterwards if I passed a house and heard the music I got goosebumps.”
We stared at each other and laughed. “Memories, eh!” he said wryly.
At the end of the room, I noticed there were french windows leading to the tiny yard.
“I had them put in last year.” He looked quite houseproud.
“It’s nice to have them open in summer, brightens up the place no end. That’s how I met Flo. We used to gab to each other over the garden wall.”
“Does that mean you actually own this flat? It’s not rented?” I said, surprised.
“I own about a quarter, the building society has the rest.”
“I can’t imagine anyone choosing to live round here if they didn’t have to,” I said incredulously.
“How dare you criticise my place of abode, Miss Cameron?” he said mildly. “I love Toxteth. I’ve been broken into twice, but that can happen anywhere. The people round here are the salt of the earth, including the girls who hang around the square. Okay, so it’s violent, but otherwise it’s a good place to live, steeped in atmosphere and history. This is the closest to how Liverpool was when it was the greatest port in the world. And did you know that, centuries ago, Toxteth was a royal park where King John used to hunt deer and wild boar?”
“I’m afraid that piece of information has been denied me until now.”
“If you like, I’ll take you on a tour one day, show you precisely where his hunting lodges were situated.”
“I would like—it sounds fascinating.”
He looked chuffed. “Then it’s a date.”
I stayed for another cup of coffee before going next door. A scantily clad Fiona was shivering against the railings. To my surprise, she deigned to speak. “There’s been someone looking for you. She said she’d come back another time. It wasn’t Bel or Charmian. It was someone else.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
Fiona yawned. “Any time.”
As usual the air in Flo’s flat smelt damp, and it was freezing cold. I turned the fire on full blast and knelt before the hissing jets, shivering and rubbing my hands, thinking enviously of Peter Maxwell’s central heating.
When the hea
t became too much, I retreated to my favourite spot on the settee and promptly fell asleep. It was nearly midnight when I woke up and my legs were covered with red blotches from the fire. Everywhere was still and quiet outside and the flat felt as if it was in a time warp, engulfed in flickering shadows and divorced from anything real.
My life’s becoming more and more surreal, I thought. I scarcely ate, slept at the most peculiar times, spent hardly any time at home, and had lost interest in my job, though I still worked hard and hoped George hadn’t noticed.
Worst of all, I was having an affair with a man who was the epitome of everything I normally loathed about men.
Things that had once seemed important, no longer mattered.
I went into the bedroom and changed into a nightdress, Flo’s quilted dressing-gown, and her pink slippers, then sprayed myself with perfume ready for Tom, who might arrive at any minute. Until he came, I’d sort out a few more of Flo’s papers.
With a sense of anticipation usually reserved for the start of a him or a television programme I was looking forward to, I settled in front of the bureau. The first thing I picked up was a bundle of letters from Bel sent during the war. It didn’t seem proper to read them so I put them to one side in case Bel would like them back.
Next, a large, very old brown envelope with “ Wythenshaw’s Photographic Studios—Portraits a Speciality” printed on the top left-hand corner. Predictably, it contained a photograph and, as I pulled it out, I wondered why Flo hadn’t put it on the table with the others. It was a school photo: five rows of children, the smallest ones sitting cross-legged at the front. A boy at the end of the front row, the only child not smiling, had been circled with pencil.
What on earth was Flo doing with a photo of our Declan? I looked at the back, but there was only a stamped date, September 1945, a third of a century before Declan was born. There was something else inside the envelope, a piece of yellowing paper folded into four. It was a crude, crayon drawing of a woman with sticks for limbs, yellow hair and gooseberry green eyes. Her mouth was a huge upwards red curve, and she wore a blue dress shaped like a triangle with three buttons as big as Smarties down the front. Underneath was printed, in a careful, childish hand, “my frend flo”.
There was a name at the bottom written in pencil: Hugh O’Mara.
Tom’s father must have done the drawing I held in my hand. Despite the stick limbs and the mouth that stretched from ear to ear, there was something undeniably real and alive about the woman, as though the youthful artist had done his utmost to convey the inward radiance of his friend Flo. That both items had been together in the envelope meant that the child in the photograph was almost certainly Hugh O’Mara. I would have loved to have shown it to Tom, but Flo must have had a reason for keeping the photo hidden, and it seemed only right to respect it.
Tom had arrived—I could hear his light footsteps, and forgot about photographs, forgot about everything, as I waited for the sound of his key in the door. He came prowling in, a graceful, charismatic figure, despite the tasteless electric blue suit and white frilly shirt. No words were spoken as we stared at each other across the room.
Then I got up and walked into his arms and we began to kiss each other hungrily. It was less than twenty-four hours since we’d parted, yet we kissed as if the gap had been much, much longer.
Another bouquet arrived at the office next morning, this time pink and white carnations. I found a vase and put them in the reception area. “Diana’s late.’June remarked.
“I thought she would have called by now.”
When she still hadn’t arrived by midday, George approached me. “Should I ring to see if she’s all right?
I’m still annoyed with her, but I suppose she’s had it rough lately, and it wouldn’t hurt to let her know we’re concerned.”
“Would you like me to do it?”
“I was hoping you’d take the hint.” He looked relieved.
When I dialled Diana’s home there was no reply.
“Perhaps her father’s been taken to hospital again,” I suggested.
George had already lost interest. “Can I buy you lunch?” He jingled the coins in his pocket. “I’m desperately in need of a shoulder to cry on. I had a letter from Bill this morning. He and Annabel will stay with me over Christmas but, reading between the lines, I could tell they’d sooner not. They’re only coming because their mother’s off somewhere exotic with her new husband—his name’s Crispin, would you believe?”
“I’m sorry, George, but I’m lunching with my sister, and I’ve an appointment at the Old Roan with the Naughtons at half past two. Perhaps tonight, after work?”
“You’re on,” George said glumly, as he mooched into his office. “I think I’m about to have a panic attack.”
Trudy had phoned earlier. “Mum said you’d gone to William Square last night, but you weren’t there when I called. That girl draped around the railings, is she what I suspect she is?”
I confirmed that she definitely was.
“Will you be there tonight if I come at the same time? I need to talk to someone and there’s only you.”
“I’m not sure when I’ll get away,” I said quickly. It was selfish, but I didn’t want my sister in Flo’s flat, which I regarded as my own property until the place was ready for another tenant—which seemed further away than ever. “Are you free for lunch?” I enquired. “My treat.”
“I thought you always worked through lunch?”
“I won’t today,” I promised.
We met in Central Precinct under the high domed glass roof, where a “woman was playing old familiar tunes on a white grand piano, her fingers rippling languorously up and down the keys. Trudy was already seated at a wrought-iron table, looking very smart in a dark green jacket, long black skirt and lace-up boots. We made a pretty pair, the Cameron sisters, I thought wryly: elegant, with our nice clothes, discreetly made-up faces, and lovely ash blonde hair. No one glancing at us would have guessed at our wretched childhood, though Trudy’s face was rather pinched and tight, I thought.
“I’ve never been here before,” she said, when I sat down. “I love the pianist.”
“Have you noticed what she’s playing?” The strains of “Moon River” came from the piano. “Mum’s favourite.”
Trudy’s laugh was rather strained as she rubbed the scar above her left eyebrow. “There’s no escape, is there?”
When I returned from the counter with prawn salads and two giant cream cakes, she said, “I’ve just been thinking about the way Mum used to sing it when us kids had been knocked black and blue, and Dad had probably had a go at her.”
“It was her way of coping, I suppose.” I ate several prawns with my fingers—it was my first proper meal since Sunday. “What did you want to talk about, Sis?” I was reluctant to rush her, but I had to meet the Naughtons in an hour’s time.
Trudy was shoving her food around the plate with her fork. “I don’t know where to begin,” she muttered.
“The beginning?”
“That’s too far.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I don’t understand.”
My sister threw her fork on to the plate with a sigh. “It’s Colin,” she said.
A knot of fear formed in my stomach. “What’s he done?”
“Nothing,” Trudy said simply. “He’s a good, decent man. I love him, and he loves me, and he adores Melanie and Jake. He works all the hours God sends for us.”
“Then what’s the problem, Trude?”
“I don’t trust him.” Trudy put her elbows on the table and regarded me with abject misery.
“You mean you think he’s having an affair?”
“Of course not. He wouldn’t dream of it.” Trudy shook her head impatiently. “It’s nothing to do with affairs. It’s to do with the children. Oh, Lord!” She dabbed her eyes with the paper napkin. “I’m going to cry. Have I smudged my mascara?”
“A bit.” I reached out and rubbed under her eyes. A woman at the
next table was watching with interest, but turned away when she saw I’d noticed.
“It’s my painting, you see.” Trudy sighed. “There must be two hundred bottles, jars, decanters and demijohns in the shed, all finished. I’ve painted light-bulbs, plates, tumblers, brandy glasses—we get them from car-boot sales. The children think it’s great, looking for glassware for Mum to paint. And I love doing it, Millie. I get quite carried away, thinking up new ideas, new patterns, and I can’t wait to see how they’ll turn out. But what am I supposed to do with the damn things?” she said plaintively.
“Sell them,” I said promptly. I still hadn’t grasped what the problem was. “Didn’t Colin suggest you have a stall and he’ll look after the kids?”
“Yes. But I don’t trust him, Mill. I feel terrible about it, but I don’t trust him with me children for an entire day.
I’m scared he’ll hit them, and if he did I’d have to leave.”
I was beginning to make sense of things. “Has he ever done anything to make you think he would so much as lay a finger on them?” I asked.
“No!”
“In that case, don’t you think you’re being a bit paranoid?” I said. “More than a bit, in fact. Over-the-top paranoid, if you ask me.”
“I know I am. But I still can’t bring meself to leave them. Colin’s nagging me soft to start a stall. There’s a church hall in Walton where they have a craft fair every Sunday. He can’t understand why I keep putting it off.”
“Neither can I. Our father wrecked our childhood, and now you’re letting him wreck your marriage. You’ve got to trust Colin, Trude. You’ve got to.” Even as I spoke, I recalled James, his fist raised . . . “I think all of us are capable of violence when the chips are down, but only a very perverted person would hit children the way our father hit us.”
Trudy gnawed her bottom lip. “I must admit I’ve smacked Jake’s bottom once or twice. He can be a little bugger when he’s in the mood.”
“Was Colin there?”
“Yes. He was ever so cross and said I must never do it again.”
“But he didn’t leave!” I cried. “And knowing your history—that children who’ve been abused often abuse their own children—it’s him who should be worried about leaving Melanie and Jake with you’. Think how upset you’d be if you thought he suspected you’d hurt them! He’s always trusted you, and he deserves your trust. Start the stall now in case he guesses why you’re putting it off. He might never forgive you if he does.”
