by Maureen Lee
“I’ll make myself a cup of tea when you do.”
We talked in a desultory way about Declan: he’d had a form from a college, had filled it in and sent it off. Wasn’t it smashing Trudy having her own stall? “I hope I’m well enough to go by Sunday,” Mum said sleepily.
When her head began to droop I released her hand. I stayed where I was for a while, glancing round the dismal room. Years ago, Mum had painted all the furniture cream to make it look like a matching set, but she hadn’t rubbed the varnish off underneath and the paint had started to peel. Perhaps she’d like that lovely stuff in Flo’s bedroom, which I coveted—except that she was moving to Oxford. Where on earth did she get the courage from even to think of changing the course of her life at fifty-five? I sighed, got off the bed, adjusted the pillows and drew the bedclothes up to her shoulders.
There was no heating upstairs and the air smelt cold.
Scotty, also asleep by now and snoring gently, gave a little grunt when the eiderdown beneath him was disturbed.
Downstairs, I put the kettle on and stood watching until it boiled. It felt strange being in this house, danger free, able to do anything I wanted. Yet I still felt on edge, scared I might break something or put something down in the wrong place. I poured the water into the pot, stirred it to make the tea strong, then took a cup into the lounge. The fire was dying, the hearth full of ash. I threw on a few more coals and watched them slowly catch alight. On the right-hand side of the fireplace an owl made out of string was hanging from a nail that protruded crookedly from the wall. Dad’s best belt had hung there once, the one he wore on Sundays: black leather, two inches wide, the heavy brass buckle with a deadly sharp prong. I touched the owl gingerly: such an innocuous thing to put in its place.
The back door opened and my father came in. I was still fingering the owl. “This is where you used to keep your belt,” I reminded him.
His face flushed a deep, ugly scarlet, but he didn’t speak. How did he feel, I wondered, now that his children had grown up and we could see him for what he was? Was he ashamed? Uncomfortable? Embarrassed?
Or perhaps he didn’t give a damn.
I looked at him, properly for once, and tried to relate the handsome, shambling, probably drunken figure to the photo of the bright-eyed baby at Flo’s, but it was inconceivable to think that they were the same person.
My gaze returned to the owl. “You nearly blinded our Trudy with that belt.”
He’d been lashing out at Trudy, the skirt of her gymslip scrunched in a ball in his hand. When she tried to get away, he dragged her back so violently by the collar of her school blouse, that she’d choked and lost consciousness. He probably hadn’t meant the buckle to hit her forehead, narrowly missing her eye, but Trudy had been left with a permanent reminder of the incident every time she glanced in the mirror.
My father looked at me, bleary-eyed and bewildered.
He still didn’t speak.
“Mum’s asleep,” I said. “Tell her goodbye from me.”
He spoke at last. “Did she seem all right to you? I’ve been worried. She’s had a terrible temperature.” His voice was gruff and querulous.
“I think she’ll live.” Could it be that he actually loved my mother? That he loved us all? I took my cup into the back kitchen and washed it, then left by the back door without saying another word.
Mrs Bradley was leaning on next door’s gate talking to another woman. “How’s your mam, luv?” she asked. She was smartly dressed in a sequinned frock and the gigantic fur coat that she wore when she went ballroom dancing with Mr Bradley.
“She seems much better.”
“That’s good,” Mrs Bradley said comfortably. “I was just saying to Norma here how much better everywhere looks without that wreck of a car littering the place.”
Not only had the burnt out car gone, but the boarded up house was occupied. There were lace curtains in the windows and a television was on in the lounge.
“We got a petition up and sent it to the Council, didn’t we, Norma?” Norma nodded agreement. “What right have some folks got, spoiling the street for the rest of us?
It’s a respectable place, Kirkby. I remember us moving from Scotland Road in nineteen fifty-eight. It was like a palace after our little two-up, two-down. Will was tickled pink to have a garden.”
I went over to my car, unlocked the door and paused for a moment. Mrs Bradley and Norma were still talking.
Mr Bradley came out, a thick car coat over his old-fashioned evening suit. He waved and I waved back.
Still I waited by the car, the door half-open. For the first time, I noticed the pretty gardens. Some of the original front doors had been replaced with more ornate designs, heavily panelled with lots of brassware. There were coachlamps outside several houses. It dawned on me that there was nothing wrong with Kirkby! It was all in my head, all to do with my childhood, my father, school. I’d centred my loathing on the place when it was my life that was wrong!
“What’s up with George?” June demanded, for the umpteenth time. “He’s been like a bear with a sore head this week.”
Elliot swung his well-shod feet on to the desk. “Perhaps he’s going through the male menopause.”
“I reckon he’s missing Diana.” Darren grinned.
Everyone except me hooted with derision, and Oliver said miserably, “She’ll be back on Monday, spreading her usual discord and as moody as hell.”
“Actually,’June hissed, ‘I didn’t say anything before in case I was hearing things, but Diana rang George this morning and when I put her through I could have sworn he called her darling.’
There was a gasp of disbelief.
“Never!”
“I don’t believe it!”
“You must have been hearing things, June.”
It figures, I thought. She’s managed to wrap him round her little finger. I was glad no one seemed to have noticed that it was me, more than anyone, on whom George vented his bad temper. One day, I’d tried to explain that I’d done nothing wrong, but he was only interested in Diana’s version of the story.
What on earth would it be like when she returned?
Awful, I decided. She’d be lording it over everyone, particularly me. I wondered if I should look for another job, but my only qualification was a single A level, along with the time spent working at Stock Masterton. Would another estate agent take me on with such a paltry record? I tried to tell myself that it didn’t matter, but in my heart of hearts I knew it did. The time I spent at Flo’s, the nights with Tom O’Mara, were bound to end sometime, and I’d have to live in the real world again, where my job mattered very much. I had a mortgage, I had to eat. And if I left this job, I’d have to return the car.
Taking advantage of George’s absence, Darren and Elliot went home early, followed shortly by June. I suggested that Oliver make himself scarce and I would stay until six in case there were any phone calls: the office closed an hour earlier on Saturday. Oliver accepted the offer thankfully. “We’re in the middle of decorating. I’d like to get it done by Christmas.”
The door had hardly closed when it opened again. I looked up, thinking Oliver had forgotten something.
“I’ve been waiting across the road for everyone to go,” said James. “I was praying you’d be the last.”
Over the past few weeks I had almost forgotten James’s existence, and was surprised at how glad I was to see the tall, familiar figure; so glad that, for the moment, I put to the back of my mind what had happened the last time we met. He wore a new suit, grey flannel, and a pale blue shirt, and was leaning against the door regarding me shyly.
“Hi,” I said.
“Phew!” He put his hand on his chest in a gesture of relief. “I was expecting to have something thrown at me—a computer, a telephone, a notebook, at least.” He came down the room and perched on the edge of Diana’s desk.
“How’s life?”
“Ninety per cent fine, ten per cent lousy.”
&nbs
p; “Tell me about the lousy ten per cent.”
I’d always been able to talk to him about humdrum, day-to-day matters. We spent ages discussing the meaning of a film we’d just seen, what frock I should wear to a party, his job, mine. It would have been a waste of time trying to talk to Tom O’Mara about office politics or Mum being ill, Trudy having a bottle stall or Declan going to college. Perhaps that was why I was so pleased to see James—not as a lover but as a friend.
I told him all about the week’s events, and about Diana’s treachery. “Now George is really cross with me and I think I’ve blown my job.”
“But that’s totally unfair!’James expostulated angrily.
It was comforting to hear Diana being called a conniving bitch and that George was a fool to let himself be taken in. I felt better after listening to James’s loudly expressed indignation and didn’t demur when he offered to buy me dinner.
“Shall we go to the wine bar where we first met?”
“I’d prefer to try that new place by the Cavern.” I didn’t want to go somewhere that evoked old memories in case he got the idea that everything was back to normal, which it wasn’t. “I’ll just ring home, make sure my mother’s all right.”
Declan answered and assured me that mum was fine.
“Say hello to Declan for me.’James mouthed.
“James says hello, Declan.”
“I thought mam said James was history?”
I laughed. “Bye, love.” I took a mirror out of my handbag, powdered my nose, combed my hair, retouched my lipstick. When I looked up James was watching me with an expression on his rugged face that I remembered well. Our eyes met, he shook his head slightly, as if remonstrating with himself, then turned away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m doing my best not to put a foot wrong. I promise not to say a word out of place until the time feels right.”
I began to regret accepting the dinner invitation because I knew I would never feel the same about James after what had happened, but I hadn’t the heart to change my mind when he was being so nice.
The restaurant was filled with memorabilia of the Beatles’ era. We ordered salad, baked potatoes and a bottle of wine. While we waited, I asked, “How’s the Socialist Workers’ Party?”
He looked faintly embarrassed. “I never went back—it’s not really my scene. They were a decent crowd, but I only joined to please you.”
“To please me! I can’t remember ever expressing left-wing opinions,” I exclaimed. “I’m totally uninterested in politics.”
“So am I, though those dockers got a raw deal and I’m on their side. No, I joined because I got the impression you thought I was shallow. I was trying to prove I had some depth.” He glanced at me curiously. “Did I succeed?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I never thought about it much.”
“I doubt if you ever thought about me much,” he said drily.
“You promised not to say things like that,” I admonished.
“I’m not criticising,” he assured me. “I’m trying to be coolly matter-of-fact. I pressurised you too much. I fell in love with you, deeply, passionately, wholeheartedly, and expected you to love me back in exactly the same way at exactly the same time. I wasn’t prepared to wait. I wouldn’t let you breathe.” He made a face. “I’m used to getting everything I want, you see.”
“Including girls throwing themselves at you since you were fifteen!” I reminded him.
“Aw, shit, Millie.” He cringed. “I’d had too much to drink, and I’d been waiting all week for you to call. I couldn’t believe it was over between us.”
I played with my food. “You nearly hit me, James. You would have, if Tom hadn’t appeared.”
His face flickered with pain. “So that’s his name.” He leaned across the table, put his hand on mine, then hastily removed it. “I would never, never have hit you, darling.”
There, in such civilised surroundings, it was easy to believe that he was a decent, honourable man who’d been driven over the edge. If I could feel about him as he did about me, everything would be perfect. He began to eat, but only because the food was there. “This Tom,” he said, in a strained voice, “are you in love with him?”
“No.”
“Is he with you?”
“No.”
“Who is he? How did you meet?”
“He was a friend of Flo’s.” I smiled. “She had an affair with his grandfather.”
“So, history is repeating itself ‘Something like that.’ I sipped the wine, which seemed preferable to the food. ‘Look, can we change the subject?’
I felt uncomfortable discussing my current lover with my old one.
“Perhaps that wouldn’t be a bad idea.” James sighed.
“I’m trying valiantly to be grownup but I think I’m about to explode with jealousy.”
We left the restaurant, the meal hardly touched but the wine finished, and strolled down Water Street towards the Pier Head. After a while, I linked James’s arm. “I’d like us always to be friends,” I said.
“Only a woman would ask a man who was crazy about her to be her friend,” he said with a dry chuckle.
“What would a man do in the same situation?” I asked.
“Run a mile, change his phone number, move house if necessary. If some woman had been chasing me as vigilantly as I was chasing you, I would have done all three in order to get away. You were very patient, Millie.”
The nearer we got to the river, the colder and more sharply the November wind blew. With my free hand, I tried to turn up the collar of my coat. James stopped, released my arm, and did it for me. “I ‘was with you when you bought this coat. You couldn’t make up your mind whether to buy this colour or black. I said I preferred black, so you bought the other.’ Still holding the collar by its corners, he said softly, ‘Is that really all that’s left for us, Millie, to be friends?’
“James . . . ”
He released my collar and tucked my arm back in his.
“Okay, friends it is. Am I allowed to ask if I can see you again within the relatively near future?”
“Perhaps one night next week?”
We dodged through the traffic towards the Pier Head, where we propped our arms on the rail and stared at the lights of Birkenhead, reflected, dazzling, misshapen blobs, in the choppy waters of the Mersey.
“You know,” James said softly, “we see movies about great love affairs that make us conventional folk seem very run-of-the-mill. We never imagine ourselves having the same passionate feelings as the characters on the screen, yet over the last few weeks, no one could have felt more gutted than I have. I was convinced I’d rather die if I couldn’t have you.”
I said nothing, but shuddered as the wind gusted up my skirt.
James stared intently at the lights, as if the words be wanted to say were written there, prompting him. “I wished I were a philosopher, who could cope with things more . . . ” he grinned, “ . . . more philosophically.
Or a spiritual person, who would look at it with an intellectual sort of fatalism. But I don’t go to church, I’m not even sure if I believe in God.”
“Did you come to a conclusion?” I asked gently.
“Yes—that I didn’t want to die after all. That life goes on, whatever horrendous things might happen.” He grinned again. “And that I still love you as much as I ever did, but less frenetically. Even so,” he finished, on a mock-cheerful note, “I could easily throttle this Tom character.”
It had started to rain, so we walked back quickly to where my car was parked. On the way, he asked what was wrong with my mother.
“Flu. She’s almost better.”
“I was always kept well hidden from your family. I only met Declan by accident. Were you ashamed of me or something?”
“Of course not, silly. It’s them I was—” I stopped. All of a sudden I didn’t care if he knew every single thing there was to know about me. “Actually, James, my sister’s having a stall at a craft mar
ket tomorrow. Perhaps you’d like to come if you’re free.”
I was back at Flo’s, going through the remainder of her papers. For the first time, I felt the urge to hurry things along, to finish with the bureau, get started on the rest of the flat. I emptied out the contents of a large brown envelope. Guarantees, all of which had run out, for a variety of electrical goods. I stuffed them back into the envelope and threw it on the floor. The next item was a plastic folder containing bank statements. I leafed through them, hoping they would give a clue to how the rent was paid. If Flo had set up a standing order, it would explain why the collector hadn’t called, and also why there’d been little in the post—no electricity or gas bills, no demand for council tax. I admonished myself for being so negligent. I should have done this long ago, got in touch with the bank, sorted out Flo’s financial affairs.
To my surprise, the account was a business one, begun in 1976 according to the first statement. The current balance was—my eyes widened—twenty-three thousand, seven hundred and fifty pounds, and elevenpence.
“Flo Clancy!” I gasped. “What the hell have you been up to?”
I grabbed the next envelope in the rapidly diminishing pile. It was long and narrow and bore the name of a solicitor in Castle Street, a few doors along from Stock Masterton. My hands were shaking as I pulled out the thick sheets of cream paper folded inside, the pages tied together with bright pink tape. It was a Deed of Property, dated March 1965, written in complicated legal jargon that was hard to understand. I had to read the first paragraph three times before it made sense.
Fritz Erik Hofmannsthal hereinafter referred to as the party of the first part of Number One William Square Liverpool hereby transfers the leasehold of the section of Number One William Square hitherto known as the basement to Miss Florence Clancy hereinafter referred to as the party of the second part currently resident in the section of the property which is to be transferred for a period of one hundred years . . .
No wonder no one had called to collect the rent! Flo owned the leasehold of the flat in which she’d spent most of her life. My brain worked overtime. Fritz Erik Hofmannsthal!
