by Maureen Lee
“I’m fine,” I said confidently.
“Are you sure? Is it over between you and that Tom chap? I’ve kept longing to ask. Is that why you’re sad?”
I said I wasn’t sad, James, though it is over between me and Tom.”
He looked relieved. “I’m glad there’s no one else.”
“I never said that!” His face collapsed in hurt. I knew I was being horrid, but the last thing I wanted was to offer him encouragement. The strangest thing had happened with James, and I didn’t know how to deal with it.
He’d promised not to pressurise me and he hadn’t, but in the few times I’d seen him since we’d broken up, then come together again, he wanted to know every little thing about me, every detail. It was as if now that he could no longer have my body he was determined to possess my mind. Perhaps some people were willing to divulge their every thought, their every wish, but I wasn’t one of them.
It was hard to escape from such overpowering, almost suffocating love, his tremendous need, which some women might have envied. It was also hard to reject, as if I was giving away something uniquely precious by refusing him. Such love might never come my way again. He appeared to worship the ground I walked on.
Where had I heard those words said before only recently? The bell rang once to indicate that the interval was nearly over and I finished off my drink. Back in the theatre I remembered. They were the words Gran had used to describe how Norman Cameron had felt about my mother . . .
The curtain rose, but as far as I was concerned the actors’ efforts were wasted. I had no idea what had happened in the first act. Perhaps you could love someone too much, so much that you resented all the things they did without you, resented them even being happy if .
It wasn’t strictly true to hint that there was someone else, but tomorrow night I was meeting Peter Maxwell.
He was going to show me where the tall, wild forests had once been in Toxteth, which King John had turned into a royal park and where he had hunted deer and wild boar.
“It’s incredible!” I breathed, the following evening, as we strolled through the icy drizzle along Upper Parliament Street and into Smithdown Road. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine I was stepping through a thick forest and the drizzle was the dew dripping from the trees at dawn.
“The area’s mentioned in the Domesday Book,” he said proudly.
I forgot how cold the night was as he explained, with mounting enthusiasm, that Lodge Lane was called after one of the King’s hunting lodges, that the ancient manor of Smethedon was where the name Smithdown came from. The descriptions, the words he used seemed incongruous, as we passed the narrow built-up streets and endless shops. Traffic fizzed by in the wet; cars, buses, lorries, headlights fixed on the noxious fumes spewing out from the vehicles in front, and reflected in the watery surface. We seemed to be walking through a toxic yellow fog, as Peter talked about Dingle Dell, Knot’s Hole, sandstone-cliff creeks, glens, farms, a game reserve. He even quoted a poem—“The Nymph of the Dingle”.
“It’s fascinating, Peter,” I said, when he paused for breath. His black bushy hair and beard glistened in the damp, as if they’d been touched with frost.
“I’ve not nearly finished, but this isn’t a good night.
Perhaps we could come one Sunday. I can show you other places. Did you know that less than two centuries ago Bootle was a spa? There used to be watermills, springs, sandhills and fields of flowers?”
I confessed I’d had no idea. He asked if I’d like a drink, and when I said yes he steered me into the nearest pub.
“Will it be safe in here?” I asked nervously.
“I doubt it,” he said soberly, though I noticed his eyes were twinkling. “We’re probably taking our lives in our hands.”
The pub was old-fashioned, Victorian, with sparkling brasses and a gold-tinted mirror behind the bar. The few customers looked very ordinary and not in the least threatening.
“Well, we seemed to have survived so far,” Peter said, apparently amazed. “What would you like to drink?”
I poked him in the ribs with my elbow. “Stop making fun of me. I’d like half a cider, please.”
A few minutes later he returned with the drinks. “Sorry I was so long, but the barman offered me five thousand quid to carry out a contract-killing. See those old girls over there?” He pointed to two elderly women sitting in a corner. “One’s a Mafia godfather in disguise, the other is the chief importer of heroin in the northwest. The cops have been after her for years. She’s the one he wanted me to kill.” He took his donkey jacket off and threw it on a vacant chair. Underneath, he wore a polo-necked jersey, which had several loose threads. He regarded me solemnly.
“I refused, of course, so I doubt if we’ll get out of here alive.”
By now, I was doubled up with laughter. “I’m sorry, but I always feel a bit fearful around here.”
“It sounds priggish, but the worst thing to fear is fear itself. Taking the worst possible scenario, no one’s safe anywhere.”
“I like being with you, it’s rather soothing.” I smiled, feeling unusually contented.
He stroked his beard and looked thoughtful. “To be ‘soothing’ is not my ultimate aim when I’m with a beautiful young woman, but it’ll do.”
I welcomed the fact that he was so easy to be with, relaxing, particularly after the intensity of James, and the total preoccupation Tom O’Mara and I had had with each other. There was a hint of flirtatiousness between us, which meant nothing. He reminded me about the Christmas concert at his school next week. “You promised you’d come.”
“I hadn’t forgotten.” It would soon be Christmas and I hadn’t bought a single present. I must remind Trudy about the bottles she’d promised to paint, and remembered that one had been for Diana. After the way things had gone, I wasn’t sure whether to give it to her or not.
For the next half-hour, we chatted about nothing in particular. We’d been in the same year at school, which meant that Peter had also recently had his thirtieth birthday, and we discussed how incredibly old we felt. “It’s quite different from turning twenty. Twenty’s exciting, like the start of a big adventure. Come thirty, the excitement’s over,” he remarked, with a grin.
“Don’t say that. You make thirty sound very dull.”
“I didn’t mean it to sound dull, just less exciting. By thirty you more or less know where you are. Would you like another drink?”
“No thanks. I thought I’d pop in and see my mother. I left my car in William Square.”
“I’ve already met your mum. She seems exceptionally nice.” He reached for his jacket. “Come on. If we make a sudden rush for the exit, we might get out of here all in one piece.”
It was only natural that Mum should have the keys to Flo’s flat. Even so, I felt slightly miffed at having to knock to be let in. Fiona, who was draped outside in her usual spot, condescended to give me a curt nod.
“Hello, luv!” Mum’s face split into a delighted smile when she opened the door. “You’re out late. It’s gone ten.”
Peter Maxwell leaned over the railings. “Hi, there, Kate. ‘Night, Millie. See you next week.’
“Goodnight, Peter.”
“Have you been out with him?” Mum sounded slightly shocked as she closed the door.
“He’s very nice.”
“Oh, he’s a lovely young feller. I knew his mam in Kirkby. She’s a horrible woman, not a bit like Peter. No, I just thought you and James were back together for good, like.”
“We’re back together. I doubt very much if it’s for good.”
Mum shook her head in despair. “I can’t keep up with you, Millicent.” Then, eyes shining, she demanded, “What do you think of me new carpet?”
In the two weeks since I had left and my mother had taken over, much in the flat had changed. Too much, I thought darkly, but kept my opinion to myself. It was none of my business, but as far as I was concerned Flo’s flat had been perfect. I wouldn’t have alte
red it one iota.
But now the silk flowers had gone because they gathered dust, as well as the little round tables and the brasses on the beams. Colin had fitted deadlocks on the windows, a heater on the bathroom ceiling and, with Declan’s help, was going to wallpaper the place throughout. “Something fitting,” Mum announced excitedly, “little rosebuds, violets, sprigs of flowers.” She would have liked a new three-piece, but needed to conserve the money and was buying stretch covers instead. “I don’t like that dark velour stuff.
It’s dead miserable.” Next week, British Telecom were coming to install a phone.
I regarded the maroon fitted carpet. “It looks smart.” I far preferred the faded old linoleum. “What’s happened to the rag rug?”
“I chucked it, luv. It was only a homemade thing.”
Trudy came out of the bedroom, struggling with a cardboard box full of clothes. “Hello, Sis. I didn’t know you were here. I’m just sorting out the wardrobe. Phew!”
She plonked the box down and wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “I’ll take this lot to Oxfam tomorrow, Mum. Hey, Mill, what do you think of this? I thought I’d keep it. It’s not at all old-fashioned.” She held up the pink and blue check frock with a Peter Pan collar. “I’m sure it’ll fit.”
“It’s lovely, Trude.” It had fitted me perfectly. George had said it made me look sweet and demure.
“Help yourself to anything that takes your fancy, Millicent,”
Mum said generously.
“There’s nothing I want, Mum.” I felt all choked up. It was horrible to see Flo’s things being thrown away, given to Oxfam. I didn’t even want Trudy to have the check frock. Then I thought of something I did want—wanted desperately. “Actually, Mum, I’d like that lamp, the swirly one.” I looked at the television, but the lamp wasn’t there, and I felt a thrust of pure, cold anger. If it had been chucked away I’d track it down, buy it back from Oxfam . . .
“I’m afraid your gran’s already nabbed it,” Mum said apologetically. “I wish I’d known, luv. You should have said before.”
If I’d known she was going to tear the place apart, I would have. I knew I was being unreasonable, and felt even more unreasonable when I refused a cup of tea. I only came for a minute to say hello. I think I’ll have an early night.”
I’d never felt less like an early night. Outside, I thought about calling on Charmian, but the ground-floor flat was in darkness—Herbie had to get up at the crack of dawn for work. Peter Maxwell’s light was on, but did I know him well enough to call at this hour? He might think I was being presumptuous, a bit pushy.
Fiona, in a short fur coat, thigh-length boots, and no other visible sign of clothing, was staring at me suspiciously, as if I’d set myself up in competition. I got into the car and drove round to Maynard Street. It was weeks since I’d seen Bel, though she’d been to William Square to renew her acquaintance with Mum.
“She’ll probably think me an idiot.” I didn’t even switch the engine off when I parked as near as I could to Bel’s house, but drove off immediately. On my way to Blundellsands, I slipped a tape into the deck and turned up Freddie Mercury’s powerful voice as loud as it would go to drown my brain and stop me from thinking how much I would have liked someone to talk to. It didn’t work, so I turned it down and talked to myself instead, “I must pull myself together, keep telling myself there is Life After Flo. Tomorrow I’ll take a proper lunch break, buy some Christmas presents. I’ll get jewellery for Mum, gold earrings or a chain.” By the time I got home I was still musing on what to get Declan, feeling more cheerful. My flat was slowly beginning to feel my own again, though it still seemed oddly empty when I went in.
Mum’s decorating splurge was catching. I didn’t want to change the colour of my own living-room walls, but a wide frieze would look nice, or stencilled flowers. I decided I’d take a look at patterns at the weekend.
Next day after lunch, I was showing June the gold chain with a K for Kate that I’d bought for Mum, and the red-velvet knee-length dress with short sleeves I’d got as a Christmas present for myself, when George called, “Can I have a word with you, Millie?”
“Sit down,” he said shortly, when I entered his office.
This was always a bad sign, and I wondered what I’d done wrong now. He cleared his throat. “I’ve been having a long talk with . . . with someone about your position in the firm. It was pointed out that you have no qualifications for the job you do. Darren and Elliot both have degrees, and even June has three A levels.” He regarded me sternly, as if all this was new to him and he’d been misled.
“You knew that when you took me on, George. You knew it when you promoted me.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “I’ve always carried out my work satisfactorily.
No one has ever complained.”
George acknowledged this with a cursory nod. “That’s true, Millie, but it was also pointed out that there are a lot of people around, highly qualified people, who might do the work even better. Yet by employing you, I am, in effect, denying one of these people a position with Stock Masterton.” He leaned forward, frowning earnestly.
“Look at that business with the Naughtons, for example.
You must have shown them around a dozen properties, but Diana had only to take them once and a deal was clinched on the spot.”
I clenched my fists, feeling the nails digging painfully into my palms. My heart thumped crazily. “Are you giving me the sack, George?” I’d never find another equivalent job if I was sacked.
He looked slightly uncomfortable. “No, no, of course not. We, that is, I, thought it would be a good idea if you went to Woolton with Oliver and Diana.”
“I don’t understand,” I stammered. “If I’m useless here, I’ll be just as useless in Woolton.”
“No one’s said you’re useless, Millie. Oh dear!” He put his hand to his chest. “I feel a panic attack coming. Lately, ‘
I’ve been having them quite frequently. No, we . . . . think you should be our receptionist. After all, that’s what you were originally taken on as.”
It was so unfair. I’d never asked to be promoted, it had been all his idea. I blinked back hot tears of anger. No way would I let him see me cry. I knew I’d be burning my boats, but didn’t care. I said, “I’m afraid that isn’t acceptable, George. I’d sooner leave. I’ll finish at the end of the month.”
It hadn’t gone quite the way he wanted—the way he knew Diana wanted. He rubbed his chest, frowning.
“Then you’d be breaking your contract. One month’s notice is required, dated the first of the month.” in that case,” I said coolly, though I felt anything but cool, “I’ll leave at the end of January.” I got up and went to the door. “I’ll let you have my resignation in writing this afternoon.”
It was worse, far more shocking, than having discovered all those closely kept family secrets. I’d been dumbfounded to learn that my father wasn’t who I’d thought he was. But I’d rejected Norman Cameron a long time ago, and the news didn’t matter now—in fact, it was welcome. As for Tom O’Mara, I had thought I would never forget, but already it was hard to remember the way we’d felt about each other. There was just relief that it was all over, though I knew I would worry about him, watch for his name and any mention of Minerva’s in the paper, hope that he wouldn’t come to harm in the vicious world he lived in. After all, he was my brother.
But the business with my job—trivial in comparison to the rest—was different, directed against me personally. I felt as if someone had just delivered a mammoth blow, knocking all the stuffing out of me. I realised that my job had given me a sense of identity, a feeling of achievement, and without it I was nothing. I hadn’t, after all, done better than the other girls in my class, the ones who’d seemed so much smarter than me. I was the backward child again, the girl who could hardly read, so hopeless that I hadn’t been entered for a single O level.
Later, when I tried to type a letter of resignation, my ringers no long
er seemed capable of accepting messages from my brain. I’d thought George was my friend. I’d tried to help Diana. Why had they turned against me? I felt betrayed.
In the window, through the glass around the boards showing the houses Stock Masterton had for sale, I watched the people passing, their bodies crouched protectively as they fought their way through the gale that howled up Castle Street from the Mersey. I longed to go down to the Pier Head, hold on to the railings, let the wind blow me any way it wanted.
There was a photo of Nancy’s house on one of the boards in the window, between the house in Banks which didn’t have an oriel window, and a manor house with ten acres of grounds priced at half a million, which George dealt with exclusively. I’d asked Oliver if he would please send someone else to Clement Street if a prospective purchaser wanted to view. “I know the chap who’s selling it slightly. I’d sooner not go,” I said. I still felt the same when the keys for the property arrived through the post, which meant that no one would be there. Unlike Flo’s flat, Nancy’s house, the place where she’d lived with Tommy O’Mara, where the father I’d never known had been raised, would go to strangers, who would know nothing about the drama that had taken place. People rarely thought about previous owners when they bought a house, no matter how old it was. As far as they were concerned, its history began when they themselves moved in.
Across the office, Darren and Elliot were having a deskbound lunch, eating sandwiches and giggling over something in Viz. I felt envious of their gloriously trouble-free lives. June was on the telephone, Barry’s carefully combed silver head was bent over a heap of files. Oliver was out with a client. In his office, George, who usually made his presence loudly felt, was strangely quiet. At the next desk, Diana was singing a little tune as she typed into her computer. Was there a note of triumph in her voice? She must know why George had called me in, be aware of my humiliation. Was it worth making a fuss, I wondered, causing a row, telling Diana exactly what I thought in front of everyone? No, it wasn’t, I decided. George seemed slightly ashamed of what he’d done. If I left quietly, at least I’d get a good reference, possibly a glowing one if he felt contrite enough.
