by Judy Leigh
Other people were looking at her. She was becoming one of those mad old ladies who talked to themselves because they had nobody else to listen. The flight to John Lennon Airport would only take a short time, it would soon be over and she would touch down in England. The last flight she had made was with Jim to Majorca five years ago and she had squeezed his hand all the way there.
Jim. Evie shook her head; he had been alive last year, but gaunt and coughing in a hospital bed. The sheets were a shroud the day he died and when she returned home the house still smelled of stale cigarettes and the aftershave he wore, once warm and alive. It was a summer day but everywhere was filled with cold.
She fiddled with her safety belt. ‘Calm down now, Evie. There’s nothing at all to worry about. It’ll be grand once you get there.’
‘We’re sitting here, love – all right?’ A red-haired young man indicated the two seats next to her; one held her handbag. He had a Liverpool accent. Evie nodded towards him, wondering if he had heard her talking to herself. He sat down next to her with his friend, who was smaller and dark-haired. Evie huddled towards the window and stared out again. On the tarmac, some people in uniforms were moving luggage on a trolley. The young men slid down in their seats. The red-haired one in the centre next to her tucked his legs under the seat in front of him and withdrew them again, crossing them uncomfortably, and he gave a little laugh.
‘We’ll get a bevvy when we take off, Paul?’ He nudged his friend. Then he turned to Evie.
‘I’m Danny; this is Paul.’ The dark-haired one, Paul, bobbed his head at her.
‘I’m Evie Gallagher. I’m going shopping to Liverpool and I’ve never been on a plane by myself—’ The plane began to rumble and the vibrations rattled in her chest, making her suck in air. ‘Oh my …’ She felt the plane lurch and then the engine juddered. Her fingers twisted around the arms of her seat.
Danny gave his little laugh again, relaxing in his seat, the safety belt riding up towards his chest. The plane accelerated along the runway and she was forced backwards. Evie brought her hands to her mouth. Her eyes were wide.
‘This was meant to be a little break,’ she said. ‘I haven’t travelled by myself before. I believe Liverpool’s very good for shopping.’
The young men exchanged looks and glanced at Evie, who was pressing bloodless palms together. Danny gave another reassuring giggle. His eyes shone as an idea came to him.
‘Eh, Paul, tell Evie the one about that nightclub we were in, and you needed the toilet and you went outside, and that copper stopped you in the road …’
‘You tell her, Dan.’
Evie pressed her nose against the window. Beneath her the plane shook. The sky was moving towards her; she was hurtling towards clouds. Danny launched into his story.
‘Well, Evie, Paul here had had a real skinful, and this copper came over, from Dublin like, and Paul was swaying around like this …’
Everything below was small and the plane rocked to one side, its wing drooping. Danny took the opportunity to continue with his tale.
‘So, Paul was bursting and looking for some place to – you know. And this copper seen we was Scousers and came over to have a go at us and he says – in this dead deep Irish voice, like – he says, “Well, what do you think you’re up to, eh lads …?”’
At this point, Paul laughed out loud at Danny’s attempt at an Irish accent. Evie saw clouds through the window, hovering fat pillows, and she wondered how it was possible to be so far from the world she knew. Paul and Danny were waiting for her attention, so that Danny could continue.
‘So, Paul says to this copper, “Eh, pal, I need a burst,” and the copper gets cross and says to me and Paul, he says, “Now, me lads, what’s your names?” and Paul looks at me and he starts to stutter and he says, “Eh, eh, don’t tell him your name, Danny.” And then he falls flat on his face.’
Danny and Paul were squirming in their seats, red-faced. Evie stared at them for a moment, and then she started to laugh too. She breathed out, put her hands in her lap and sat back in her seat. Danny offered his chuckle again. ‘So, Evie, you all right?’
Evie looked at Danny’s concerned face.
‘You were proper pale back there. I was dead worried. I thought you were going to be sick.’
Paul agreed.
‘I’m fine now, thank you.’
‘So how’s about we get something off the drinks trolley, then? Calm your nerves a bit?’
The stewardess was level with them, smart in her blue suit. She glanced at Danny and Paul, and then looked across at Evie. ‘Is everything all right, Madam?’
‘Fine thanks.’ Evie nodded towards the trolley. ‘I could do with a drink though.’
Paul chimed in. ‘I’m buying – what you having, Evie?’
The hostess looked askance at the two young men, her face conveying something like suspicion. Evie ignored her and offered to buy a bottle of champagne.
Twenty minutes later, Evie and her new friends had drunk a bottle of Veuve de something; she had taught them to say ‘Sláinte’, which both Paul and Danny were repeating loudly as they waved glasses. Evie waved over to the stewardess and ordered a second bottle, explaining with a confidential whisper, ‘It’s a special occasion. You’re only young once.’
The stewardess leaned over, which made the boys double over, given the proximity of her uniformed torso. She spoke gently. ‘Are you sure everything is all right, Madam?’ She was smiling with her mouth but her eyes appeared anxious.
‘Thank you, everything is grand now we have another bottle.’
‘Of course, Madam.’
She took out the champagne from the ice bucket, uncorked it and turned to Danny and Paul, who cheered when they saw the bubbles froth over. ‘Please can you keep the noise down? You’re disturbing other passengers.’
The boys burst out laughing again. ‘Got a couple of packs of Pringles, love? I’m starving,’ said Danny and they began to toast Paul’s birthday and the joys of flying.
Evie was oblivious to the changes outside as the plane started its descent. Paul was asleep, his trout mouth puffing out air. Danny, noticing the plane’s trajectory, looked furtively at Evie to check she was calm and then began extolling the virtues of Steven Gerrard’s free kick and how his slip-up against Chelsea had cost him the Premiership title before he retired. Evie was smiling, but there was a whistling sensation in her ears and a nagging feeling that she might find her route out of Liverpool Airport a little difficult to negotiate.
‘I liked him, that John Lennon one,’ she mused. ‘It was a bloody shame they shot him.’
‘Whereabouts you going in Liverpool, Evie?’
Danny raised an eyebrow, pushing Paul upright, before his head flopped onto Danny’s shoulder.
‘I need to find myself a hotel for a few days. Can you recommend …?’
‘Yeh, no probs – we’ll get you a taxi to the city centre when we get out, won’t we, Paul?’
Paul continued to sleep, a snore rattling in his mouth. The wheels on the plane bumped against the runway; the brakes came on and Danny took up the conversation quickly. ‘So, you doing anything special in Liverpool, Evie? Besides shopping.’
Evie wasn’t sure. So she said, ‘Yes. I’m visiting my son.’
‘Oh? Does he live in Liverpool?’
She considered for a moment. ‘No, he’s meeting me there.’ She had drunk too much and suddenly mischief popped like a champagne cork in her head. ‘He’s a rock star.’
Danny looked directly at Evie. ‘A rock star? Anyone famous?’
Danny’s face loomed drunk and earnest. It was time for another small performance. Evie sat upright, stretched her arms and swept a hand through her hair. ‘Oh yes, my son’s quite famous. I’m sure you’ll have heard of him. He’s a singer and he plays with his band all over the world. He’s called Bono.’
Danny sat up straight, jerking Paul to a seated position. They stared at each other. Paul blinked and Danny poked him with his
elbow and gave a little laugh.
‘Bloody hell, Paul,’ breathed Danny. ‘We just got drunk with Bono’s ma.’
Chapter Eight
The clock showed that it was almost nine, and Evie blinked her eyes open, stretching herself in the luxury of the king-sized bed the next morning. She marvelled at how the flight had become so enjoyable after such a nervy beginning. She didn’t regret a little bit the fibs she had told the young men about Bono. It had made the boys happy as they’d ushered her into the cab and shook her hand and said: ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Evie. Tell your Bono we loved Achtung Baby.’
Evie’s stomach groaned; the champagne had furred her tongue; she was ready for breakfast. She had slept in her undies. She’d brought no change of clothes or toothbrush, so she resolved to go shopping. After all, this was Liverpool and she could do as she pleased for the next few days. She would contact Brendan today, and Jenny at Sheldon Lodge. She grabbed the beret she had bought in Dublin and tugged it over her hair. Now she could become someone else, not the Evie she had been, not the wife, the mother, the old lady in the lifestyle home, but someone interesting, someone she had never met. She pulled on her clothes and her new coat, and the smells reminded her suddenly of airports and taxis and betting shops, and she laughed again.
In the hotel foyer, she asked the receptionist for a map of the city, planning her shopping list. She wondered about a good place to have breakfast, one that would have a caramel latte, and the sweet taste was in her mind as she stepped out into the street.
She felt the bump. It knocked her back against the wall and she instinctively clutched at her handbag. She looked up. The beret fell over one eye, and she tugged it off her head. A woman was staring at her.
‘Why you don’t look where you going?’ the woman said.
Evie was stunned. The breath was knocked out of her.
The woman, Italian or Spanish, was annoyed. Her eyes ignited in Evie’s direction, raising unimpressed eyebrows. Her face was not young. Her eyes were made up, surrounded with kohl, and her mouth was scarlet; she wore an orange jacket and her hair was piled on top of her head. Evie gaped at her hair, which was magenta red, tied with a pink silk bow.
‘You should be careful, old lady,’ the woman continued. ‘You might hurt yourself.’ She turned and swept away down the road.
Evie studied the jacket, the high heels and skinny ankles, and the orange leather handbag that the woman threw across her shoulder as she walked away.
‘What does she mean, old lady?’ Evie grumbled. ‘She was sixty-five if she was a day.’
Evie looked down at two dusty shoes, at her legs in slacks that widened around her ankles and revealed the top of white socks, at the shapeless blue coat she had been so proud of a day ago.
‘Hmmm.’
Breakfast would be a priority, a caramel latte and some of those flaky croissants. It would give her time to consider her options.
‘I can fit you in now, if you don’t mind a bit of a wait, love.’
His name badge said he was called Nathan and his hair was a creative blond quiff, shorn and darker at the sides but rising up from his head in an arc of a bird’s wing. He wore a tight purple T-shirt with a slogan that said, ‘This Is What a Feminist Looks Like’, skinny black jeans and a belt containing scissors and combs. Evie sat down in the reception area, clutching her bags of shopping. She had bought herself some new clothes, including a leather jacket. Evie was still not sure about the jacket – green wasn’t a colour she usually wore but it was emerald green and wasn’t she Irish, the assistant had asked. It was expensive too, but it fitted well. Of course, it didn’t go with the red beret but Evie bought a black cap, not unlike the ones The Beatles wore in the film Hard Day’s Night, and she paid with her card so it felt almost like the shopping was free.
From behind the reception desk, a young girl brought Evie a coffee while she waited. It tasted like treacle.
‘Ready for you now,’ called Nathan, ushering Evie to a seat and whisking a matador cape around her shoulders. ‘And what can we do for Madam today?’
Evie hesitated. ‘I want a change.’
‘Hmmm.’ Nathan looked at her, stepping back. ‘Radical?’
Evie didn’t know what he meant but she agreed.
‘Leave it with me – some strong colour and a trim and I will have you looking like Madonna.’
Evie didn’t want to look like the Catholic icon; on second thoughts she didn’t want to look like the woman who cavorted and sang ‘Like a Virgin’ either. That song had come out in 1984 when Brendan was seven years old. Evie recalled his little legs dancing in the kiddies’ disco, singing along to the lyrics with his arms in the air. He had beamed at her and returned to waving his arms and marching with his legs, and she had ached as she watched her child mouthing the lyrics.
Nathan held up her brown locks as if making a decision. Images were forming in her mind: herself as a distorted cartoon with wild hair, and people looking and laughing. Nathan was talking to her but Evie was quiet, watching the whirling maestro at work. He told her about his Mazda MX-5 and had she seen the new Bond film? Evie’s hair was painted and piled. The lighting was harsh and illuminated the lines on her face, making her look anxious. The washing took a long time and then she sat before her reflection, a strange elf with a dull cap of hair plastered to her head. Nathan waved the dryer and chatted about his friend’s stag do in Goa. Evie twisted around him to peek in the mirror, as he tugged at her hair. The words ‘mutton’ and ‘lamb’ slipped into her head. Nathan was an artist, his scissors and the brush in the air, touching up his work, standing back and making a discontented face, then cutting again. He stood back with a flourish, hairbrush aloft.
‘I’ve kept the fringe long and added texture with some layers, not taken too much off – and I think the blonde highlights really frame your face and create a softer look. What do you think?’
Evie looked at the woman staring at her from the mirror and she burst out laughing. ‘Ah, will you look at me?’
Her face was beaming and framed with soft golden hair. Her eyes shone. She thought she looked like a fairy-tale queen.
‘Don’t you like it?’ asked Nathan, piqued.
Evie looked up at him as if he was the saint of all hairdressers. ‘I love it. It’s grand. Now how much do I owe you?’
‘That’s a hundred and twenty pounds today.’
‘Worth every penny,’ she told him as she reached into her purse for her card.
Chapter Nine
She returned to the hotel with a travel-case full of clothes; she had a short nap, charged her phone, washed and was back in town in new jeans and the green leather jacket. She was a glamorous blonde now and it showed in her step. This was just what she needed, a little break away from Dublin. Evie grimaced; she must ring Brendan soon or at least text him. As she passed a travel agent’s window, a huge blue display caught her eye, and she resolved to come back. She wanted to visit the cathedrals first.
In a side street, she stopped outside a pub and took out her phone, squeezing the sides. She could hear people laughing, and music boomed, and there was a heavy smell of strong hops. She pressed numbers slowly. She would ring Brendan and then Sheldon Lodge. She imagined the conversation. Everyone would be impressed with how she had organised a mini-break for herself. She would come back rejuvenated, blonde, invigorated. Sheldon Lodge still didn’t feel like home, but there could be other alternatives – a little bungalow perhaps, not too far from where Brendan lived.
Incredibly, the phone lit up and a bright array of clouds on blue sky showed itself. She pushed an envelope shape and within seconds she was looking at a text box, with the words ‘Brendan, Son’. Evie pressed letters and words came to life:
dear brendan I am in liverpool don’t worry love mammy
She poked her finger at the icon marked send and it was done. She had sent a text. ‘Is there no end to my talents?’
Something solid and shapeless clattered into her. She dro
pped the phone and fell hard onto gravel. A hand shoved her down and grabbed at her handbag but Evie wrapped her arms around the bag and pulled back.
A voice shouted, ‘Let go, you fucking old bitch.’
Evie hung on, rolling on top of her bag, as something kicked her arm. There was a crack of pain and she heard her own voice scream from somewhere distant. She curled into a ball and waited for the next blow. There was another bumping sound, shouting and scuffling. Evie raised her eyes; two men were struggling. One was a young lad in a dark jacket with a hoodie, his face twisted like a malignant imp. The other was a man with a huge belly, a red football shirt and heavy arms. One of his elbows was crooked around the kid’s neck and the kid was screeching, his eyes livid. The man was swearing; he pushed the kid roughly and he ran around the corner and away. The man turned to Evie and helped her up. She clutched the bag to her body like a shield.
‘You all right, love?’
Evie’s legs shook and her arm ached. The big man put an arm around her shoulders.
‘You want to come inside and have a brandy? You’re shaken up.’
Evie’s voice was strangled in her throat. The handbag was still pulled tightly to her chest. A brandy seemed like a really good idea. A double.
The man surveyed her again. ‘No real damage done there to you, love. You’re a plucky one, you are. Jeans are a bit dirty. This your phone?’
He bent down and handed Evie her mobile; the screen was cracked.
‘Think you had a lucky escape there, girl.’
Evie was shivering now.
‘Where do you live? Let’s get you back home.’
Evie told him the name of the hotel and he hailed a taxi and helped her into the seat. She made sure her phone was clutched in her hand and her bag was cradled in her arms. It was only a short ride.
