Sally laughed, though the sound was hollow. ‘I’ve taken on bigger women than this one, Mo. He’s a mean-spirited, nasty bit of near-human dross.’ She addressed the culprit again. ‘Get out,’ she roared. ‘Clear off before I really lose my rag.’
Paul straightened his spine. ‘I’ll be living at number three,’ he said menacingly. ‘And plenty of my customers will want their hair done at home, because I have always been the better stylist.’ He turned to Mo. ‘Without me, you’d be nowhere. I want my investment back.’
Mo reached into the pocket of his white overall and passed a cheque and a sheet of paper to Paul. ‘There you are – every penny and with interest. Sign here.’
Paul obeyed silently, then threw the signed document at Mo’s feet. ‘Traitor,’ he hissed.
Mo smiled coldly. ‘I’ve heard on the grapevine that Mr Clegg doesn’t want a shop here. Joey’s looking over a place in Bromley Cross as an outlet for his bakery. Unless your chip fryer turns up trumps, there’s a good chance that Tim Mellor will take the shop unit and the flat. He’ll use the upstairs as business premises, because he wants to use his house as a home – number three would suit him down to the ground.’
‘And up to the flat,’ Sally added. ‘Storage, operating rooms, waiting areas – he’s very keen. It’s a good place for a vet.’
Paul’s jaw dropped. He snapped it back into its rightful place, then left the premises by the rear door.
Mo looked at his tearful wife. ‘Come on, love. You know you’ve always said that massage is good for the giver as well as for the receiver.’ He led her back into the shop. ‘As you were,’ he told his silent customers. ‘Show’s over.’
But the show had moved to the off-licence. ‘Is it true?’ Paul asked Chas, who was standing behind safety glass.
‘Is what true?’
‘That Tim Mellor is after number three?’
Chas cleared his throat. ‘Well, if it’s not going to be your bakery or your chip shop, he’ll be having it. I hear Clegg’s not interested, so where do you stand on the fish-and-chip front?’
Paul felt his shoulders sagging. ‘They don’t want it,’ he said reluctantly. ‘So can I still have the flat while you find someone who needs a lock-up?’
Chas shook his head. ‘It’s stood empty ever since Greenhalgh’s closed down. I’m losing rent, Paul. And I’d rather let it all to one person whether they live in or not. The vet needs all the space. It was only as a favour that I said you could rent the flat if you found someone for downstairs.’
‘And I can’t open as a hairdresser?’
‘No.’
‘Since when has Tim Mellor been interested?’
‘No idea. You’d have to ask him.’
Nothing loath, Paul crossed the road and knocked on the vet’s door. He pleaded for the flat, then for a room in the flat, but was turned down straight away. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Because there will be someone living upstairs, and that someone will be caring for sick animals while I reclaim my home. The second bedroom at number three will be for storage. There’s no room for you.’
Paul thought about the job. ‘I could do it. I’d be there every night to keep an eye on things.’
The vet was not going to be fooled. He didn’t like this man, didn’t expect him to have feelings for animals or for his fellow humans. ‘No,’ he replied firmly. ‘The person living in will be a qualified veterinary nurse. Sorry.’
Paul found himself standing at the wrong side of a closed door. He was furious and had to force himself not to kick the gate as he stormed out. There was definitely a plot on. Well. There was only one thing to do, and that was to advertise for lodgings. Someone in one of the villages would take him in. The property would have to provide parking for his Impressions van, but there must be someone somewhere who wanted a clean, tidy lodger.
Back at Pour Les Dames, he sneaked in the back way and continued to pack up his belongings. No longer in a position of power, he had lost the urge to make a point through noise. There was a lump in his throat. He had given his all to this shop and his heart to Maurice Jones. There had been a suggestion that the place should be called Alias Smith and Jones, but Mo had insisted on the French rubbish.
Depleted and deflated, he left quietly and packed his property in his old van. It wasn’t over. It was never over till the fat lady sang, and from now on Mo would be singing alone. Paul would miss the drag shows, but he had to admit that his partner had been the stronger performer. But Paul had been the mover and shaker, the power behind the act. He had not been appreciated, and that was why he felt so injured.
It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. But he would find a way to get even. If it took him years, he would bloody well show them all.
The dog went home with Philly and Dave, her new would-be owners. No one had responded to advertisements and flyers, so Skippy was theirs by default, though for a while they were concerned in case the neglectful owner turned up and tried to claim her. Derek Boswell came to visit several times. He was terribly upset at first, but he was finally convinced by Dave that there was little he might have done, because Skippy had come from nowhere, and all the witnesses sitting outside the Reading Room had verified that fact.
According to her new family, the dog had really come from heaven. They doted on her, used a towel as a sling to help her walk until all the stitches had been removed, fed her on the best cuts of meat and spoiled her thoroughly. She adapted quickly, and was soon chasing a ball up and down the back garden of Philly’s cottage. A natural lunatic, she was even funnier without her fourth leg, and many a happy hour was spent laughing at her antics.
The pair sat with Derek and watched her as she adjusted to life on three legs. ‘She’s a tripod,’ said Dave. ‘Though I doubt she’d stay still long enough to be any use as a camera stand. Hey – Derek?’
‘What?’
‘The vet said Labradors are special. You could put two hundred dogs in a field, and the Labs would find each other. They aren’t like most dogs.’
‘Canadian wolves,’ Derek told them. ‘Trained themselves to bring in fishermen’s nets, got fed by the fishermen, got tame. They volunteered. Supposed to be sensible, but this one looks daft enough to me.’ He stood up. ‘I looked Labs up on the Internet after the accident. If I ever have a dog, it’ll be one of these. Oh, and thanks. I’d never have lived with myself if you hadn’t let me pay the vet.’
‘Are you going?’ Philly asked.
But Derek lingered, his face colouring as he asked, ‘How’s that florist getting on?’
Philly frowned slightly. Here was another one who was interested in the newcomer. The vet had asked after her, this young accountant was clearly interested, while the parish priest, sworn to celibacy, came over rather strange whenever Lily Latimer was in view. ‘She’s all right,’ she answered. ‘Buying the presbytery – aren’t your parents buying the cottage at the other side of the church?’
‘Yes. Anyway, thanks again for letting me pay. It makes me feel . . . not better, but more satisfied with myself.’
‘We know,’ said Philly. He was a decent chap who seemed to care about what his car had done to the animal. ‘See you later, Derek.’
The gate closed. Like a long-married couple, Philly and Dave sat until the sun began to sink. ‘Am I cooking or are you?’ Dave asked.
‘Your turn. Spaghetti, I think you said. Use the wholemeal – that’s better for us than the usual stuff.’ She could scarcely remember life before Dave. He was like a longed-for drink of water that had been presented to her after weeks in the Sahara. ‘We’ll try to finish that jigsaw later, if you like.’
Dave stopped in his tracks. ‘The five-thousand-piecer?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Because there’re about eight bits missing. Skippy ate them.’ He went indoors to prepare supper.
Philly sat for a while with Skippy, who lay on a blanket next to the chair. In this moment, woman and beast were truly content. ‘I can’t imagine l
ife without you and your dad,’ she said absently. After delivering the words, they seemed to echo in her brain for several seconds until she noticed them. Happiness was not something she had expected or sought, but it was wonderful. She was a Catholic, while he used to be a Methodist. Did any of it matter?
The house was finally hers. Lily started painting, carrying swatches of material into various rooms, buying bits and pieces for the kitchen. She felt like a child who had been given free rein with blank paper, because this place was hers and only hers. Onto a blank canvas, she could paint her own life – her own future. Nothing could be done about the past, but her house would be another bandage for wounds that should begin to heal, in part at least.
Because it had been a home for priests, there had not been a great deal of attention paid to decor and furniture. Everything was basic, adequate and terribly plain, so she decided to go mad with colour. With the same neutral carpet throughout the whole house, she achieved continuity at floor level, then brought into various equations a portfolio she had used years ago, when she had been something else and someone else. Having kept up with trends, Lily knew what was in, what was out, what was for ever.
Babs was delighted to join in. She left Cassie with Philly, Dave and their three-legged friend so that she could come across in the early evenings and splash a bit of paint about. The splashing had to be minimal, though, because although the new carpets were covered in film used by professional decorators, paint was an item that had to be tamed.
‘What do you think of the red?’ Lily asked. She was standing in the dining room, scarf tied around her hair, a large blob of paint on her right cheek.
‘Suits you,’ declared Babs, dabbing ineffectually at her friend’s red face. ‘And I love that huge black flower on the white paper.’ This was Lily’s true forte. She could probably have thrown a few stones on the floor and still made the place look fabulous. ‘Curtains?’ Babs asked.
‘Muslin floating in the breeze when the French window’s open. I’ll get thicker ones for the winter. No double glazing, because to destroy these windows would be a capital offence. Reclaimed wood for the table, chairs with full, padded backs, black and white crockery, chandelier low over the table.’
‘Sideboard?’
‘Will be just that – a board to the side – reclaimed wood again. Just a long table on which to place dishes and so forth. I’ll store everything in the kitchen – it’s big enough.’
‘Will you be giving dinner parties?’
Lily shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’ She knew only that she was enjoying doing a job she had loved for years, a hobby she could now pursue exclusively behind closed doors. There would be no photographs in magazines, no interviews, no TV people asking her to help with a makeover programme. All her talent must be hidden in here, so she was making the most of it. ‘We’re losing daylight,’ she advised her companion. ‘Time to tidy up and go home.’ She didn’t want to go, but she couldn’t stay here yet, because she was waiting for her bed. It was to have a circular wrought-metal headpiece that would emphasize the window against which she planned to place it.
‘Hello? Can I come in?’
Babs noticed the slight flush on her friend’s unpainted cheek. There was something going on here, because Father Walsh’s face was similarly stained when he entered the dining room. ‘My goodness,’ he said when he saw the paint. ‘What are you making here? A bordello?’
‘He knows nothing about decor,’ said Lily in a deliberately sad tone. ‘Such a sheltered life these men of God lead.’
‘But red?’ he asked.
‘This is to be the room for flagellation,’ Lily told him. ‘We have enough space to cater for the needs of most men.’
She was laughing at him. Inside, where it hid its face, her humour was planning to escape from prison. ‘Oh dear,’ he responded mournfully. ‘Shall I look for lodgings elsewhere?’
Lily wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t. If she did answer in the affirmative, he might guess the reason for her reluctance to share a roof with him, albeit on a parttime basis. By ignoring his silly question, she was laying herself open to . . . To what? He was a nice man, a good man. He had a cleft in his chin that put her in mind of Kirk Douglas, though the rest of his face was less rugged than the film star’s. He still had untidy hair, the sort of hair she wanted to comb— She ordered herself to stop it. This was a priest, and nothing would happen, because nothing could happen. He could comb his own bloody hair if he wanted to look human – he was a grown man, after all.
She stared through the window. Blackbirds were making their nightly arrangements, quarrelling over who slept where and who had let the kids fly away. The scent of honeysuckle tickled her nose, and she experienced a swell of emotion when she looked out at the beginning of dusk. ‘Reminds me of my grandfather’s house,’ she said quietly. ‘He had apple trees.’
Michael heard the sadness and decided to lighten the mood. ‘First meeting of FADS next week,’ he announced. ‘You’ll do the stage for us, won’t you? Lily?’
She turned slowly. ‘Why?’
‘Your forte,’ he answered lamely.
‘How do you know I’m not a budding Vanessa Redgrave?’
The priest shrugged. ‘Because Redgraves don’t bud – they’re delivered from the womb with microphones and clapperboards. Do you want to act?’
‘I don’t know. When I do know, Philly will know.’
Realizing that he had been dismissed, Father Michael Walsh left the room.
‘What’s up?’ Babs asked.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘I have asked. What do you want me to do? Take back my words, put them on toast and have them for supper?’
Lily simply lowered her head and shook it.
‘There’s stuff happening, isn’t there?’ Babs whispered. ‘He looks like a lovelorn lion – too much hair. And you’re acting like a teenager waiting to be asked out for a date. It’s chemistry. Like you noticed between me and Pete.’
‘It can’t be.’
‘Cupid doesn’t know the difference between priests and mere mortals. Look, you’d better tell him to stay elsewhere when he’s in Eagleton.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Can’t or won’t?’
‘I don’t know.’ That, at least, was the truth.
Outside the church, Michael clutched to his chest the Holy Eucharist, the small circle of unleavened bread that incorporated the sacrifice made by Jesus for all mankind. He was taking it and Unction oils to a dying parishioner, was about to send a blessed soul back to its Maker. He patted a pocket, made sure that he had the purple stole.
She was lovely. He was smitten. This was a very dangerous world.
They found Arthur Moss hanging this morning. Sheet or something round his neck, tongue hanging out like the pendulum on a grandfather clock according to Brian Short. Clock. Time ticking away, but not much I can do about it yet. She disappeared. They both did – three of them if you count the kid.
Arthur’s is one way of getting out of this place, I suppose. Plain pine box, no mourners, one less crim to cater for. The minute they shut the door on you in a place like this, you don’t exist any more. They have to feed you, keep you warm and fed and safe, but that’s because they’re jobsworths. The way they look at me, I know they’d kill me given half a chance.
Ho ho ho. Just watch this space. I’ll find them, by Christ I will.
Five
Babs, Pete and Cassie were having a day out on the town. He was on a week’s leave, and they had decided to make the most of it. The pair seemed a perfect match, but Babs, the more seriously wounded of the two, had been persuaded by Lily to take her time. ‘He’s a widower, yes,’ Lily had said. ‘And he’s been through a tragic loss that resulted in his having to rear kids all by himself. Not easy. But your history is nastier. Be careful, hon. Like I said before – don’t jump. It’s better to walk in or out with your eyes wide open and your ears pinned back.’ Lily talked a lot of sense, and that fact was sometime
s annoying.
Babs was about to hand over her child to the tender mercies of Valda Turnbull. Valda had five of her own, and three of them were at school. She was a registered child-minder and an excellent mother. Little Cassie, an only child, was going to learn to interact with her peers, because Babs was returning to work with Maurice Jones. Maurice had trained under Herbert of Liverpool, a character, a hard taskmaster and a stickler for detail. Babs had much to learn, and she had decided to enjoy these last few days as a full-time mother.
A little fair had been set up on the Town Hall square: rides for children, Punch and Judy, some jugglers and a few clowns on stilts. An old-fashioned barrel organ made a splendid noise, while a monkey in a bright red suit tumbled happily on top of the instrument. The place was bustling with people who had taken a rest from shopping in order to watch the fun and games. Babs, a people-watcher, was more interested in the crowd than in the entertainment. It was good to see so many people laughing and enjoying the sunny day.
Cassie had a wonderful time, but she began to tire after a couple of hours of enthusiastic cavorting and was fast asleep in her pushchair by four o’clock. The two adults ate sandwiches and drank tea from a flask. Sitting across from the civic buildings, Babs commented on their undeniable beauty. ‘I think I love Bolton,’ she remarked.
‘People imagine dark satanic mills when referring to northern towns,’ Pete told her. ‘But Le Mans Crescent was built by factory workers during the cotton famine ages ago. It reminds me of Bath.’
Babs nodded her agreement. Bolton had been both a shock and a surprise, the former because the accent was so different from her own, and the latter because the area was extraordinarily beautiful. ‘I like the moors as well,’ she said. ‘It’s all a lot prettier than I expected. Of course, I had to get used to the way the natives talk – so did Lily. I suppose you find our accent odd.’
‘Reminds me of the servant in that film – Ladies in Lavender. That was set in your neck of the woods.’
She remembered it well. ‘Judi Dench was in it. Lily likes it – she has the DVD. Young lad nearly drowned, and he turned out to be a whiz on the violin. I cried buckets because Dame Judi played an old woman who had never been loved by a man. Sad. In her heart, she was eighteen.’
The Reading Room Page 10
