The Reading Room

by Ruth Hamilton

  She applied make-up to a face that looked different this time, as if a cloud had moved away from the sun to allow light through. People would notice; Babs would certainly comment. Babs would be in Pour Les Dames now, because Mo was going to see Po. If those two daft creatures could mend a few bridges, Mike’s winter pantomime promised to be brilliant.

  ‘You’re still you,’ she told her reflection. ‘You’re still Leanne Chalmers, whichever wrapping paper you use.’ A legally changed name could never alter the past. The husband she had divorced continued to exist in a crowded jail just a few miles away. All that separated them was the East Lancashire Road – or a couple of motorways – and while he lived, Lily’s life was in danger. But she had to forget about all that, had to move onward like a good Christian soldier. Well, perhaps not, because this Christian soldier had bedded a priest, so she was rather less than good.

  She walked out of the house and across the road. Mike might also become a target if the relationship endured. Clive’s jealousy had driven him and her wild, because it was so angry and uncontrollable. Scissors, curtain material, knife, blood. Lily shivered. When she relived the event, it moved in slow motion across her mind, his face twisted by hatred, her heart pounding with fear. In truth, that final attack had probably been over in seconds. She had to pay for a lifetime; he would probably be free in under ten years. Nevertheless, Lily achieved a smile. Noughts and crosses, indeed. Where was the respect in that suggestion?

  For Clive, Leanne had been perfection. A brunette with cornflower blue eyes, good posture, remarkable figure – he was in his element. Until she became successful. Until other members of the human race had the ability to watch her chasing decorators and carpet-fitters on TV, until she had become so popular that anyone who was anyone used her to furnish their home. He hated her spreads in the glossies, couldn’t bear her to talk to any other man about any subject whatsoever.

  Mike was completely different from Clive. He had stopped asking questions, was not afraid of her supposed beauty, made fun of imperfections he had discovered in intimate moments. He loved her, and not just because she was attractive. Her abdomen was a mess, yet he had embraced those criss-cross scars as an integral part of the woman he happened to love. Did the fact that he would need to change his job matter? Many people altered direction, moving to the other side of the world, giving up a career for children – why should he be different? Because his was a vocation rather than a job? Because he needed to remain at the helm in order to push for reform within the faith?

  There was a part of Mike that would be forever priest, she supposed. But first and foremost, he was a man. He was the man she wanted and needed. Yet the decision must be his alone, since he was the one who was disobeying mortals who considered themselves to be in authority over him.

  She rescued her stock from a very hot back yard. The sun was beating fiercely, and the flowers needed to cool. Her phone buzzed in the pocket of the tabard she wore for dirty work. The message made her smile again. Remember I am X. U R O. Have bought indelible pen, forget tattoo. X.

  Maurice Jones perched on the edge of a sofa and leaned against a black bag filled with his ex-partner’s clothes. The position was not exactly comfortable. ‘Aren’t you going to unpack?’ he asked. ‘The place looks like a bomb hit it.’

  Paul explained that he would sort himself out eventually. He was busy; he had a lot of work.

  ‘I know you’re working hard,’ Mo replied. ‘But there’s not enough time in a day to do all that travelling. Keep your best clients, then work part time for me. We’ll forget what happened. Your old dears in particular miss you. They ask for you all the time, and can’t get you through Impressions, because you’re always fully booked. And the little girls miss you, too.’

  ‘I’m over-booked.’ Paul Smith was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He was bitchy, and he knew it. Jealousy was a terrible burden, and he had to get rid of it. ‘Pete the Plod’s trying to get me an old people’s home. I’m sorry, Mo. Poor Sal. But I always loved you, and because you act more camp than I do, I really believed that you’d turn to me in the end.’

  ‘It ain’t gonna happen, mate. We should never have lived the lie in the first place.’ Mo glanced at his watch. ‘Look, I’ll have to go, because Lily’s coming in for colouring, and I’m not used to her hair yet.’

  ‘Right.’ Paul dabbed at a tear. ‘On your way back, pop into her place and tell her if she’ll wait till tomorrow, I’ll do her. If she needs it done today, I have her file here.’ He pointed to a box on the coffee table. ‘Her colour charts are on top, list of treatments below. She needs a lot of conditioner, because I use some fierce stuff. But try to hold her off until tomorrow, because I can do her then.’

  ‘In the shop?’

  Paul nodded. ‘Yes, I’ll go half and half. Half Impressions, half the real thing. Sort out the hours with Babs – that little girl needs her mam.’

  Maurice stared at the floor. The other sad thing about Paul was that he loved kiddies. With children and oldies, the man was in his element. Paul would have made a great dad. ‘Thanks, Paul,’ he said. ‘So Mo and Po ride again, eh? Two bundles of trouble in one small shop.’ He paused. ‘I know you’ve been an angry bitch, but I also know you’re not all bad. We’ve not seen the best of you yet, mate. Come home, and we’ll soon be those two bundles of mischief and magic again.’

  ‘Three, shortly to be four,’ Paul answered. ‘Well, five if we count Babs. I reckon she could start a war in a phone booth. Now, get gone while I sort out my schedule. Some of us have to work.’

  Skippy had a job. There had been no forms to fill in, no interview and no trial period, as she had created her own area of expertise and was definitely the best dog for the post. There was no travelling involved, lunch was provided by her employer, and no tools were required.

  Skippy had appointed herself receptionist, welcoming committee and keeper of order in number three, Fullers Walk. Perhaps she remembered that Tim Mellor had saved her life; perhaps she had become fed up with newspapers, books and old men fighting over computer dating. For whatever reason, Skippy turned up for work on the day the newly located practice began to function.

  Mornings were open surgeries, and the waiting room was often congested. With a professionalism seldom displayed among humans, Skippy disposed of all negative feelings. Dogs, cats, rabbits, birds and rodents were all treated with respect, though she continued to chase anything that moved when she was taken out for exercise by Philly or Dave.

  Everyone was amazed. She woofed a quiet welcome to all who arrived, led people to their chairs, and always knew whose turn it was to go into the treatment area. She hopped about on her three remaining legs, led the next victim to the business end of the shop, and was in receipt of many pats and cuddles of praise.

  The veterinary nurse was astounded. She had seen many dogs in her lifetime, but she had never met an animal with so much sense. The first few days were peppered by her exclamations. ‘She’s done it again – are you sure you’re the next to go in?’ and ‘Who trained her to do this?’

  Skippy lapped up the praise. She was a different dog, a special dog, and she made sure that everyone knew it.

  Philly and Dave were nonplussed at first. Didn’t she want to live with them any longer? Had she chosen the vet over them? But she came back to the Reading Room after lunch each day, and made no effort to attend evening surgeries. They decided that Skippy, like Babs, wanted to work part time and, once they were sure that she was in no danger, accepted that she was simply a mornings-only workaholic. The dog made no attempt to enter the vet’s premises on Sundays, even if an emergency arose. Skippy, they concluded, was a people-pleaser, and they were bursting with pride.

  They were also on pins as they waited for Father Walsh to call them. The baby, according to a book Philly had borrowed from the shop, was now the size of a very small pea. She wanted to protect that tiny person from the disgrace of illegitimacy, and her nerves were fraying. When Dave’s mobile finally rang,
Philly almost jumped out of her skin. She dragged her man out into the back yard. ‘Answer it now,’ she begged. ‘Come on, come on!’

  After a few yeses and a couple of thank yous, Dave smiled at her. ‘Two weeks,’ he said as he turned off the phone. ‘He’ll do us in two weeks.’

  The baby might be the size of a mature marrowfat by then. Philly’s hands were twisting. ‘Not enough time to get ready,’ she gasped. Yet they must be ready, because the baby needed them to be ready. ‘Wedding clothes, a party for our friends—’

  ‘Stop.’ Dave stepped forward and grabbed her anxious hands. ‘No party. Get a smart suit and two witnesses – in that order.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘We have to tell her upstairs.’ Both raised their eyes to an upper window. ‘She’ll hit the roof. Knowing her, she’ll just bounce off and land in a bed of roses. She’s always right, you see, always falls on her feet. Well, she would if it weren’t for melegs.’

  Philly’s mouth set itself in a firm line. ‘We do it together,’ she said. ‘You’re not going up there on your own, but I can’t do it by myself, either. She’s your mother—’

  ‘I don’t need reminding about that—’

  ‘She’s your mother, so you tell her, but with me there. She’s more wary of me, because I’m a woman.’ Philly entered the shop and asked a couple of old stalwarts to keep an eye on the place. ‘No fighting,’ was her parting shot.

  ‘What?’ Dave’s eyebrows moved north. ‘Right now? Do we have to do it this minute?’

  ‘No time like the present,’ replied Philly. ‘But your mother won’t like the present we’re taking with us.’

  When they entered the flat, Enid Barker was in her usual place. ‘That Lily one seems right pleased with herself today,’ she said. ‘I heard her singing in the yard before while she tiptoed through her tulips or whatever she’s selling these days.’

  Well, at least Madam was speaking.

  The old woman turned and saw them standing hand in hand. ‘Oh, both of you,’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever have I done to deserve a full state visit? Will I get my best cups and spoons out? Is my hair good enough for royalty?’

  Sarcasm. On a good day, Enid Barker used that instead of head-on abuse. Was this a good day, then? Dave opened his mouth, but the words emerged from Philly. ‘We’re getting married in two weeks,’ she said. ‘Not quite sure of the date yet, but Father Walsh has had permission from the Bishop of Salford. He phoned just now and told Dave.’

  Enid blanched. ‘Are you in the club?’ she yelled.

  ‘I’m pregnant, yes.’ Philly surprised herself. Even a few weeks ago, she could not have stood there and made that statement. The strength Dave had given her was beyond measure; he, too, had gained in confidence, and it showed in several ways, including the new haircut and a flatter belly.

  ‘And what’s that to do with the bloody bishop? My son needs no bishop to tell him what he can do and when. We’re Methodists. We don’t run round breaking rules just because we can get forgiven by some jumped-up Irish priest with—’

  ‘He’s not Irish,’ Dave said. ‘He’s of Irish descent.’

  ‘A quick descent to hell is what you’ll get, David Barker. What have I told you all your life? Keep away from bloody Catholics.’

  Dave stood his ground. ‘Mixed marriage,’ he said, ‘and Philly needs permission to marry me. I have to promise that the child will be reared Catholic.’

  Enid inhaled sharply. ‘You’re a disgrace,’ she told her son.

  He had taken enough. He approached the woman who had birthed him. ‘My child will have a father on his birth certificate. He’ll know who his father is. That’s where he’ll have the advantage over me, Mother. Why can’t you be pleased? For once in your life, why can’t you be normal? Even pretending to be normal would do for now.’

  She turned her back on both visitors. ‘I won’t be at your wedding,’ she snapped.

  ‘Good.’ Dave returned to Philly’s side. ‘Because you wouldn’t be welcome. We don’t need any miserable old women to come and spoil our special day. Anyway, we’ve told you what you need to know. If you want anything, ring the bell. Philly will be up later with some food.’

  Outside on the stairs, Dave remembered how often he had shaken when standing on this very spot, how much she had upset him, how great a job she had done of undermining him. ‘My kid will have a proper mother,’ he said softly. And he wasn’t shaking any more.

  It took a few days for Eve to take on board all she had learned about Lily Latimer. Several times, she found herself on the brink of talking to Chas, but the fact that she alone was in possession of the details made her cautious. Chas was not a gossip, but his mouth sometimes ran away with him, coasting along like a car out of gear on a slope. Unless his wife happened to be around to apply the handbrake, he sometimes sped along like a ship in full sail. Yet she needed to tell someone, since the burden was a heavy one, and it was affecting her performance in the shop and at home.

  The cottage was coming along, because Lily, true to her word, had helped greatly with searches for pieces rescued by builders and sold through architectural reclamation yards. But Eve was not at ease, would never be comfortable until she had talked to Chas. No matter how pleasing the ring-turned legs on her table, she couldn’t enjoy anything until she had offloaded some of the worry.

  On an evening in August, the pair sat in their rear living room. Derek was minding the shop, and Eve was glad that her son was out of the house. ‘The fewer people who hear this, the better,’ she told her husband. They hadn’t switched on lights, because this was the loveliest time of day. Through open windows, the scent of stock and honeysuckle drifted on a summer breeze. Blackbirds fussed, while a lone nightingale began a prelude from the uppermost branches of one of the trees.

  Eve simply said it all, allowing it to pour from her lips in one solid section, no tears, no emotion at all. It was like a work of fiction, so vicious had the crime been. She could have wept over a story in a book, yet what she was saying now was too bad for tears, because it was real. When she had finished, she leaned back in her rocking chair, closed her eyes and waited for him to react. But he remained silent. ‘Chas?’ She raised her eyelids and looked at his outline against the frugal light of dusk. ‘Chas?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you hear what I just told you?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And bloody what? What do you expect me to say? Slime like that – I’m not wasting energy on him. Anybody who treats a woman so badly wants hanging. I’m going.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To clear that flaming mess outside is where.’

  She heard him, felt his fury as he stamped about and banged into his workbench. He stumbled round in the little brick-built lean-to, clattering tools in an ancient slopstone, cursing after tripping over something metallic. He was in a temper. This didn’t happen often, but when it did he needed a clear deck to manage his anger, and she should leave him to it. Dared she do that? His redhot temper was one thing, but this white heat advertised a fury that matched for temperature the magma vomiting from a volcano. It was just too hot, and it was burning him on the inside. In such a state, he would hurt only one person, and that was himself.

  Then he walked down into the Devil’s Jungle, and began slashing and cutting at anything and everything in his path. It was almost dark, and he would injure himself if he didn’t slow down. She shouldn’t have told him. His dad used to hit his mam, and stories like this one probably picked scabs off wounds that would never heal completely. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything,’ she announced to a watercolour next to the fireplace. Poor Chas. Poor Lily . . . ‘I need to be stronger and keep things to myself.’

  ‘Get back, you bastard,’ Chas was shouting now.

  Eve ran out. He had reached a tangled mass of brambles and bindweed, and he was in a very dark mood. ‘Chas? Stop it. Stop it now, or I’m going to fetch our Derek. What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing at this time of ni
ght? Them thorny bushes will have your eyes out – show a bit of sense, lad. You’ll have the village coming round here en masse any minute. Give it up, Chas. This is something you do during the day.’

  He stopped, but was still breathing heavily. ‘Where’s Capability Brown when you need him?’ he asked, before bursting into tears.

  Eve held the weeping man in her arms. ‘Shush,’ she whispered. ‘Can you hear him? Our nightingale. He’s done his overture, and he’s coming over all Mozart.’

  They clung together and listened to Nature’s court musician while he poured out his soul to a darkening sky. ‘How many in Toxteth have heard a nightingale so close? Or in Berkeley Square, for that matter?’ she asked. ‘We’re lucky, babe. Just try to calm down a bit. I know it’s a terrible story, and perhaps I should have kept my gob shut—’

  ‘I’m your husband, damn it.’

  ‘And you’re upset.’

  He nodded, then wiped his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. ‘There’s something else, love. Our Robbo’s been framed. Some job at the back end of Bootle. He never done it. The one time he’s absolutely innocent, and it looks like he’ll get a stretch, because some guard got a bang on the head.’

  ‘Are you sure he didn’t do it?’

  Chas nodded fiercely. ‘But he bought some of the stuff off them that did do it, so he’s banged up. Magistrate Monday for referral to Crown. No way will he sidestep this one, Eve. I’ll have to go over and see him. It’s not fair.’

  ‘I know, love.’

  ‘See, we’ve never damaged people, have we? We might have pinched a few bobs’ worth of booze and stuff off the bleeders who pretend to run the country, but our Rob would never hurt a fly. He’s like me, isn’t he?’

  Eve offered no reply.

  ‘It’s all wrong,’ Chas continued. ‘Take that lovely girl – Lily. She had a smashing job and a good life and look what happened. He’s in jail. In jail? I’d have him drawn and bloody quartered in the middle of London. He’s gone and ruined her life. Now, he should never come out of prison, but I bet you anything you like he’ll be free in a few years. Things like that shouldn’t be allowed to walk about, but our Rob? He could get a three stretch for something he never done in the first place.’