After crossing the road, she took the keys from her pocket. It was time for dominoes, just for an hour or so . . .
At half past one on Sunday morning, Elsie Stewart positioned herself opposite Marie’s house, making sure she was hidden by the trunk of one of a pair of enormous oaks. Her intention was clear and simple; she wanted to allow the outside animals to escape. To achieve that aim, she needed to open a gate at the rear corner of the house. She would be visible from the kitchen, but who would be in the kitchen at this hour?
The landing lights were on, but they always were after dark. Other than this feeble illumination at the top of the stairs, the house was completely dark and still. But Elsie’s heart was in overdrive, its quickening beat thrumming inside her ears and making her feel sick and exhausted. Was it worth risking a heart attack? Chippy had died of one of those, and the doctor had said he’d hardly felt a thing, because his heart had stopped before he’d hit the floor – something about bruising or lack of it . . .
‘I’d be no use dead,’ she whispered, ‘but the three witches aren’t getting away with what happened today.’ Or yesterday, she supposed. Nellie adored her two remaining sisters, and all hell would be let loose alongside the animals.
Remaining invisible while crossing a road was not easy. People in the Twin Oaks flats, though at some distance from the main pavement, would perhaps catch sight of a small, thin woman, and might speak up once the morning brought chaos to the upmarket area. ‘But I’m a caretaker, and I never left my post,’ she murmured. ‘I am asleep in my bed.’ Nonetheless, those in the flats could be going to the bathroom, might be insomniac, or shift workers like nurses or firemen, or even policemen.
Elsie made her way down the side of the house. It had changed. A single storey addition was tacked on to the kitchen, so she would not be visible from the main window under the kitchen sink, since it overlooked the rear garden and the new extension would block the view of Elsie’s position. But beyond the extension, and fixed to it, she found a huge cage. It was built around a door, an open door that implied that the new building might be a laundry area, as she could make out the shape of two huge, ceramic sinks. Strange? Yes, it certainly was, an empty cage fastened to a house. Still, some folk moved in mysterious ways, especially when they were lovers of animals.
An open padlock hung helplessly from the cage gate, and she lifted it out of its keeper bar. How careless, she mused. Anyone and everyone could access the house, with or without keys. Perhaps she could release all the inside animals as well – she might gain access through the new laundry room if push came to shove.
She stepped in, pushing the gate into its closed position behind her. And they appeared as if from nowhere, two huge cats illuminated only by the frail light of a half moon. Claws tore at her clothing, finally finding flesh to rip. They rolled her about like a doll, playing with her, tossing her about the cage as if she were weightless.
At last, they stepped back and stared at her. Santa and Claus were used to humans who brought meat and drink, but this one carried neither. After judging her as useless, they wandered back into the laundry room. They had little time and utter contempt for bipeds who carried no food.
Elsie dragged herself to the gate through which she had entered, using metal bars to help herself stand. There was no sign of the padlock – had she left it inside? ‘Come on, girl,’ she muttered breathlessly, ‘it’s a long walk home.’ She turned once more to look at the cage; the padlock was in place and closed. How? Had she been having a dream? Was the pain a nightmare? ‘Come on, soft girl,’ she ordered herself in a whisper, ‘get walking.’
It was, indeed, quite a distance. Standing upright was difficult, and life was not improved when blood began to gel and stick to bits of torn clothing. Thank goodness there was no one about, she told herself as she made her way back to Brighton-le-Sands.
By the time she reached the large, grey house, it was quarter to three. Quietly, she opened the front door, then her own. After drinking a cup of water, she began the business of removing her clothes. Arms and legs were covered in scrapes, and bruising was beginning to develop. Her coat was ruined, as were cardigan and blouse. Scratches on her back had begun to heal; because of her clothing, they weren’t deep, but they stuck to material as she slowly peeled off her bloodied blouse.
Her face looked all right, so she’d better be grateful for small mercies. As she looked in the mirror, she finally realized that she had been attacked by tigers or leopards or cheetahs. Bloody Nigel. Damn him and damn Chester Zoo. No padlock on the bloody cage – he shouldn’t be allowed the responsibility for dangerous wild things.
She ran a bath and poured in two capfuls of Dettol. There was no point in titty-fal-lalling about, so she immersed herself as quickly as she could manage, her mouth closed tightly against a rising scream of pain. ‘Control,’ she mouthed. ‘Don’t give in, Elsie.’
‘I failed,’ she continued when the pain lessened in intensity. ‘No horses and donkeys will be stopping traffic and causing accidents today. And I’ll be staggering round like a cripple.’ Still, Phyllis would call in after church. Elsie’s explanation for her condition had already taken root in her mind. She’d heard noises outside during the night, had gone out and fallen badly. No, she didn’t need a doctor, but Phyllis could perhaps clean the hallways and stairs.
Elsie climbed out of the bath and, resourceful as ever, tied clean lint to the head of a long-handled brush intended for scrubbing her back. With this improvised tool, she smeared antiseptic cream over the shallow wounds at each side of her spine. ‘Damn bloody Nigel to hell,’ she mumbled, ‘and damn the lot of them at the same time.’
Forced to sleep on her front, and covered by blankets up to the waist only, one disgruntled old woman dozed fitfully. And the nightmare was back, though this time, it was about tigers, and she didn’t wake screaming. That padlock. How had it . . . ?
By dawn, she was up and about. She wore lisle stockings to cover the bruises on her legs, while a long-sleeved blouse camouflaged her upper limbs. ‘I’ll live,’ she whispered. ‘But there has to be a way of paying them back . . .’
When Nigel rose, he found Tommy and his teeth already making inroads on the piles of dishes that needed washing. ‘I fed the devils,’ the Irishmen said. ‘Borrowed your suit of armour, I did.’ He stopped scrubbing and turned to look at the boss. ‘It was very strange. There was blood in the cage, but they hadn’t been fighting.’
‘And the padlock was on?’ Nigel asked.
‘Of course it was. The laundry door was open, but. It gives them somewhere to lie if the weather turns.’
Neither man noticed the arc of colour in the sky. Had they seen it, they would have been surprised. There had been no rain . . .
Fourteen
Dear Callum,
You kicked me hard yesterday, son. Don’t ask me how I always knew you were a boy – I just did. Some people are odd like that. I joked with Daddy and said you are probably going to be a hockey player, and you’re bringing your stick with you! You are kicking me now, but more gently, so I suppose you ate the stick at half time. Well, never mind – we all get hungry while we’re growing fast. Anyway, do keep shifting about, because that shows us you’re healthy and happy.
Daddy has felt you moving, and he cried tears of joy the first time you wriggled under his hand. He’s building your cot and getting mad because it’s not easy. I just ignore him, or I’d laugh. He keeps finding new bits and saying there are too many pieces or not enough screws. I told him to leave it and to let your uncles Kevin and Paul make you a cot, because they are becoming successful producers of furniture, but no. Daddy said he has to make his own son’s cot, and there you have it – he’s as stubborn as a mule, but likeable with it. I know he’ll go all soppy the first time he sees and holds you.
I try to imagine you in my arms, your little face, your eyes, your ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. But I can’t see you yet – it will be almost five more months until you’re old enough t
o come out and face the world. This letter is for you to read when you’re a bit older. Your dad and I want you to know that you were loved from the very first day we learned that you were growing inside me. Dad’s the one who lies with his head next to my belly and talks to you. I wanted to tell you that the cow didn’t jump over the moon, and dishes and spoons can’t run, but you’ll know that by the time you read this. Sometimes, I wake in the night, and Daddy’s halfway down the bed talking or singing to you.
I must apologize for his terrible singing voice. He really can’t help sounding like a dog with a sore throat. Speaking of dogs, our Frank already knows you. He stands very close and sniffs as if he’s asking are you OK in there. Frank’s a character – you will love him. He’s a boxer with a friend called Leo – also a boxer – and a pet pigeon. I’ll tell you more about the pigeon later.
Today, Daddy and I are going to a wedding, so you may hear some decent singing, though I’m not promising. It’s Yuri and Vera’s wedding this time. They live next door on one side, and Harry lives at the other side of us. Your aunties Nellie and Marie will be there today, with uncles Martin and Nigel. There will be photographs to look at when you’re here, in the outside world.
Right, let’s go back to Frank and his pigeon. Harry next door built a loft for pigeons, but he gave them away to someone who knows more about them. Three or four kept coming back, and Oscar was the one that decided to stay forever. I went in the garden one day in the summer to peg my washing on the line, and I found Frank sitting on the grass with a pigeon on his head. I got pigeon food from Harry and fed Oscar, and this has been going on for a while now. They are very comical when they play. Seeing a dog with a bird perched on his head is enough to make the Pope chuckle.
Harry and Daddy built a kennel for Frank and put a little house inside for Oscar. Frank still sleeps inside our house at night, though he goes in the kennel with Oscar when it rains during the day. We have to lift out the little bird house to clean it, but they are such good friends – it’s worth it. The pigeon comes on walks with us and Frank. People stared at first, but they’re used to us now. I will put the cuttings from newspapers in the back of this journal. There are photographs, too.
I must go now and beautify myself for Vera and Yuri’s nuptials. Vera fell out with the Catholic church when the priest wouldn’t talk to her first husband, who was cruel. So we’re going to the church of St Barnabas, which is C of E. It’s not far – just across the road from the Penny Lane barber shop. I am supposed to ask permission of Father Shaw in order to attend a service in a non-Catholic church, but that’s a step too far for me. I give myself permission in matters of faith. God will look after me no matter what.
I will write some more very soon.
All my love,
Alice (Mummy)
Yuri had spent the night before the wedding at Harry’s house. Harry was best man, and he had taken Yuri, Peter, Tony, Neil and Dan out on the town for a meal during the groom’s last evening of freedom. Poor Yuri had ended up rather inebriated and padlocked to some railings near the Pier Head. After police involvement and a telling off for Harry, Dan, Peter and Vera’s boys, poor Yuri was released and brought back to Penny Lane. ‘Why?’ he asked the next morning. ‘Why did you do to me this terrible deed last night?’
‘Tradition,’ was Harry’s swift reply. ‘It’s what we do – an English thing, like Morris dancing and winning wars.’
‘I was cold,’ Yuri complained. ‘Where were you?’
‘Hiding behind parked buses.’
‘Why?’ Yuri asked again.
‘Tradition,’ Harry repeated. ‘This is Liverpool, England, so get used to it.’
Yuri blew out his cheeks and puffed. ‘I do tradition. I can do fish and chips, I can sell firewood and tools, but being fastened to rails is not my idea of England.’
‘Tell me your idea of England.’
The Russian pondered. ‘Green fields, rain, pretty houses and some lakes and mountains; beautiful women. I looked at picture books in Olga’s little library when we were young. And freedom; it means freedom, which is not being locked up in Siberia, or stuck to railings near Mersey. A place called Yorkshire I would like to visit. It looks wild. London I have seen. Many people, but lonely place.’
‘Apologies for what we did. Trouble was, we never thought about your past, and I’m sorry we did that on your stag night.’
Yuri grinned ruefully. ‘I had enough of prison in Siberia, and did not expect to be chained in England. But it was a good meal. So thank you, but don’t fasten me to anything ever again.’
They finished breakfast and went upstairs to get dressed.
‘These coats and hats are strange,’ Yuri complained. ‘I am not looking right in the things. They are from some old silent film.’
‘Tradition,’ Harry told him for the third time. ‘Vera’s never had anything special in her life. She was married to the lowest of the low, and this is probably the best time for her so far. Top hat and tails, she wants, so that’s what she’ll get. Nothing’s too good for her, so do as you’re told. We’ve hired them, and we’d better keep them clean. They have to go back on Monday, and the shop folk won’t be happy if we cover them in gravy and ale.’
Yuri laughed. ‘In Liverpool, you are bossy people. Always laughing, talking, sometimes weeping. Emotional is the word, yes, for people who feel things deeply?’
‘Yes, it is. We look after one another. So shut up and get the suit on.’
Dressed as gentlemen from an earlier century, they walked to the church of St Barnabas to await the bride. She would be given away by her two sons. As they entered the church, groom and best man were surprised to find it packed; there was standing room only. Penny Lane, with its many adjoining streets and roads, had come out for Vera. ‘They care,’ Harry whispered to his companion. ‘They’re happy for both of you.’
Vera entered with a son at each side of her. She wore a full length ice blue gown with a small birdcage veil covering her newly sprouted curls. A happier woman these days, she had gained a healthy covering of flesh and a sparkle in her eyes. With new teeth and prettier spectacles, she looked happy and relaxed as she approached her second husband to the strains of ‘Love Divine’. Her fiancé cut quite a figure in his tailcoat.
Yuri turned to gaze at her. She looked wonderful, as did her boys and Mrs Alice Quigley, Matron of Honour. Halfway up the narrow aisle, the bride stopped. ‘Right,’ she said, her voice as shrill as ever, ‘there’s not room for the three of us. You two back off a bit. Alice, come here and walk with me.’ The hymn seemed to have died out. ‘You can carry on now,’ Vera announced to the vicar. ‘I was just sorting my boys out. They were standing on me frock.’
A corporate giggle trickled through the church.
Alice smiled. This was how it would always be with Vera; she would invariably let the words roll from her tongue before allowing the world to continue rotating on its axis. Harry was staring, his eyes almost boring into Alice. She loved him, wanted to stand with him, but she was Dan’s wife. It was, so far, just a sin of thought, but it was enough to make her worry. Loving more than one man was weird.
She ignored Harry studiously. The shoes were killing her, but she soldiered on in her sapphire blue dress with its cummerbund that echoed the bride’s ice blue. Her bulge preceded her, and she had made no attempt to conceal it when designing her gown; she was pregnant and proud.
‘Will you stop bumping into me?’ These words, spoken loudly by the bride, were directed at her sons. The singing died again. Row by row, the congregation stood and applauded. This was Vera, their Vera. She had been there when some were born, had laid out their nearest and dearest, and had been halfway to a bloody death at the hands of Jimmy Corcoran. Vera must never change. She was Penny Lane; her foundations were deep, her eyes were everybody’s windows. This gossipmonger was probably capable of writing an account of the area, its history and its residents, all the way back to the early years of the twentieth century.
The bride dug her elbow into the ribs of her matron of honour. ‘Do one of your whistles, Alice. Go on. It’s better than this poor vicar having to sound off and make them all behave. Showing me up, they are.’
Alice complied, and delivered a noise shrill enough to shatter crystal.
The congregation, which might be better termed audience, shuffled, sat, and spoke in whispers to each other. A confused organist turned, assessed the situation, and started playing a bit of Bach, no singing required. The vicar peered over the top of rimless glasses. He hadn’t enjoyed himself so much since VE Day.
When he asked ‘Who gives this woman?’, Tony and Neil shoved her forward as if trying to get rid as quickly as possible, and chorused ‘We do’ rather forcibly. Alice swallowed a giggle; the bride needed no help to show herself up.
Yuri started to laugh, and the vicar joined him. Like a disease fiercer than the plague, glee passed through the gathered crowd until all were laughing noisily. The celebrant leaned forward and begged Alice to do another one of those whistles. When quiet was almost achieved, he announced, ‘This is more like a football match than a wedding, what with applause, laughter and a referee with a very good whistle. Shall we continue?’
In the front row on the groom’s side, Olga smacked her husband’s hand. ‘You did not laugh.’
‘I’ve got a headache.’
‘Is overhang,’ she whispered.
‘Hangover,’ he replied.
Olga rolled her eyes heavenward. Her husband had arrived home in the early hours and collapsed on the sofa, where he had remained until this morning. He had sworn on the Romanov Bible never to get so drunk again, and she was still struggling to believe him.
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