Ruth Hamilton
Midnight
on Lime Street
MACMILLAN
FOREWORD
The Invisible
No city sleeps.
New York, Bengal, London, Paris, Moscow, the shadows are there.
Not rodents, not insects, not ghosts of times past. People.
The forgotten, the criminal, the unloved, the embarrassing, the surplus.
Ralph McTell said it all about London.
I’m looking at Liverpool, my beloved home of choice.
And I’m searching for the invisible.
RUTH HAMILTON
Dedicated to Gill Currie, who has looked after me and my household for two decades.
In memory of Red Rum, the greatest ever steeplechaser.
I salute the owners, trainers, keepers and riders of this most wonderful horse – I met him on Southport sands.
CONTENTS
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Post Scriptum 1974
Soft Echoing Hooves
One
There were shoes everywhere: strappy sandals, peep-toes, flats for wearing with jeans, stiletto-heeled pairs, silver ones, gold ones, patent leather slingbacks, wellies for God alone knew when, scarlet skyscrapers, boots in suede and leather, plus one man-sized brogue in brown (no lace). The room resembled a colourful maze, or an obstacle course for small animals. Or was it more like a jumble sale after closing time?
Eve Mellor stood in the open doorway, a fat hand wrapped round the handle. Somewhere out there in the city of Liverpool walked a man with half a pair of shoes. Perhaps he had only one foot, though she couldn’t recall admitting a disabled man . . . no, that wasn’t true. Tom Duffield had just the one hand, since he’d lost the other while operating heavy machinery, but that was different and didn’t involve a brogue without a lace. Eve sighed heavily; this was going to be quite a fight. Her thoughts wandered unbidden back to Tom Duffield; he was clearly falling in love with Belle, another of Eve’s girls. Life was a continuous bag of complications.
Baby Schofield (real name Barbara or Babs) was out for the count and snoring like a drunken sailor. She specialized in acting the little girl, frilly knickers, a skirt so abbreviated that she needed to keep her neck clean, white blouse undone to her impressive cleavage, a carelessly knotted school tie, straw hat with a band round it, a prefect badge on her blazer. Dressed and ready, she looked cute, though fast asleep and with her mouth wide open she was somewhat less than attractive.
‘Baby?’ Eve called in a rough, growling voice born of too many cigarettes. ‘Babs, wake up. Where the hell did you get this lot?’ she asked, though she was beginning to suspect that she already knew the answer. It looked as if Donald Crawford had definitely lost the plot. He was aged, probably senile, and rather unpredictable these days. And he was creator of the gathering storm.
The woman in the bed moaned, swore, and turned over, holding her pillow close to her chest. ‘Bugger off,’ she repeated.
‘Wake up before I send for the ambulance.’ The owner of the farmhouse picked her way across hazardous terrain and pulled back heavy velvet curtains. ‘Opening a shoe shop, are you? Changing your name to Freeman Hardy and Willis, eh?’ She struggled to contain laughter; for some inexplicable reason, she was fond of the nuisance under the covers.
‘Aw, shurrup, Eve. I’m not in the mood. Donald’s retired and shut his shop up Lord Street, so he’s give me all the size fives what were left. Oh, and right as well as left – they’re all in pairs.’ With her eyes crinkled against the onslaught of daylight, she finally managed to sit up. ‘What do you want, anyway? I’m supposed to be resting.’
Eve snorted with suppressed humour. ‘So that’s what he had in the massive suitcase when I picked him up. And one man’s shoe?’
Baby yawned loudly. Last night’s makeup had not been removed and, in this state, she looked a great deal older than her thirty-one years. She wanted to scream, though she worried about not being able to stop screaming if she started. There was no life round here, no shops, no houses, little traffic. And she was sick unto death of playing the child for dirty old perverts – there had to be more to life than this.
‘If you don’t start cleansing with cold cream every night, you’ll end up with skin like a rhinoceros. What’s the matter with you?’ Eve’s tone was becoming caustic.
Barbara Schofield shrugged. ‘I can’t be Baby any more. Shouldn’t Sally do it? I’m fed up with being given lollipops and chalks and colouring books.’
‘You get paid,’ Eve snapped, ‘and the johns are used to you – they like you, especially the old ones.’
‘And you take nearly half of me money. Go away, I’m tired. I had to stand on a chair reciting me three times tables last night while Donald slapped me arse with one hand and helped himself with the other.’
Eve drew herself to full and not inconsiderable height. There were occasions when Babs had to be chastised, and this was one of them. ‘I’ve a mortgage to pay and a house to keep nice.’ She folded her arms. ‘Look at it this way – if he’s hitting your arse while you say your tables, he’s leaving some real kiddy alone. You’re providing a service that protects the community.’
Babs was almost awake and alert by this time. ‘I was tired. I needed my sleep. What the hell do you want? Is it dinner time? I never heard no bell.’
Eve bridled. She was a well-organized woman of substance who took no prisoners. Few people dared to get on the wrong side of her, mostly because she was built like a Sherman tank. And she was thorough. Everything was timed to a split second, and all coins and notes were accounted for at least twice at the end of each session. Like Scrooge, she left nothing to chance in the counting house that was her office.
Baby sighed; she knew what was coming. The Lecture.
‘Listen to me, Barbara Schofield. I look after my girls very well. There’s no pimp to beat you up, no chance of being caught out here in the back of beyond and, on twelve to fifteen quid a week with tips on top, you earn more than most bosses in big offices get paid. I do three pick-ups a night, I pay for petrol and take the men back to town when they’re all finished with business. You’re safe, fed and clothed. If you’re not suited, get your arse down Parliament Street and wake up a bit dead the next day.’
But Baby Babs was not for giving in easily. ‘Have you woke the other girls up as well?’
‘No.’
‘Then why me? Why rattle the bars of my playpen? What the hell have I done this time, eh?’
Eve relaxed her shoulders deliberately; she needed to present a less formidable front, as this was going to be a delicate business. ‘You want to get away from here for a while, yes? Live where there’s shops and cinemas and pubs, a bit of life.’ She sat down. ‘It’s Donald,’ she said, her tone softer. ‘He’s retired because he’s not up to the job.’
‘He’s not up to much,’ Baby replied smartly. ‘He’s bloody useless.’
‘Useless and rich, madam.’ The light dawned fully at last. ‘Did he bring this brogue last night when he gave you all the women’s size fives?’
The younger woman nodded.
‘He’s mixed up because he’s going senile, Babs; he’s rolled half his marbles down the drain, poor fellow. Don’s health’s in a hell of a state, and he’s got nobody to look after him. Months to go at best, that’s all he’s got. It
’s his heart. He wants you to move in and live with him, look after him, feed him and play Baby and Daddy with him.’
Babs blew a loud, damp raspberry. ‘In his dreams,’ she hissed.
‘Think about it.’ Eve’s tone had reclaimed its acidic edge.
Baby rubbed her eyes, spreading black mascara all over her face. ‘In Southport? Isn’t that where everybody goes to die? There’s nursing homes all over the place full of old folk. And loads of kids come in summer, too.’
‘He won’t see 1969, Babs. What’s six months at your age, eh? You’ll be in his will, babe. He might even leave you his house and everything. Think about all the clothes and jewellery he’ll let you buy. Think lap of luxury and all you could want—’
‘Oh, stop it. Lap of luxury? It’s his lap what I’ll be sat on while he . . . how shall I put it without bringing the tone of Meadowbank down? While he tries to rise to the challenge. I’ll get bored. I get bored easy, me.’
Eve rolled her eyes up to the heavens. It would take more than a verbal stumble from this little minx to bring the tone down. Meadowbank Farm was classy and discreet. ‘He’s got a horse,’ she said quietly.
It was Baby’s turn to fold her arms. ‘Has he? Just what I’ve always wanted, a bloody horse. Ooh, I’m that excited I could dance till Thursday without the seven veils.’
‘Well, it’s a special horse and he owns half of it.’
‘Which half?’
‘Does it matter?’
Babs grinned. ‘Better the eating end than the shitting end.’
Eve wagged a finger. ‘Thoroughbred hunter, sired by a wild Arab, no fear in him and tipped by some to win the National once he’s sorted. Think about it.’ She left the room, banging the door in her wake. She would miss Babs, but oh, she was a pain.
Babs rolled out of bed and sat in a wicker chair. It was painted pink, because this was Baby Girl’s room. The wallpaper was pink, as were eiderdown, curtains, carpet, lampshades and some items of furniture. ‘Thank God none of these shoes are pink. Pink is the sort of colour that could drive a girl to the edge of madness. I hate pink. I bloody hate bloody pink. I want purple. I’d like a purple dance frock with sequins. I wonder if he’ll buy me that emerald green suit in me catalogue? And to be fair, I suppose they do have some nice shops on Lord Street.’
She looked in the mirror. ‘I’m a rancid mess,’ she told her reflection.
Southport was rather sedate for Babs. It was Victorian, all canopied pavements along the main road, and little arcades running off it. Quaint was the word, she supposed. Liverpool was where she wanted to be, but perhaps she would have to travel the long way to Liverpool: turn right into Birkdale and follow the road home after Donald had given up the ghost. ‘Six months,’ she whispered. ‘Can I put up with him for six months?’
She sat for a few minutes and thought about Donald. He’d never married, because women were too old to suit his requirements. Teachers and mothers had stopped him hanging around in parks and playgrounds, so he now visited her, his pretend child, at Meadowbank Farm in the middle of nowhere, nearest shops in Knowsley, quite a stretch away. Don’s footwear outlet had possibly been closed down because he couldn’t be trusted to deal with the feet of little girls, and to top it all, it looked as if he’d a few slates missing off the roof. Who wanted to live with a crackpot?
Barbara Schofield sighed heavily. She had been picked up almost five years ago during one of Eve Mellor’s recruitment drives. Babs had been looking for business at the bottom of Lime Street when the van had pulled up. ‘Get in,’ had been Eve’s greeting, and she’d got in, because Eve was roughly the size of King Kong, and the weather had been bad, freezing rain turning to sleet and threatening to deliver snow.
So she’d been driven out to this godforsaken farm where she’d been given hot soup and bread, a bath, a bedroom and the promise of a safer, warmer life. Eve had examined her while she’d been naked, had forbidden her to diet in case her bosom sagged, had named her Baby, and here she was, going on five years later, still stinking of Johnson’s baby powder and with freckles painted on her nose. A doctor had poked and prodded at her nether regions before declaring her clean, and she’d been stuck ever since in a pink room while Eve Mellor paid the mortgage and the bills out of ‘her’ girls’ earnings.
What about the other men who wanted Baby Babs? Hadn’t Eve just said that they were used to her, that she couldn’t grow up and be a normal, common or garden working girl without freckles? ‘She’s bloody sold me,’ she hissed between gritted teeth. ‘She’s sold me to a limp old kipper with bad breath, false teeth and combed-over hair. Southport? Who wants to live there with Droopy Don and half a horse?’
She ran downstairs and into the enormous kitchen. This was where Eve’s girls lived when they weren’t on the job, but all the others were still where they belonged, upstairs in their beds. There were two large, custom-made sofas, two padded armchairs, a massive Welsh dresser, a huge table and, in the corner, a television set. Cooking and washing up went on at the other end of this thirty-odd foot room, and such activities were in the hands of Miss O’Gorman, who was now too old to be on the game.
Kate O’Gorman turned when the door slammed. ‘Hiya, Babs,’ she said. ‘You look like you fell off a midnight flitting; you’ve black streaks all over your face. Have you been with a coalman?’
Babs offered no reply.
‘Did you lose a shilling and find a penny, love?’
Babs continued to ignore her; Kate was from somewhere near Manchester, so she talked funny. There was no sign of Eve, and Eve was too big to hide behind anything less than a double-decker bus or the Mersey ferry.
Babs crept down the hall to the office and pinned her ear to the door.
‘Don, she’ll do it, I promise you. What? No, no, don’t cry; we can’t leave you ill on your own, and we won’t. Look, slip me another five hundred and I’ll pass it to her. I promise. I’m happy with the grand you gave me, but she needs an incentive, too, doesn’t she?’
Babs bit her lower lip; she mustn’t scream. The old bitch had sold her like some poor sod off a slave ship, or a sack of spuds. ‘No bugger owns me,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not for effing sale, Miss Eve Mellor.’
‘I’ll ring you back later, love. Eh? No, you won’t kill yourself, and of course I know she’s the love of your life. Yes, yes, I’m sure she knows that, too. Get yourself a double Scotch and put the pills away. I mean it, lad. Any more of that talk and I’ll send an ambulance up to your house. Yes, I mean that, too.’
Babs heard the ping when the receiver hit the cradle. She dashed back upstairs, reclaimed her breath and sat at the pink dressing table. When Eve returned, Baby’s face was smothered in Pond’s cream, which was just as well, since she was alight with temper and her cheeks were glowing.
Eve closed the bedroom door. ‘He’ll give you five hundred to show goodwill,’ she announced. ‘Five hundred in cash, girl. Now, what do you say to that? No, you’re not interested?’
Babs shrugged – at least the boss was being honest for a change. ‘Tell him I want the five hundred and half of his half of the horse.’ She turned and faced the boss. ‘How much did you sell me for? A grand? Two?’
‘That’s my business.’ Eve’s voice was dangerously soft.
‘It’s mine, too. Listen to me for a change. I don’t want to live in bloody Southport with Don unless he gives me a chance to win big on the National. Even then, I’ll probably die of boredom. Have you seen what he does to me, eh? Shall I show you my bum after he’s hit it with his flaming long-handled shoe horn? My top half’s covered in love bites because he gets mad when his personal equipment lets him down, which is nearly every blessed time. I have to use makeup on me body so the other guys won’t notice till it rubs off. If he does get anywhere, he nearly drops dead with the shock of it. There’s not much fun in this job, but just one dirty old man? At least there’s a bit of variety round here. And me mates, too.’
‘You’ll miss the girls, I know, but it
won’t be forever.’
‘Then there’s his foot thing, sucking at me toes like a piglet stuck to its mother. That’s why he had a shoe shop, because he loves feet. He’s weird.’
Eve closed her eyes for a moment or two. ‘I bet you he’ll be gone by Christmas, poor old Donald.’
‘How much?’
‘What?’
‘How much will you bet? Stick your money where your mouth is. I’ll put my five hundred in the kitty if you’ll match it. With a thousand, I could buy meself a nice little semi or me own flat, and not in stinking Southport, in Liverpool where there’s a bit of life.’ Babs stared hard at Eve. ‘Cat got your tongue, has it? Good, because it’ll make a nice big meal for the cat and it will shut you up.’
The boss of the establishment took a step towards this damned cheeky young madam. ‘I don’t gamble,’ she hissed.
Babs delivered a hollow laugh. ‘This place proves you do, Eve. I can have the farm raided quicker than you can say knife, so don’t threaten me, you fat bitch.’ She was surprising herself, because no one ever stood up to Eve. It was almost funny, since all three chins had fallen like collapsed layers in a badly baked sponge cake. ‘And shut your gob, there’s a Kirkby bus coming,’ was her final suggestion.
Eve faltered. She wasn’t a falterer, and she was beginning to realize that Babs had grabbed the upper hand. But yes, there was an answer. ‘So you want Belle, Cynthia, Angela, Mo and Judy in jail, do you? And young Sally, too? What about poor old Kate? Because she’d go down with the rest of the crew.’
Babs shrugged.
‘Are you evil enough to send the old woman you scarred to jail?’
‘Don’t forget yourself, Eve; you’re the queen of the rats, so you can help them all to jump ship, eh? Read my lips. I’ll lay five hundred quid that I can keep him alive till Christmas.’
Eve blinked stupidly. ‘Look, you’ll be minted when he goes, girl. A grand’s going to look like small change. He owns property as well as half of Mad Murdoch. That’s the horse.’
Midnight on Lime Street Page 1
