Attic Four, generally employed for storage, was now used by police. Plain clothes cops occupied it in shifts, so there was always a presence. Using a ladder, they took turns to look over the trees through a telescope in the hope of catching somebody up to no good. They had also built a garden shed near thick, evergreen bushes which, after small holes had been cut in foliage, gave officers the opportunity to spy through binoculars trained on the scout hut.
Some clever clogs professor from Liverpool University had installed an alarm under the wooden floor of the place in which those three runaway boys had lived, and a loud bell sounded in Attic Four whenever anyone stepped inside the hut. This might prove useful at night when, even with magnification, very little could be seen in darkness.
Eve was being compensated, but the girls weren’t working, and restlessness pervaded the farmhouse. Eve remembered feeling like that when she’d had no income due to her sudden weight gain. As for the money she was being paid – well, the police used most of it in food and cups of tea. Still, they were a decent enough lot, she supposed, and she was truly glad of the chance to rest. She wasn’t herself . . .
Kate came in with a mug and a plate of sandwiches. ‘Here you are, love.’
‘How are the troops?’ Eve asked wearily.
‘Well, they’re getting nearer to revolting. Angela’s leaving tomorrow, and Mo’s fed up. Judy’s talking about setting up her own reflexology clinic in a practice that offers alternative medicine and treatments. I think Cynthia misses the sex more than the money; I’ve always said she’s a nympho. What the hell next, Evie?’
The big woman shrugged. ‘I suppose we got that little shed near the bushes out of it.’
‘Yes, and it’s a few hundred yards from the house. I won’t be walking all the way there to fetch a stepladder or a bloody broom. Maybe we should get a guard dog and use the shed as a kennel.’ Kate studied Eve. ‘Look, Belle’s found you loads of girls—’
‘Yes, yes, I know.’
‘And Eddie said the police will be gone in a few days if nobody turns up. If somebody does turn up, the cops will go immediately.’
Eve stirred her coffee slowly. ‘I’ve left this place to you in my will, Kate.’
‘What?’ Kate dropped into a chair. ‘What’s wrong with you? Why are you talking about your will?’
Eve shrugged. ‘Everything’s wrong. Bad headaches, stomach pains, stupid knees, a bit of dizziness sometimes.’ She pulled herself together. ‘You’ll need to get a driver, somebody you can trust. Do a timetable like mine and take no nonsense from any of the girls.’
Kate clamped her hanging jaw into its proper position. ‘I’ll get the doctor.’
‘No, you won’t. I’m not dying in hospital.’
‘But they might fix you.’
Eve’s laughter was hollow. ‘I sat in that chip shop with Belle and Tom – they even made me laugh. They’re so happy. And he had to help me up out of the chair. I’ll never know how I drove home, but I must have, because I’m here. Look, I can’t have an anaesthetic. I’m too fat, I smoke, I eat too much of the wrong stuff, and there’s no fight left in me, Kate.’
Kate bit her lip. Eve had changed recently. There was little hope in her eyes, and she appeared to care less and less about the house. Occasionally, she even seemed close to tears. How could she, Kate O’Gorman, run this place without the solid presence of her only friend? Eve had attitude. She ran the business like the commander of some military base, no nonsense while on parade, no quarter given to those who fought each other or neglected clients. ‘I can’t do it without you,’ she whispered.
‘You need somebody like Belle,’ Eve said.
‘There isn’t anybody like Belle. Can you imagine Cynthia, Mo or Judy being any use? Anyway, the people in charge here need to be older and without clients. What will I do? Advertise in the papers?’ Panic rose like bile in her throat. ‘Don’t leave me, Eve.’
‘Me time’s running out, babe.’ Eve grabbed her friend’s hand. ‘I’m scared, too. Now, listen to me. When I go, get Belle. She’ll find somebody for you, because she’s very clever and she knows loads of people from way back. Make sure you meet a few, and choose somebody you like, a woman you won’t mind sharing a room with. And straighten your bloody face in case the wind changes.’
Kate fled, sobbing into her hands. With no Eve, there would be no Meadowbank Farm. She rushed through the kitchen; if the girls wanted feeding, they’d have to shape up and cook for themselves.
Mo was alone, reading in an armchair. ‘Kate?’ she called. ‘What’s the matter? Why are you running? Kate, for the love of God, stand still and talk to me.’
But Kate didn’t stop; she ran right through the large area and locked herself in the room where she and Eve had slept for years. It wasn’t a big room, and Eve’s stuff was everywhere. Her huge dressing gown hung from a hook on the door, and the top of the dressing table was covered in hair rollers and the scarves she wore over them.
An Agatha Christie novel sat on the shared bedside table; Eve loved Miss Marple and Monsieur Poirot. Next to the book stood a jar of the antiseptic cream Eve used under rolls of fat to stop the effects of sweating. The door to a shower room stood open; Eve could no longer fit in a bath. Twin beds were dressed differently: Kate’s was covered in blue, Eve’s wore a floral pattern on the top quilt. This was Eve’s room. No one else should have this room.
Kate sat on her friend’s bed. Eve dying? No, it wasn’t possible, because she hadn’t finished her book, she was listening to a serial on the BBC Home Service, now named Radio Four, and she’d started knitting a new winter cardigan. Eve was tired, yes, but she would pull round, surely? There was only one thing for it: Kate must find a way to fetch Dr Mannix, the one who looked after the health of all the girls. Eve might be annoyed, but better that than dead.
Mo was banging on the door and making quite a racket. Kate opened it.
‘What the hell’s up?’ Mo demanded to know.
It spilled from Kate’s lips like the torrent delivered every minute by the River Niagara. ‘She says she’s dying. I don’t know what to do, because she . . . she won’t listen to sense, says she wants leaving alone, no doctors. I don’t know what to do, don’t know where to turn, or—’
Mo blinked. ‘Who? Who’s dying?’
‘Eve. She says she wants to die here, not in hospital.’
‘Right. Right.’ Mo’s mind was running like an articulated lorry with no brakes. Any minute now, it would crash, jack-knife and never move again. She had to do something, since poor old Kate was fit for nothing. ‘Let me think,’ she begged, leading Kate back to the living end of the kitchen and sitting her down. ‘Don’t move,’ she ordered. ‘I’m going to find a doctor.’
‘Get Mannix.’
‘I will. And I’ll tell Eve it was my idea, not yours. So don’t be worrying, because I’ll keep your name out of it.’
Kate sighed deeply. ‘Don’t act soft, Mo. She’ll know I told you.’
‘Tough. If the shoe was on her foot, she’d get everybody including the coastguard to help you. I’m going.’ Mo left the room.
Against all the odds, Kate drifted into fitful sleep.
‘OK, Thompson,’ Mo said to herself. ‘How do you play this one?’
An idea hit her out of the blue. She smiled to herself. The blue? They were no longer the boys in blue, because they were detectives, but she would go upstairs with tea and chocolate biscuits, and one of them could fetch the doctor.
Before returning to the kitchen, she put an ear against the office door. Eve was moaning softly. Right. It was time to start the ball rolling.
Bill was given a room named the butler’s pantry. It was on the ground floor of Wordsworth House, and it held a single bed, a battered wardrobe and a chest of drawers. It had been used in the past by people engaged to do outside work like gardening, fence-mending and jobs in the stables.
When Bill woke on his first morning, a Mr Macey, who was sitting patiently on a ladder-backed ch
air beside the bed, introduced himself. ‘I thought someone should be here on your first morning, since you must feel out of place.’
‘I’m William Tyler,’ Bill replied, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. ‘People call me Bill.’
‘I know, Bill. I also know you’re eighteen, and no one can force you to stay here. The runaways are living in the gatehouse with a Mr Hourigan who trains horses, though he has just one at the present time. Murdoch can be harder work than a stable of twenty.’
‘Murdoch?’
‘Yes. First name is Mad, second Murdoch. He’s a law unto himself, but he has promise if we can but turn the naughtiness into something more useful like racing. Now, we’ve heard that your parents and your brothers have split up and gone to Belle Vale and St Helens. Your job won’t suffer, because I’ve had a word. And I can take you to a builder friend of mine who is happy to continue your training. You are now Bill Morris.’
‘Thanks,’ Bill said.
Lippy Macey rose to his feet. ‘There’s a small bathroom next door, and your breakfast will be on the table in the kitchen in about fifteen minutes. I’ll leave you to get on.’ He placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘It will all turn out well. Try not to worry, because the chances of you or your family’s being targeted are minimal.’
Alone, Bill wondered briefly about his parents and his brothers before going for a shower. The man had said it would be all right, and the man’s photo was always in the newspapers, though Bill had never bothered to read the details. He showered, shaved, cleaned his teeth and pulled on his next-to-best jeans with a Liverpool Football Club T-shirt. After combing his hair, he followed the sound of chatter till he reached the kitchen.
The three lads were there; he’d seen them only once before, but at least they remembered him. ‘Sorry about the drugs,’ he mumbled.
Ian laughed. ‘What drugs?’
‘I know,’ Bill replied, ‘mum’s the word.’
Ian continued, ‘Oh, these two ladies looked after us when we were in the hut. This is Sally.’ He blushed. ‘And this is Babs. They look after Mr Crawford now. This is his house, and he’s having his breakfast in bed. Sit down.’
Bill sat. ‘Where’s Mr Macey?’ he asked. ‘He talked to me before.’
Phil answered. ‘He’s at the cottage near the main gate, talking to Gordy Hourigan. We stay with Gordy, but eat here most of the time. John has a bit of a stammer, but it’ll stop troubling him when he knows you better. Ouch! No need to kick me under the table, John Lucas.’
John grinned at Bill. ‘I r-remember you. You were with B-Boss and his gang.’
‘Yes. They killed Roy. I suppose that’s why we’re all under wotsit – protection.’
Ian shook his head. ‘No. We’re here because of the monks; Boss and his load of trouble is a new reason, and another problem since he escaped from jail. Has he threatened you?’
The new arrival nodded. ‘And my family. They’ve moved out.’
‘They’ll get him,’ Babs pronounced. ‘From what I’ve heard, he’s too big to stay hidden for long. The best place to put him would be six feet under, but he’s clever, isn’t he? Anyway, eat your breakfast, Bill. Mr Macey’s taking you to a place where you can carry on learning about building.’
Bill tucked into his food. As well as bacon and eggs, he had black pudding, a sausage, beans, mushrooms and hash browns. This was great. He missed home, yet he felt as if he had another family here, in Southport. Things would turn out well, especially with food as good as this.
Daisy and Barry Bramwell, proprietors of Bramwells’ Chippy, were delighted with Laura Carson. She was blooming like apple blossom in springtime, even though this was autumn. As the days and weeks passed, she gained a pretty layer of flesh that was ably supported by well-defined cheekbones, her hair grew and hung in shiny locks, and it was clear that she was almost celebrating her new self.
She did five lunchtimes, Monday to Friday, but there was now a new arrangement. As Friday and Saturday tended to be the shop’s busiest nights, Lucy and Matt stayed here, in the flat above the shop. Lucy shared young Diane’s room, while Matt slept in Kevin’s, and all four children were delighted. Laura’s wages increased, but there was yet another reason for the twinkle in her eyes.
The reason had a name – Andrew Martindale. Mr Martindale came to the shop every Saturday night after an evening at his bridge club. He ordered cod in breadcrumbs rather than batter, a small portion of chips and a cardboard cup of butter beans. This was his weekly treat for two reasons. First, he tried to eat healthily for the most part, and second, he feasted his eyes on Laura, whose improvement continued to be more noticeable now that her husband was out of the house.
Whenever he turned up just before closing time, both Bramwells were suddenly busy clearing up, scooping up utensils or dashing through to the back with enamel buckets that had contained raw chipped potatoes earlier in the evening. In short, they left Laura to get on with it – whatever ‘it’ was.
Mr Martindale’s greeting was always polite. ‘Good late evening, Mrs Carson. You know my order.’
‘By heart, Mr Martindale.’
He watched her every move, and she knew his eyes were on her. It was almost like two minutes of courtship once a week.
‘No sign of the husband?’ he asked occasionally.
She answered either in the verbal negative or with a shake of her head.
‘He’s a fool.’ Sometimes ‘idiot’ or ‘lunatic’ took the place of the word fool.
After not much more than a minute or two, he would be gone.
Daisy knew all about him, of course. He was owner of several small, select jewellery shops, and he chose, cut, polished, prepared and set gems. A widower, he lived alone except for his dogs, which he treated like children. ‘He likes you, Laura,’ Daisy would say.
‘I like him. I’m married, though.’
‘Get rid.’
‘Daisy! I’m a Catholic just like you.’
‘Yep. It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’
Both women usually finished up in pleats of laughter for which they could find no valid reason, after which piece of utter craziness Laura returned to her empty house. Without the children asleep upstairs, she felt truly isolated. Never a great reader, she usually found something to do, sewing, knitting, a bit of music on the radio, ironing, or darning Matt’s socks, which often owned more holes than a colander. On Sunday mornings, she picked up her children, took them to Mass, and normal life was resumed.
Things went out of kilter one Saturday night when Andrew Martindale’s car refused to start. ‘My late supper will be much later,’ he complained to Laura when she left the shop. ‘It’s going to be cold and dead beyond retrieval – a truly late and dear departed supper.’
So she took him home. Home was just a couple of hundred yards away, and Laura knew he would do her no harm, even when, after eating his supper, he confessed to having deliberately removed a rotor something-or-other from his engine.
And so began the pattern. He was often the last customer, and he invariably took her home in his car. He always ate his supper in her house, always drank the cocoa she made for both of them, was polite, kind and interesting. When leaving, he would kiss her on both cheeks, thank her for everything, get into his car and drive off with a cheery wave.
Laura was confused by the situation. She couldn’t tell Andy (as he now chose to be called) to stay away, because she was too polite to do that. Attracted to the older man, she longed for more than a goodnight peck on the cheek, and she didn’t understand herself, since ‘that side’ of marriage had never appealed to her. And what if Neil found out? She never forgot to close the curtains. Even Neil couldn’t see through those. He still hadn’t spent time with his children, so he was probably avoiding the area. Anyway, she was doing nothing wrong, was she?
Yet she had to confess her sins of thought to Father Doherty, whose views proved broader than she had allowed herself to expect. ‘You’re lonely, my dear,’ he would say, �
�and you have committed no sin. Sometimes, the mind wanders into greener grass, and we can’t keep it on a lead, can we? Just do your best. You’re a godly woman, and He is on your side. So stop confessing sins you haven’t yet committed, woman.’
So she carried on doing her best, though it was no easy feat. Doing her best meant not reaching across the table to touch his hand, denying herself the relief she might have felt had she opened up to him about her defunct marriage. Doing her best meant hoping he hadn’t felt the tremor in her traitorous body when he kissed her goodnight on her cheeks. Perhaps she should not work on Fridays and Saturdays, but the money was excellent, and the children looked forward to staying with the Bramwell twins.
But she finally opened up to Daisy Bramwell. ‘I think I could love him,’ she whispered one Friday lunchtime as they prepared to start frying. ‘He’s kind and patient and funny.’
‘Don’t forget rich,’ Daisy giggled.
‘Stop it, please. It’s not about money or a nice detached house or a big, shiny car. It’s about Matt and Lucy and my immortal soul.’
‘Go on. I won’t laugh again,’ Daisy promised as she coated fish with the batter mix. ‘Leave the chips a minute while I fill the aquarium. Mind, it’s more like a crematorium, I suppose. Perhaps I should call it the cremaquarium? Sorry, sorry – go on, love.’
‘I want to be with him. I’ve never felt like this before.’
‘Oh, grab him with both hands, girl. What good will morals be when you’re sitting at one side of the fireplace staring at the other chair, the empty one? Your kids won’t stay. They’ll be up, off and married in their twenties, and you’ll be there with nobody to keep your bed warm or shift the snow or bring you a cuppa in the morning.’
Midnight on Lime Street Page 24
