‘I used to watch for hours while you played football down Nelson Street, Malc, bouncing the ball from wall to wall while the women cursed you and the men joined in on their way past.’
‘Well, this isn’t Nelson Street, Ellie, is it?’
‘No, it’s not, but the children are still children.’
He turns towards her, distracted. ‘So you think this is acceptable, then? You think I should just go and bloody leave them to carry on and break some more glass?’
She does not want to see him made a fool of. He is no longer quick enough to dominate the game, he will not catch the ball and somebody has to stop him. It’s funny, because she feels some old resentment welling up from somewhere… she is the mother again, responsible, and Malc, in spite of everything that has happened, in spite of all the growing he has done, is still the child in need of protection. This feeling reduces her. It pushes her back into pastel clothes. It shrinks her to the smallness of a woman with a washing basket bending over with pegs in her mouth. It sends her scurrying to cookery classes to pamper the man, to placate him, to satisfy the little-boy moods.
She feels herself holding her breath again in that same gasp, waiting to see what will happen to somebody else, just as if she’s a springboard with no feelings of her own on which he is going to bounce down. Diminishing her.
‘I’m going, Malc,’ she says, making for her car. She doesn’t look round to see what has happened, she doesn’t want to know any more! Hell, it is no longer her problem. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she flings over her shoulder, ‘and let’s hope the weather stays fine.’
There is no reply, just the sounds of scuffles and snorts and bouncing balls and one, high-pitched, little-boy laugh, with fear in it, and triumph, too.
Ellie expands again as she drives to her new house and begins to supervise the unloading of the wallpapers. ‘Mornin’ Mrs Freeman. You’re late today.’ She places each boxful in the appropriate room, sighing over every roll as she unpacks it gently. The walls are pale and smooth, waiting for covering. The skirting boards and the woodwork are undercoated already and there is a pleasing smell of fresh wood and turpentine, a relaxing sense of space and unclutter in every room.
Ellie absorbs the silence.
Pete Sparrow’s footsteps are hollow, his fag is attached to his lip. ‘We’re nearly there now, Mrs Freeman. Just another month and you’ll be in, lock stock and barrel, right on schedule.’
Ellie nods to Pete Sparrow and smiles. ‘You’ve done a good job, Pete, and I’m grateful.’
‘You and me both, Mrs Freeman. We did it together—remember?’
Waiting. The house is waiting.
32
ELLIE WAKES UP TO find an April morning at war with itself. It could rain, it could blow, it could even hail beneath that suggestion of sunshine. For Gabriella, this morning, the decisions she is going to have to make must be daunting.
Ellie smiles up at her multi-cobwebbed bedroom ceiling.
In order to savour this day of triumph Ellie is going to dress with care. She picks her way across piles of old magazines, empty boxes of chocolates, brochures and face-mask packaging on her journey from bed to wardrobe. Bright, she thinks to herself, bright to the point of dazzling, and sod the weather. She doesn’t often feel the cold now, not like she used to, for the layers of fat keep it at bay: she carries her own warmth inside her. She’s never worn this one yet—the skirt and jacket go together and are of the same material, a kind of harsh gabardine with a sheen. The suit is safari-style with epaulettes, and coloured the most violent purple. The shirt she’s going to wear is the crisp cotton red one. She gets it out of the drawer and sniffs it. Lovely. It is just back from the laundry.
She never bothers about her shoes. Strangely, she never gives a thought to those and most of the time she trails around in the same old knee-length boots because they are comfortable.
She’s going to look quite artistic, she thinks, as she admires herself in the mirror—quite one of the gang. These bungalow rooms are almost too small to accommodate her now… she needs to stride out and stretch, she needs to move quickly, and this house is designed for a small neat woman, with small neat ways, who goes slowly. Not Ellie.
She prepares breakfast—cereal and a fry up, followed by toast and marmalade. Breakfast is her favourite meal now she can linger over it and enjoy it, now it’s not over and done with in a hurry. She loves the sense of non-panic these new mornings induce in her. She is not up and moving around in a desperate rush on behalf of somebody else… that sense of panic used to grip her and last, sometimes, throughout the whole of the day. Start as you mean to go on, thinks Ellie, spreading the butter and enjoying the sensation of the soft, yellow uncurling of it… steadily and with purpose. And she covers her two eggs with a slurping layer of tomato sauce.
When she finally arrives at the Royal Albert Art Gallery the roads are already crowded and glossy-caped policemen are directing the traffic into nearby car parks. Coaches sit there waiting, filled with the restlessness of schoolchildren and recorders, some dressed in peasant costumes with handfuls of bells and posies.
Are they going to need their macs or aren’t they, and where are the public lavatories? These questions haunt the teachers’ faces.
There is bunting strung from building to building, darkening the thin streets, and banners which say, LIVERPOOL’S DAY FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE ARTS. Someone thrusts a programme through the Metro window and Ellie almost tips up her bag in her effort to pass over one pound.
A uniformed band tunes up under an awning on the patio beside the water, and rows of spindly-looking green chairs are lined up before it, but no one is sitting down yet as the weather is far too uncertain. Two containers to be used for props are hidden away round one corner, and they look stark and out of place, as if someone has forgotten to clear them away. There are booths selling prints, pottery, jewellery, embroidered linens and wooden, home-made toys. Behind each booth are craftsmen demonstrating their skills. There are no hot dogs or fish and chips for sale here, only baked potatoes, wholefood pizzas, pastas, and rolls sprinkled with sesame seeds.
The Skinners’ dog looks suspiciously round as it cocks its tatty leg over the wheel of the baked potato cart.
Ellie gives in her ticket and passes through the VIP barrier into the gallery foyer. It is quieter in here, and sherry is going round on a tray. There are little dips along the counter where the postcards and tea towels usually sit. Malc edges his way through the whispering crowd towards her.
‘How’s it all going?’ asks Ellie, chewing a celery stalk.
‘Fingers crossed,’ says Malc, as though he is up to no good. ‘No disasters yet, but then it’s only just begun.’
‘How’s Gabriella?’
‘Very calm. She’s used to handling this sort of thing.’
‘Aren’t the public going to be allowed into the gallery? Have they got to stay outside?’
‘Oh, no. Once this reception’s over the barriers will be removed and then they can file round if they want to, but most of the real entertainment is going to happen outside.’ Malc looks out dubiously. ‘There are lots of covered spaces in case it rains. Nobody needs to get wet.’
‘Gabriella’s contractors did a marvellous job. There’s no sign of litter or graffiti, no broken windows as far as I could see, no half-built go carts and no broken bottles. No old prams, either. It all looks remarkably well organised.’
‘Well, as I said, Gabby’s used to this sort of thing.’ And Malc looks pleased.
‘No press, either?’ Ellie sniffs one of the dips to see if there is garlic in it or not.
‘Only those expressly invited here for the right reasons. Gabby was very careful when she sent the badges out and she wrote a special letter to all the editors.’
‘Very sensible—she seems to have thought of everything. Even the flowerbeds have been replanted, I noticed.’
‘Well, we know that won’t last long. They’ll soon be got at again, no doubt
.’
But it doesn’t look as if anything will be got at today; it looks as if Gabriella’s quite safe. Men with walkie-talkies lurk on corners, sneaky-eyed and watching for trouble. The St John ambulance is parked down a side street. Two men with guard dogs patrol the old dockside and there are barriers up to stop people falling over into the water. The fountains on the patio outside the gallery play freely and happily, the water around them fresh and clear; someone has scooped out the old bus tickets and dog-ends, and all the statues have been freed from encumbrances such as toilet rolls and parking cones.
‘Drink up,’ says Malc. ‘When the mayoress arrives there’ll be speeches and then all this’ll be cleared away. Hang on, I’ll get you another.’ Neither Malc nor Ellie have been able to break free from the habit of grabbing anything that’s on the house.
‘Ah, Ellie! You came then!’
‘Of course I came. Did you think I might not?’
Gabriella smiles. ‘No, but then one never knows. You are looking extraordinarily wonderful!’
Ellie glances around her, brushing her chin free of vol-au-vent crumbs. ‘Do you know all these people?’
‘Most of them.’
‘They must think very highly of you… all that you’ve done since you came here. And you must feel very satisfied.’
Gabriella smiles again. She looks very sophisticated today in a way that Ellie could never achieve and, strangely, although she admires it, she no longer wants it for herself. Gabriella is wearing a black silk dress which would be severe if it wasn’t for the blazing jewelled belt and the array of silver chains and necklaces. Her fawn hair is full of lights. ‘It is my job. It is what I was trained for.’
‘If there is anything you want me to do don’t hesitate to say.’
‘Thank you, Ellie.’
And then Gabriella has gone, drifting off cloudily into the crowd, and Ellie catches occasional sights of her, gesturing here and chatting there, all done with admirable grace and elegance. Ellie takes her flopping cardboard plate back to the counter and fills it with Twiglets and Niblets before they come to take them away.
It is a little bit over the top for outriders to precede the mayoral car, but presumably a way must be cleared through the crowd. Somebody blows a trumpet and everyone falls quiet to see where the sound has come from. The double doors to the gallery are opened wide and propped back, and outside, the crowd pushes towards the barriers. A red carpet has been laid out and a large space cleared in front of the building, with chairs lined up and loudspeakers ready for the speeches.
Ellie has a perfect view.
It makes an attractive setting, with the fountain playing like that and the intriguing structure of the gallery rising behind, woodily oriental like a Chinese pagoda with many roofs. The lady mayoress struggles from her car, clutching her hat and smiling bravely like the Queen Mother. Her eyes follow the carpet up the steps to the paved platform area. The wind blows her skirts, but not enough to cause undue concern. A barge hoots eerily from the river and the crowd gives an uncertain little series of claps.
‘Well, it looks as if we’re going to be lucky,’ starts the lady mayoress, staring hopefully at the sky and testing the microphone. She is having trouble removing her gloves, and her handbag is thrown, like her chain, over her right shoulder. ‘It would make a change, wouldn’t it,’ she says to the crowd in a friendly way.
And then she is introduced, rather needlessly, and her speech begins. Gabriella sits on one of the chairs beside her, and several other important-looking people wearing badges, whom Ellie has never seen before, sit on the others. Ellie, still indoors, is thrust against the windows, but it’s warm in here so she’s all right, and every now and then somebody smiles at her as if they might know her and she smiles back.
Gradually her eyes, along with a thousand others, are drawn by a movement towards the fountain. They watch the Skinners’ dog sniff round the base of it, and then take his grizzled head over the top; he seems to wait for a while, assessing the likely depths of the water, but you can tell that the Skinners’ dog has been here before.
‘And so we all began to think about the purpose of our national treasures,’ the lady mayoress is saying.
The Skinners’ dog moves forward, his two front legs on the low brick circular wall of the fountain. Perhaps he’s going to have a drink. His tail is low between his legs.
‘… and to whom they really belonged, whose real right it was to possess them…’
He is paddling in the water now and all eyes are on him. His bony ribcage drips, and the underside of his pronounced grey snout goes beard-like with water. His eyes appear to be leering, swivelling round redly in his narrow head. He is not a dog that anyone—even the strangest child—would automatically want to pat. Perhaps he is going to have a swim.
‘… and then, of course, it was a question of where to find the money. Here the businessmen of Liverpool came into their own, and we must never forget the great debt of gratitude we owe to well-known names such as…’
The dog is clambering up the slippery sides of the plinth on which rests the black marble porpoise. His sinewy wet limbs must be surprisingly strong because it is quite a steep slope, and small; surely it is hard to maintain a grip with such wet, leathery paws. His mottled grey balls hang low, emphasised horribly by the wetness of his undercarriage, and appallingly scrawny, like a pair of misformed Spanish castanets.
‘What’s that long red thing, like a carrot, sticking…’
The child is quickly hushed but there are a few nervous titters.
‘And so this is the first real occasion on which we have all been able to come together in order to really enjoy this magnificent collection for which we have to thank…’
The dog is humping the porpoise. His grey arms cling to the smooth-seagoing shape of it, his back legs tremble under his terrible efforts and there is something distressingly human in the way he batters the front of himself manfully against the chill, black back of the rigid creature beneath him. The porpoise continues to spurt water from its mouth, an uninterrupted flow of clear, cool, almost jellified water, while it is jabbed at ruthlessly from behind.
‘Ey-up.’
The crowd collapses with laughter. It would be silly for the lady mayoress to attempt to continue. She backs away from the microphone with a resigned smile. ‘Let the show go on!’ she shouts shrilly, like a good sport, over her shoulder as she is ushered indoors for a glass of sherry.
The wave-tops turn green, they are blustery and threatening. Little girls jingle their bells and dance between bursts of rain, white teeth chattering. One set of steps has been converted into a stage and people stand watching beneath umbrellas, but the actors have to shout to be heard and this creates some difficulties. Someone has to stand at the gallery door to prevent people carrying food from entering. A Punch and Judy show attracts a large crowd, as does the old fishing smack in the marina on which a white-jacketed pianist is playing a white grand piano.
It is all looking good.
‘Bugger you, you bastards, coming round here as if you’ve no homes of your own to go to.’ The squeak of Dwarfy’s returning barrow can hardly be detected above the noise and, huge though he is, his burly figure can hardly be seen down there among the people. It is as if he has not been informed about what’s going on. He looks about him blearily, wondering if he has returned to the right place, or if his new home has been taken over while he’s been gone.
He puts down his barrow and wanders across to the source of the loudest noise. The bandstand is still fairly deserted; the chairs tremble in the gusts of wind as there is no one to hold them down except a few old couples, resting. Dwarfy picks up the first chair and throws it. It lands in the water.
‘Hey!’ The bandleader turns around and pauses, red-faced, in his conducting. ‘Hey, you, stop that! That’s vandalism that is!’
‘Don’t you come here accusing me of vandalism,’ Dwarfy mutters, moving to the second chair, his mettle up now. ‘Coming
here uninvited… making this bloody row.’ And Dwarfy flings a second chair, and a third, staring belligerently at the chubby bandleader as he does so.
One of the eagle-eyed guards moves in, whispering to his walkie-talkie. ‘Now listen…’ He tries to reason with Dwarfy but Dwarfy is not putting up with that. He picks up a fourth chair and he flings it. The guard tries to restrain him, looking over his shoulder nervously for support.
‘Move away from here, there’s going to be trouble.’ The bandleader ushers the old people from the few chairs they occupy. They leave the scene muttering angrily and join the edge of the gathering crowd. Two guards stand and watch Dwarfy now, deep in discussion, their hands on their hips. Dwarfy keeps his eye closely on them while he continues flinging the chairs. He has a rhythm going, and when one of the guards approaches from the front and another from behind Dwarfy roars, opening his terrible mouth wide like a yawning hippopotamus—great strands of saliva seem to hold it together. He attacks them by whirling round—the chair is his weapon, he has it by its two back legs: ‘And if you come any nearer to me you’ll end up in the water, you can bet your life you will.’
‘It’s a shame,’ calls a troublemaker from the crowd.
‘Leave the poor old guy alone, you’re making him worse,’ cries a do-gooder. ‘Can’t you see he’s barmy?’
‘But he’s throwing the chairs into the water!’ One of the guards protests, tries to explain.
‘He wouldn’t have done if you hadn’t got his back up.’
They try and argue but it is no use—the crowd has already taken sides and Dwarfy senses this and carries on like a programmed automaton, wild-eyed, mad-haired, disposing of as many chairs as he can while he has the chance. Getting chairs into the water is now the most important thing in Dwarfy’s life and he goes about it singlemindedly. They don’t sink, but bob around on top of the waves with their legs in the air. A group of women lean dangerously over the edge, down the steps beside the water, trying to prod them nearer with sticks, to grab them to take home.
Rich Deceiver Page 29
