Laceys of Liverpool (14 page)

‘What?’

‘A hundred pounds a year for seven years. I’ll bring the papers round meself in the new year.’

She gasped with delight. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Flynn. It’s much appreciated. When you come, I’ll make you a nice cup of tea.’

Outside, Alice undid the belt that was killing her and let out a long, slow breath. She’d done it! He’d halved the cost of the lease. She felt quite shameless, recalling the way she’d rolled her eyes, fluttered her lashes, even showed a bit of leg. She fished in her bag for a hankie and rubbed her wet cheeks. The tears, though, had been real.

The door of the salon opened and a man’s voice with a cut-glass accent said cheerfully, ‘Hello, there!’

Men rarely set foot inside Lacey’s. Occasionally one might come to make an appointment for his wife, usually scarpering pretty sharpish at the sight of so many strange-looking women, like characters out of a Buck Rogers science fiction picture.

‘Good morning.’ Alice went over to the appointment book.

‘Are you Mrs Lacey?’

‘I am.’ She thought it wasn’t fair that a man should have such lovely hair. It appeared to have been spun from pure gold and was in bountiful curls all over his head. He had warm brown eyes, a perfectly straight nose and pink lips that could only be described as pretty. He wore corduroy trousers and a thick hand-knitted jumper. A colourful striped scarf was thrown carelessly round his neck. He looked about twenty-five. Fionnuala was staring at him, mouth hanging open, as if any minute she’d start to drool. ‘What can I do for you?’ Alice asked.

‘I’m Neil Greene. By tonight I hope to be living in your upstairs flat.’

‘Neil!’ Alice exclaimed, flustered. ‘I thought your name was Nell. I was expecting a woman.’

‘I’m so sorry, it’s my frightful writing. I’m afraid you’ve got a man. I hope you don’t mind. My car’s
outside, loaded to the gills with all my stuff. Is it all right to start bringing it in?’ He beamed at the assembled customers who were regarding him, wide-eyed. ‘How do you do, ladies?’

Embarrassed, the three women under the dryers patted the thick net-covered curlers as if trying to make them disappear. Mrs Slattery, in front of the sink with her head covered in blue paste, was trying to slide down the chair out of sight.

‘Of course you can bring it in.’ Alice nodded, still dazed.

Fionnuala darted forward. ‘Would you like a hand?’

‘How terribly kind.’ He smiled angelically as he unwound the scarf to reveal a slender white neck. ‘But only if you can be spared.’

‘I can, can’t I, Mam?’ Fionnuala pleaded.

‘Yes, luv, but not for long.’

‘Well, isn’t he a regular Prince Charming!’ one woman remarked when the door closed.

‘He looks like a right pansy to me,’ said another, Mrs Nutting, whom Alice had never much liked.

‘I wish my hair were that colour.’ Mrs Slattery sighed. ‘And doesn’t he talk nice? Dead posh.’

‘More like he’s got a plum in his gob,’ sneered Mrs Nutting.

‘I thought he’d be a woman,’ Alice gasped.

‘I reckon he almost is.’

‘What’s he here for, Alice?’

‘He’ll be teaching at St James’s, the infants.’

Fionnuala returned, carrying a box of gramophone records, Neil Greene behind with two large suitcases. ‘Don’t worry, I haven’t brought the kitchen sink,’ he sang.

‘Can we have a gramophone, Mam?’

‘Perhaps, one day.’

‘Isn’t it time this tint was washed off, Alice?’ Mrs Slattery said.

‘Oh, yes. Sorry, luv. I’m a bit taken aback, if you must know. It looked just like Nell on the letter.’

‘I wonder if he’s related to that film star, Richard Greene? He’s dead handsome too, though he’s dark, not fair. Have you ever seen him, Alice?’

‘No. Me and John didn’t get to the pictures much when the kids were little. Nowadays we both seem to be working all the hours God sends.’ She had to pretend things were normal, that they would have gone to the pictures had they had the time.

‘I suppose one day soon you’ll decide Amber Street’s not good enough and you’ll be off somewhere more select. You could easily afford it with all the money that must be rolling in.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs Nutting,’ Alice said stiffly. ‘Amber Street is quite select enough, thank you. It’s where I live and it’s where I’ll die. We’re having the wash-house turned into a bathroom, so we won’t have to go outside to the lavvy no more. That’s enough for me.’

‘Oh, well, it’s nice to know the money for me shampoo and set is contributing towards an indoor lavvy for the Laceys. I’ll sleep better tonight, knowing that.’

Alice was amazed that the horrible woman managed to sleep at all and that her nasty mind didn’t keep her wide awake all night long. She kept the thought to herself, sometimes difficult with customers who were particularly unpleasant.

‘He’s so
handsome
,’ Fionnuala said dreamily over tea. ‘A bit like the Angel Gabriel. There’s not a single film star who comes near him. And you’ll never guess what he
did when I finished helping him move in. He only
kissed me hand
!’

‘Honest!’ Maeve looked impressed, but Orla, at whom the words were directed, seemed miles away.

‘He’s got a gramophone,’ Fionnuala continued, willing her sister to listen, ‘loads of records and hundreds of books.’

It was Cormac’s turn to look impressed. ‘What about?’

‘Oh, all sorts of things. Too many to remember. He said I can borrow them, though, whenever I like.’

‘Would he let me borrow some too?’

‘I’ll ask him if you like.’ Fion gave a superior smile. ‘We’re already friends. Aren’t we, Mam?’

‘Well, yes, luv. I suppose you are.’ The new upstairs tenant seemed determined to be friends with everyone.

‘He asked if he could call me “Fion” and I said yes, and when I called him Mr Greene he said to call him Neil, even though he’s a teacher.’

Orla came to life. ‘I should think so too,’ she said indignantly. ‘He’s not
your
teacher, so you’re equal. Why should he expect to be called mister by someone your age? You’re not a child.’

‘I call Mr Flynn Mr Flynn,’ Fionnuala said lamely.

‘Yes, but Mr Flynn’s
old
. How old is this Neil?’

‘Twenty-seven, he told me.’

‘
There
then,’ Orla said, as if this proved her point. ‘And I don’t like the name Neil.’

Fionnuala went red. ‘Well, I don’t like Micky.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Girls!’ Alice said tiredly. ‘Please can we have our tea in peace?’

‘Then tell our Orla to leave me alone,’ Fionnuala said sulkily.

‘Orla, stop being so sarcastic with your sister.’

‘Was I being sarcastic?’ Orla looked around the table with pretend innocence, but no one answered.

Once the meal was over and the table cleared, Cormac started on his homework. He seemed able to concentrate no matter how loud the noise around him. Fion washed the dishes and Maeve dried them. Alice started to make pastry for a mincemeat and onion pie for tomorrow.

Micky Lavin called for Orla. They were going for a walk, which Alice considered a mad thing to do in the depths of an icy winter, but then she and John had done the same sort of silly things when they were courting. Young people in love wanted only to be with each other. The weather, no matter how awful, didn’t matter.

Alice rolled out the pastry and hoped things weren’t serious between Orla and Micky. He was a nice lad, considering his background: the middle child of a family of nine, whose dad was hardly ever in work and whose mam could only be described as a slattern – never seen without a pinny, even at the shops. The eldest lad was currently in jail for thieving. Coming from such a family, Micky had done well for himself, somehow managing to become an apprentice welder.

Even so, Alice wanted someone better for her daughter – for all her daughters, come to that. She wondered if it was possible something might develop between Fion and Neil Greene, but thought it most unlikely. Once his presence became known, every young single woman in Bootle would be setting her cap at him, as well as some of the married ones.

She put the pastry in the meat safe to keep cool. Fion appeared in a tweed coat and a headscarf, and announced she was going to confession.

‘You only went on Friday. What awful sins have you committed that you need to confess again so soon?’

‘None, Mam. I just feel like going to church.’

‘Don’t stay out too long, luv. It’s awful cold outside.’ It seemed pathetic that all a girl of Fion’s age had to do was go to church.

Maeve, who was on early shift at the hospital and had to be up at the crack of dawn, went to bed early with a book. Alice offered to bring her up a cup of cocoa shortly. Cormac finished his homework and also went to bed, in his case armed with an encyclopaedia.

At last Alice was left alone. She turned on the wireless – there was a play on soon. There’d be no sign of John till all hours. She was usually in bed by the time he came home. That horrible Mrs Nutting had been talking through her hat, going on about all the money rolling in. After allowing for the overheads, Alice took little more than she’d have done in a factory and John made a surprisingly small amount considering all the hours he put in. Still, he was generous with what he did get, witness the planned new bathroom.

Sometimes Alice felt guilty, sitting in a nice warm house with her feet up, listening to the wireless or reading, knowing John was hard at work in the yard. If only he’d got a place somewhere closer she’d have popped round evenings with a flask of tea and a nice warm pie. As it was, she hardly saw him. Her face grew sad. Their marriage had become a travesty, a joke. They treated each other with friendly politeness.

The play started and she turned up the sound. She’d sooner not think about John and the way things were now.

‘I love you, Orla,’ Micky whispered. ‘When I’m at work, all I think about is you. I can’t get you out me mind. It’s driving me up the wall.’

And I love you, Orla wanted to say. I feel exactly the
same. I can’t wait for you to kiss me. I think about you all the time.

However, Orla said none of these things. She didn’t want him to know she found him so disturbing. Instead, she said, ‘I don’t like it in this entry, Micky. It’s dark and dirty, and smells of wee-wee.’

‘Where else can we go?’ Micky said helplessly.

‘Why can’t we just walk?’

‘I’m tired of walking. I’m desperate to kiss you. Would your mam let us use the parlour, do you think?’

‘What for?’ Orla asked tartly.

‘You know what for.’

‘I feel uncomfortable in our parlour, knowing me mam’s just on the other side of the wall.’

‘We could do harmless things like kiss.’

‘I hope you’re not suggesting we could do less harmless things elsewhere?’

Unexpectedly, Micky began to walk away. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said coldly.

She watched the boyish, not very tall figure recede along the entry. The lights from the rear of the houses either side shone on his black hair, his broad shoulders. Even from the back he looked dead handsome. She knew he was hurt because she refused to take him seriously. Something twisted in her heart and she found herself shaking, as strange sensations she had never felt before swept through her body.

‘Micky!’ she called when he was about to turn the corner. ‘Oh, Micky!’

‘Orla!’

They ran to meet each other. Micky swept her up in his arms, kissed her, swung her around, kissed her again, undid her coat, grabbed her waist. His hands pushed under her jumper and she could feel them hard on her ribs through the thin material of her petticoat.

‘Micky,’ she breathed rapturously when his thumbs touched her nipples. Somehow, straps were moved, her bra undone and Orla groaned in delight when her breasts were exposed to Micky’s seeking hands.

Oh, my God, she was wetting herself ! And Micky was pulling up her skirt, stroking the bare flesh at the top of her legs, feeling inside her pants.

Orla could never quite remember exactly what happened next, only that it was mind-shatteringly thrilling and quite wonderful. Afterwards they walked back to Amber Street, Micky’s arm round her shoulders, hers round his waist. She was still shaking and felt extremely odd, as if she’d entered a different world from the one she used to live in. She’d left the house a girl and returned a woman.

At the door, Micky said huskily, ‘We’re made for each other, Orla. We’ve got to get married now.’

‘Did you have a nice walk, luv?’ Alice enquired when her daughter came in.

‘OK,’ Orla said in a bored voice. ‘I think I’ll make meself a cup of cocoa and take it to bed. I’ve got a busy day tomorrer.’ She was being sent on her very first assignment – some person off the wireless, whom admittedly she’d never heard of, was coming to Waterloo to open a shop.

‘Mind you don’t disturb Maeve. She’s got an even busier one.’

‘I won’t, Mam.’ As Orla waited for the kettle to boil she made up her mind that, after tonight, she would never see Micky Lavin again. It was too dangerous.

It was Cora’s birthday, not that anyone knew or cared except herself. Billy had forgotten, as usual. Alice used to send a pretty card – ‘From John and Alice, the girls and Cormac’ it always said. Cora missed the cards, but they’d
stopped five years before, along with the invitations to Christmas dinner and other events, like birthday parties.

Since Christmas, Cora had been in a terrible state. For one thing, the least important as it happened, she was fed up with the house – there was a limit to how nice it could be made to look and she felt she’d reached it. What she would like more than anything was to start afresh in a different house, this time bigger – a detached one in a wider road with trees. She wouldn’t mind moving as far afield as Waterloo or Crosby. Months ago, Horace Flynn had acquired a lovely bungalow right on the shore in Blundellsands. The elderly widower he’d bought it from was a penny short of a shilling and had let it go dead cheap. Horace was having the place done up before he let it.

Cora had intended demanding it for herself in return for services rendered and would have done if it hadn’t been for her sister-in-law. Because of her, going behind her back, telling tales, she’d lost favour with the fat, greasy slob of a landlord. Cora’s blood boiled when she thought about it. Her hands twitched, as if she’d like to get them round her sister-in-law’s neck and squeeze. She’d only seen Horace once since Boxing Day and then he’d torn her off a strip.