Queen of the Mersey (43 page)

Agnes felt as if she’d just glimpsed the eighth wonder of the world. She had a daughter, a rich, pretty, successful, single daughter who would look after her mam in her old age. Queenie was bound to ask if she’d move in with her, they’d go to the pictures together, perhaps on holiday – she hadn’t got that tan in England in December. She rubbed her hands gleefully, more glad that she’d returned to Liverpool than she’d been about anything before. In fact, she’d have come back sooner if she’d known Queenie was going to turn into such a bobby dazzler. Or perhaps never left in the first place. Think of all the suffering she’d have missed if only she’d stayed.

Perhaps it was thinking about suffering that made her remember Queenie’s arm.

Fancy forgetting a thing like that! She must have had an operation and had it set proper, because now it looked so perfect no one would ever guess there’d been anything wrong.

‘To tell the truth, I’m moidered to death,’ Queenie complained. It was a few days after her mother’s return and she’d gone to see Laura, who asked how she was. ‘Mam’s back, but you already know that, and Irene, Theo’s wife, keeps phoning, threatening suicide. She knows about Kythira and is wildly jealous. To cap it all, this afternoon, the hospital rang; would I mind going in to see Mam?

Apparently, she’s pining for a visit.’

‘Are you going to go?’

‘Not likely!’ Queenie felt on the verge of exploding. ‘I’m not going anywhere near her. Theo’s arranging for a place for her to live. He’s got some Greek thing about children respecting their parents, no matter what they’ve done. It upsets him that his girls will have nothing to do with him. He can go and see my mother if he likes. If it had been up to me, I’d have sent her away with a few bob and a flea in her ear.’

‘I’ve never seen you quite so mad,’ Laura remarked.

‘I’ve never felt quite so mad.’ She shook her head impatiently. ‘Oh, let’s change the subject, talk about something else. Have you asked Hester if she’ll come to Paris with me?’

‘Yes, and she’d love to. She’s sent you a letter to say as much. At Christmas, she intends to leave that job, find something new and more interesting, even go abroad.’ Laura gave a tired smile. ‘Things have turned out so differently than I expected. By now, I thought we’d be immersed in plans for the wedding, that Hester and Duncan would get a house nearby, have children, and that we’d all be together, one big happy family.’ She looked very listless, as if it was her who’d been jilted, not her daughter.

‘You’re letting things get you down far too much. Anyroad,’ Queenie said darkly, ‘I don’t think there’s such a thing as a happy family. Have you seen Vera yet?’

‘No. The trouble is, I blame Mary for the whole horrible situation, and Vera probably blames Duncan. After all, he was Hester’s fiancé, and she’ll think we should have kept him under control. If we meet, I’m sure we’ll row.’

‘Don’t talk daft, Laura. I don’t see how it’s anyone’s fault except Mary and Duncan’s. OK, she seduced him, but he didn’t have to let himself be seduced.

He’s not an animal. If anyone should have kept Duncan under control, it was Duncan himself.’

Agnes was in hospital for five days. Her blood and urine were checked, her eyes, ears and throat examined, her chest X-rayed, and other tests carried out. It was fortunate that the antibiotics she’d been given in London had cleared up the clap, otherwise she’d have felt dead ashamed. She was pronounced malnourished, anaemic, but otherwise reasonably healthy, and advised to cut down on the ciggies, eat a more balanced diet, and take the iron tonic she’d been prescribed. By now, the rest had made her feel immeasurably better. Not a drop of alcohol had passed her lips, she’d had fewer fags than usual, and hadn’t been in a position where she could ply her trade.

On Saturday morning, she sat on the bed, waiting to be discharged and wondering what would happen to her now. It had been a bit of a comedown, putting on the leopard skin coat and her other old stuff after the expensive things she’d been wearing all week, but they were the only outdoor clothes she had. Furthermore, she was wearing the velvet slippers – she assumed her shoes had been chucked away.

A nurse entered with two large carrier bags. ‘These have come for you,’ she said. ‘The chap said to tell you he’s coming back to collect you at twelve o’clock. The doctor will be along in a minute to sign you out.’

‘Ta.’

The bags were black and white striped with a string handle and had ‘Freddy’s’ on the side in big, gold letters. The first contained a coat wrapped in leaves of tissue; camel, double-breasted, with horn buttons and a big collar to turn up against the cold. It felt soft and rich when Agnes held it out. She looked at the label; cashmere. Lord Almighty! She felt herself trembling. She’d never worn cashmere in her life. In the other bag, she found a brown jumper and skirt, underwear, stockings, brown leather gloves and a handbag to match, a hat shaped like a turban that would cover her ears, and brown boots lined with fur. She’d have had to work years to pay for this lot.

She was sitting by the reception desk, wearing her finery – everything fitted perfectly – having left all her old stuff behind with instructions to the nurse to dump it in the bin, when a well-dressed, smooth-cheeked man in his forties came in, went over to the desk, and spoke to the receptionist.

The woman nodded in her direction, and the man approached and picked up her bag.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Tate,’ he said courteously. ‘I’m Roy Burrows, Mr Vandos’s personal assistant. Would you like to come with me?’

Agnes got wordlessly to her feet and followed him outside. It was a cold, dull day, but not as cold as when she’d arrived, though perhaps it was the coat and boots keeping her warm. She climbed into the back seat of a long grey car, as big as a bus, and Mr Burrows put her bag in the boot, then slid behind the steering wheel. The car moved away, the engine hardly making a sound.

‘Where are we going?’ she asked nervously after a while.

‘Freddy’s.’

‘Will Queenie be there?’ She was disappointed Queenie hadn’t come with Mr Burrows to pick her up.

‘I’m afraid Miss Tate isn’t in today. She’s in London.’

‘Who’s Mr Vandos?’

‘The owner of Freddy’s.’

Agnes got the impression he didn’t want to talk. ‘I see,’ she said, though she didn’t see at all.

The car drew up in a little street that turned out to be the back of Freddy’s.

Mr Burrows jumped out and opened the door for her to alight.

‘What about me bag?’

‘It’s all right to leave it in the car. I’ll be back for you in a few hours’

time.’

A dazed Agnes was taken through the staff entrance, along a narrow corridor, through a swing door, emerging in the sparkling brilliance and deafening chatter of Freddy’s ground floor. She had hardly time to take it in when she was led through another door marked ‘Lift’.

The ornate lift was operated by an ancient individual wearing a splendid green and black uniform trimmed with gold.

‘Fifth, please, Eustace,’ said Mr Burrows.

Eustace treated both to a beaming smile. ‘Funny old day out there today,’ he said, shaking his head in bafflement, as if it was the funniest day he’d ever encountered in his life.

‘Am I going to see Mr Vandos?’ Agnes whispered. It was all incredibly mysterious.

‘No, Mrs Tate. You’re going to the hairdresser’s. Valerie, the manageress, will look after you.’

She hoped she wasn’t expected to pay, as there was only tuppence left in her purse.

Valerie looked about the same age as Agnes, but there the similarity ended. Her blonde hair was beautifully coiffured, her make-up perfect, and she spoke dead posh. Like all the staff, she wore a cream nylon overall with a blue collar.

Agnes had never been in a hairdresser’s before, but would like to bet that few were as sumptuously fitted out as this one, with such plump, comfortable leather chairs, gleaming silver dryers, row upon row of sparkling mirrors with their own individual strips of light.

‘Well, I think that orange frizz needs getting rid of,’ Valerie said sternly when Agnes was tucked inside a blue gown, and seated in front of a mirror where the strip light showed up every one of her wrinkles and her ghastly piebald head.

‘I’ve been so busy, I haven’t been near a hairdresser’s in ages,’ Agnes lied.

‘I suggest you stick to your original colour. It’s quite a nice shade of brown at the back and I could dye the grey at the front to match. What do you think?’

‘Yes, please,’ Agnes said meekly.

Valerie attacked the orange frizz with gusto. ‘You look better already,’ she said when it had all gone. She ran her fingers through the remaining hair. ‘You know, I’m not sure that you need a perm. This is nice and thick and it’s got a bit of lift to it. An urchin cut would look nice. They’re all the rage at the moment and very easy to look after.’

‘Anything you say.’ She was perfectly happy to leave everything to Valerie, to just sit there, completely relaxed, and listen to the hum of the dryers, savour the smells, smile at the girl who put a black towel around her neck and began to apply dye to the front of her head.

‘Would you like coffee or tea?’ the girl asked when she’d finished.

‘I’d love a cup of tea.’

Jesus! This was the life. As well as tea, she was handed half a dozen glossy magazines. Flicking through them, she didn’t feel as alienated from the smartly dressed models inside as once she would have. ‘Far too posh for the likes of you and me,’ the young woman in Glover Street had said about Freddy’s. Agnes would have agreed with her then, but not now.

Another girl approached, pushing a little trolley and smiling. ‘Would you like a manicure while you wait?’

‘I wouldn’t say no,’ she gulped.

She’d heard people say they felt like a million dollars, but it was the first time it had happened to her. If the truth be known, the hairdresser’s had done her more good than the ozzie.

‘Where are we going now?’ she asked when Mr Burrows arrived to collect her and they got in to the car parked behind the shop.

‘Aigburth Drive.’

It must be where Queenie lived. Well, Queenie was certainly doing her old mam proud – though not so much of the old, Agnes chided herself, not now. The new hairstyle had taken off a good ten years; she could have sworn some of her wrinkles had disappeared along with the orange frizz.

It wasn’t long before the car drew up outside a big, double-fronted, detached house with a neatly tended garden. Mr Burrows got out, opened her door, and collected the tan bag from the boot. She followed him down the drive. The front door opened when he turned the knob – she was surprised it wasn’t locked. Inside was a square, carpeted lobby, the only furniture a fancy little table with a pile of letters on top. Four doors, all numbered, led off. Mr Burrows produced a key and opened the door marked ‘1’, and they entered an enormous room with an equally enormous bay window framed by silky grey curtains and overlooking the front. The walls were covered in paper that matched the curtains, the furniture was elegant, the carpet expensive. A bowl of fresh flowers stood on the vast mantelpiece.

‘Is this where Queenie lives?’

Mr Burrows shook his head. ‘No, this is yours. It’s a flat. The bedroom is at the back, along with a kitchen-cum-dining room and a bathroom.’

‘I could never afford the rent for a place like this!’ she gasped.

‘You won’t have to. Mr Vandos will see to any expenses. He said to give you this.’ He handed her an envelope. When Agnes looked, it was jammed with pound notes, at least a hundred. ‘That’s to buy clothes or any other odds and ends you might need. As from Monday, you will be in receipt of a weekly allowance. I suggest you start a bank account. It will make things easier.’

‘But what about Queenie? When will I see her?’ Agnes cried.

‘I’m afraid I know nothing about Miss Tate’s movements.’ As ever, his voice was neither cold nor warm. He handed her a card. ‘If you have any problems, get in touch.’ He bowed slightly from the waist. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Tate. I hope you’ll be happy in your new home.’

Everything matched. In the bedroom, the blue eiderdown matched the quilted headboard, the pans matched the frying pan in the kitchen, and they in turn went with the kettle and the electric toaster. Virtually everything in the yellow bathroom was yellow.

Agnes didn’t know why, but as she wandered round the lovely rooms, so tastefully and thoughtfully furnished, she began to feel less and less like a million dollars. Memories kept returning, tumbling into her mind. Memories of Queenie, the only ones she had, the only ones Queenie would have. They had started in the bedroom, when she’d given the eiderdown a tug as it wasn’t quite straight. It was then something had clicked in her brain, moving it into a different gear.

She looked up and saw her reflection in the dressing-table mirror, except it wasn’t the right reflection. Her blood ran cold when she saw herself a good twenty years younger, possibly more, tugging at a different eiderdown, threadbare and full of lumps. There was a child lying in the middle, curled up in a ball, fast asleep.

‘Lazy little bitch!’ the reflection screamed. ‘So this is what you do when I’m at work.’ The eiderdown was pulled with such force that the little girl, startled out of her wits, had been thrown on to the floor. There were other things, endless other things; bruises and cuts, wallops around the head, bashings and beatings for no reason at all.

‘I wish I’d given you away at birth; I wish you’d never been born. Get out, I can’t stand the sight of you. You’re useless, as thick as two short planks, as ugly as sin; I hate you.’

‘I was the worst mam in the world,’ she whispered, trembling ever more violently as the memories piled in. Of Queenie standing on a chair in front of the sink attempting to wring out the washing; keeping the girl up till all hours so she could make a cup of tea when she came home from the pub; leaving when she was barely fourteen and hadn’t a job to go to. What had happened? she wondered, glancing around the expensively furnished room. How had Queenie been able to afford all this stuff?

‘I never bought her a single toy. I never talked to her. I only shouted.’