Queen of the Mersey (53 page)

Later in the afternoon, things began subtly to change. The men removed their black ties and jackets, the women their funereal hats. The barrel of beer in the kitchen, hardly touched so far, became enormously popular. Dick went to the off-licence for half a dozen more bottles of sherry for the women, and Caradoc began to sing an Irish ballad, his mam’s favourite, ‘The Wild Colonial Boy’.

Everyone joined in and very soon the noise was loud enough to burst the walls of number seventeen, Glover Street.

Jigs were danced, Victor did the fandango with a flower between his teeth, more songs were sung, screaming children raced up and down the stairs. The barrel of beer was emptied and another acquired.

‘I’ve never been to a funeral like this before,’ a mystified Theo bellowed in Queenie’s ear.

‘I wish Laura had stayed. It might have cheered her up a bit,’ Queenie murmured.

‘Hester too.’ Hester had looked a bit crestfallen when she’d mentioned Steven had a new girlfriend, and she hoped the girl hadn’t allowed herself to be taken in by his hollow charm.

‘I can’t hear a word you’re saying,’ Theo shouted. ‘I thought everyone was upset Vera was dead.’

‘Oh, they are, of course they are, but this is exactly the sort of funeral Vera would have wanted.’

March, 1973

Chapter 18

Mary supposed it wasn’t possible to un spoil a child after almost eighteen years of spoiling the same child rotten. ‘But Flora, luv,’ she said despairingly, knowing she was wasting her time, knowing, also, that she wouldn’t have wanted Flora any different, ‘hot pants are dead common. Just look at this!’ She held up a pretty peasant dress in ethnic-patterned voile, ankle-length, with a square neck, and long bishop sleeves gathered tightly at the cuffs. ‘I would have loved a dress like this when I was eighteen.’

‘Yuck!’ The dress was accorded a withering look. ‘It’s dead old-fashioned.’

‘Freddy’s don’t stock old-fashioned clothes, luv.’ ‘Maybe they stock them for old-fashioned women. No, Mam. I want hot pants. They’ve got them in C and A, made out of shiny plasticky stuff.’

‘Have they got a skirt with them?’ Some hot pants had a long skirt over, split from the midriff. Mary was slightly relieved when Flora said that they had.

Duncan would blow his top when he saw the outfit, but Flora would soon put a stop to that. All she had to do was pout her pretty pink lips and her father was lost – and her mother was just as easily pacified, Mary thought fondly, when they left Freddy’s and made for C and A.

There could have been another argument when Flora chose the hot pants in fluorescent pink, but Mary forced herself to keep her mouth shut when she emerged from the cubicle looking for all the world like a teenage prostitute.

The top and pants were all-in-one and the skirt was see-through gauzy stuff.

‘What do you think, Mam?’

‘Fine,’ Mary said faintly. ‘What sort of shoes would you wear with that?’

‘Boots, Mam. Black, knee-length boots, skin tight.’

‘We have them in the shoe department in the corner,’ the assistant said helpfully.

‘Thank you.’ Mary sighed. Flora disappeared into the cubicle to change. At least the outfit wasn’t going to cost an arm and a leg. She and Duncan had thought it would be nice to splash out on a dress for the forthcoming party, which was why they’d started off at Freddy’s, a shop Mary couldn’t have afforded for herself.

Thinking back, she supposed that, at the same age, she herself would have turned up her nose at the voile dress and wanted hot pants – mini skirts even more so, really wowing the chaps at dances. But in her day, young and old wore the same sort of clothes. Now, there were fashions a woman of thirty-eight – herself, for instance – would look ridiculous in, hot pants being a prime example.

Perhaps Freddy’s was becoming a bit old-fashioned. It was about time they had a teenage section, where young people wouldn’t pretend to vomit when faced with a selection of party clothes. She’d suggest it to Queenie next time they met.

Flora came out and they went over to look at boots. Mary sat down and left her to it. Her opinion wasn’t required. She transferred her thoughts to the party next Friday. How on earth would they cope with so many guests? Flora had invited at least half the class at school, her friends from the youth club, the dramatic society, loads of Monaghans about her own age. Everyone had accepted. Her daughter was a very popular girl, particularly with boys – not surprising considering her looks. Only today, Mary noticed the way male heads had turned when they saw the little heart-shaped face, huge brown eyes, and perfect mouth, framed in a cascade of golden brown waves and curls. The combination of Duncan’s ginger and Mary’s black had produced a truly spectacular colour. Poor Chris had ended up with un spectacular brown.

She watched her daughter stretch out a slim leg and pull on a high-heeled black boot, also made of shiny, plasticky stuff, as thin as paper. She’d look even more like a prostitute in them and the hot pants.

The boots purchased, Mary suggested lunch. ‘But not in one of them fast food places. I’d like to go back to Freddy’s. The meals don’t cost an arm and a leg, unlike the clothes.’

Flora seemed about to demur, but must have reckoned it wouldn’t hurt to do what her mother wanted for a change. On the way out ofC and A, she bought a pair of bright pink hoop earrings and black, fishnet tights. Her party outfit was complete.

‘Jaysus, Mam!’ Flora snorted when they sat down in the half-full restaurant.

‘We’re the only ones here under a hundred. It’s like being in an old people’s home.’

‘Shush, Flora! Someone might hear.’

‘I bet they’re all stone deaf. Can I have a hamburger?’

‘They don’t do hamburgers. Read the menu, it’s full of healthy, nourishing food.

I think I’ll have cottage pie. It’s ages since I made it at home.’ The thought of food was making Mary drool. It was five hours since breakfast, and then she’d only had half a grapefruit. She wished she didn’t care so much about being slim – well, not getting any plumper. What heaven it must be to eat anything you wanted.

‘I’ll have a mushroom omelette. Can I have a glass of wine? Please, Mam,’ Flora said in her most cajoling voice. ‘In another five days, I’ll be old enough to go in pubs.’

‘Oh, all right.’ She was impossible to resist. ‘We’ll both have one.’

‘By the way, Mam, I’ve invited someone else to me party.’

‘Flora!’ Mary gasped, dismayed. ‘There’s already about fifty coming. We’ll never fit them in.’

‘No one’ll want to sit down,’ Flora said, shrugging carelessly, ‘so it doesn’t matter.’

‘Who have you asked now?’

‘Chap by the name of Edward Cunningham. Everyone calls him Ned. He’s a writer and last week he came to school to talk to the A-level English students about twentieth-century literature. He actually made it sound interesting.’

‘It probably is. And you asked him to the party there and then?’

‘No. I waited until he’d finished talking. Actually, Mam, he’s dead gorgeous.’

Flora’s cheeks had gone slightly pink, which happened very rarely. She must fancy this Ned Cunningham character. Mary quite liked the idea of her daughter marrying a writer. It would certainly be something to boast about.

‘I hope our Chris hasn’t invited that twit Roger Jefferies,’ Flora said sulkily.

‘It’s Chris’s house just as much as yours. He’s entitled to bring anyone he wants.’

‘Yes, but it’s not his party. He never has parties ’cos he hasn’t got any friends, only Roger, and he’s dead peculiar, Mam.’

Mary worried about Chris, who’d spent his life living in the shadow of his exuberant sister. He was so quiet and well-behaved, half the time she and Duncan forgot he was there. ‘Flora’s got as much personality in her little finger as Chris has in his whole body,’ Duncan was fond of saying.

The food arrived. Flora picked at the omelette, ate the mushrooms, but left most of the egg. She sighed, bored, tipped back her chair, and stared at the ceiling, while her mother plodded through the cottage pie.

‘There’s all sorts of bits missing off the chandeliers,’ she announced after a while.

‘What sort of bits?’

‘Glass bits. I’m glad we’re not sitting underneath one, because the ceiling’s all cracked and one could come crashing down on us any minute. The ceiling could do with a fresh coat of paint an’ all. It’s filthy.’

Mary looked up. Flora was right. In fact, not just the ceiling, but the whole restaurant was looking rather shabby. The carpet was threadbare in places, the chairs and tables chipped. Perhaps it was time Theo Vandos retired and someone younger took over.

‘Why is no one playing the piano?’ Flora demanded, as if her mother could do something about it. ‘This place could do with a juke box.’

‘Tell Queenie that on Friday at the party.’

‘She’s not coming, is she?’ The front legs of the chair crashed on to the floor.

‘She’s old, Mam. You shouldn’t have asked her.’

‘Queenie’s only forty-seven, luv, and she’s helping with the refreshments, Hester too. We can have a nice natter. If you prefer, we’ll go to the pictures and you and your friends can see to the food yourselves.’

‘There’s no need for that, Mam,’ Flora said hastily, ‘but Queenie’s not bringing her feller, is she? I mean, the guy’s truly ancient.’

‘She’s not bringing Theo, no, but he’s one of the nicest men I’ve ever known, so don’t be rude,’ Mary said crossly. Flora had gone too far. ‘Always remember, either we die young or we grow old. One or the other will happen to us all, you included.’

Flora made a grotesque face. ‘Me, I’d sooner die young any day. If I’m not dead by thirty, I’ll seriously consider killing meself.’

‘If you’re still as horrid when you’re thirty as you are now, then I’ll tell you this much, Flora Maguire, I’ll seriously consider doing it for you.’

‘Nowadays, they don’t have parties like we used to,’ Mary complained the following Friday when her daughter’s party was in full swing. ‘They don’t sing any more, not like we did. I used to love a good sing-song.’ She groaned. ‘It’s a good job Flora didn’t hear me say that. She’d say I was showing me age.’

‘It’s gone suspiciously quiet in the parlour,’ Hester commented.

‘We never did that sort of thing, either,’ Mary said primly. ‘We were too busy having a good time.’

Hester smiled. ‘Perhaps they’re having an even better time. Don’t worry, Mary.

They can’t get up to much. There isn’t the room for it. Anyway, I think we still made as much noise.’ Having gone through all Flora’s Status Quo LPs, whoever was operating the gramophone had now started on T-Rex.

Queenie came in with two empty plates. ‘More sandwiches,’ she cried. ‘I was hardly in the room a minute, when it seemed as if a million hands shot out and there wasn’t a sarnie left.’

‘Will sardine and tomato do? There’s no more ham and hardly any cheese.’ Hester set about buttering another loaf.

‘There’s some crab paste in the larder. At the rate they’re going, they’ll have no room left for afters. They’ve already eaten a hundred sausage rolls between them.’

‘Gobbled, you mean,’ said Queenie. ‘Is there much left to drink?’

‘Not enough, I bet. I’ll send Duncan out in a minute for more.’ Mary sat down at the table looking moidered. ‘I don’t know where I am or what I’m up to! I wish Laura were here. She’d soon sort me out. Lord Almighty!’ She looked even more moidered. ‘I’m sorry, Hes. It just came out. Every time I open me mouth, I put me foot in it.’

‘That’s all right,’ Hester said in a level voice. She put three tins of sardines on the table in front of her friend. ‘Open these and mash them up with mayonnaise. Queenie, will you slice the tomatoes, please? I seem to be the only person here doing a job of work.’

‘I don’t know what I’d’ve done without you both. Has anyone seen Duncan, by the way?’

‘He’s on the stairs with a pile of kids discussing rock ’n’ roll,’ Queenie said.

‘He took two sarnies.’

‘Greedy bugger, he’s getting a paunch.’

Hester had noticed Duncan’s paunch. When they’d gone out together, she’d considered him very good-looking. She wondered if she’d still think the same if she’d married him? Had Mary also noticed her husband’s receding hair, his white, pasty face, the sagging jowls? Duncan Maguire, not quite forty, was doing nothing to stave off middle age. These days, she found him most unappealing.

The women worked industriously until there were two more plates of sandwiches for Queenie to take around. Mary went to look for Duncan to tell him more drink was required. Left alone, Hester examined her face in the mirror over the sink.

Perhaps she too had deteriorated with the years. Perhaps Duncan found her unappealing. She stroked the skin under her eyes. No wrinkles and no bags. No wrinkles around her mouth, either. Raising her head, she turned sideways to check if there was any sign of a double chin and was pleased to note there was none.

‘Don’t worry, you’re dead beautiful,’ said an amused voice.

She turned quickly. A man had entered the kitchen; not very tall, not very handsome – his nose was too big, his mouth too wide for that – but his face was quirky and good-natured, and his brown eyes were friendly and warm. He had brown hair tied in a ponytail, and wore an earring in his left ear, a green cotton Indian shirt without a collar, and rather grubby jeans. He looked in his mid-twenties, slightly older than the other guests.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, slightly embarrassed.

‘I’m after a cheese sarnie.’

‘There’s hardly any cheese left, just crumbs. There’s sardines and crab paste.’

‘I don’t eat fish or meat. I’m a vegetarian,’ the man said with an engaging grin.

‘Are you now!’ She’d met a few vegetarians in Hollywood, but never in Liverpool.

‘Would crumbly cheese and tomato do?’

‘It’d do nicely, thanks very much. I’m Ned Cunningham, by the way. And who are you?’

‘Hester Oliver. You must be the writer. Mary said Flora had invited you.’ Mary had also said Flora had raved about him all week. She was dead keen. ‘Have you had much published?’

‘Only a couple of poems in the local paper – for which I wasn’t paid. It did, however, provide me with a certain amount of prestige, which, in a roundabout way, is how I managed to get invited to Flora’s party.’