September Starlings (71 page)

Diana is finally tired out, routed. I step to her side, place a hand on her shoulder. Facing them isn’t easy. I know people like these, have lived among them. They are honest yet cute in the proper sense, wary, talented, furious without quite knowing why. The one with the blackened hair displays all the charm of a cement mixer, yet her eyes are hurt. Liverpudlians, poor Liverpudlians, people with a history of hard work that is now so historical that it seems like folklore. Building trade, dock work, plumbing? Oh yes, they’ve read about jobs like those. Oh God, I’ve been here, I’ve been stuck in a grimy cottage with three underfed children, a few pennies for the gas, enough bread and jam for breakfast. An image jumps unbidden into my head. Gerald and Edward are lying in their beds. I bend to kiss them, listen as my long hair sizzles in the candle’s feeble flame. Automatically, I wet my fingers, pull them the length of the burning tress, extinguish the fire. Yes, I remember when electricity was a bonus, a luxury.

They don’t know that. Diana’s family doesn’t appreciate my true empathy, my gut-wrenching understanding of
their plight. Georgina Dawn saved me, I’m a lucky one. I was frightened then, before I started to write, and I am still afraid, still angry. Which geriatric judge put the black on his head, which lord of the realm ordered the death of Liverpool? I resent this slow murder of my city – yes, it is mine. I can no longer cover my ears to blank out the pitiful cries of its adult children as they moulder on another mountain of surplus. Butter, milk, people – they’re all
de trop, mon cheri
. And thus we advance into Europe.

I look at Diana’s family, see mouths that are thin from waiting, eyes that are hungry for activity, for employment. How many days have they stood in that ever-swelling dole queue? I smile inwardly. It isn’t just the north, isn’t just us, I say to myself. The cancer has spread, begins to be noticed. The difference is that we stopped blubbering years ago. ‘I’ll look after Diana,’ I say eventually.

Our Audrey fixes her black-ringed eyes on me. They are blue, hard as flint. ‘Are you ’er from Blundellsands?’

‘I am.’

She heaves back her shoulders, thrusts out the trembling chest. ‘Debtors’ retreat, that.’

‘Yes.’ I meet the unfriendly and challenging stare. And somehow, she sees me as I really am, knows from words I have not spoken that I have been here before, have been where she is. She can tell that I have endured cold and fear. Perhaps the saying is true, ‘It takes one to know one’. Her lips twitch, but she kills the smile. ‘I will take care of your little sister, Audrey,’ I tell her.

The thickly painted lower lip quivers. ‘He was all right, really, me dad. It was the drink got him. He could read stories really good, like, used to put meaning in, he done all the different voices. Mind you, he was a terrible Red Riding Hood, sounded as if he’d been doctored.’ She has picked up her aitches for me.

Mark puffs on his fag, doesn’t bother to wipe a tear from his cheek. ‘’E was good to me ma. ’E never got drunk when me ma was ’ere.’

The policewoman steps outside, leaves the family to
grieve. My hand tightens on Diana’s shoulder – I can feel the sobs building up pressure inside that slender body. Like a volcano that has lain dormant for too long, she will be forced to erupt soon. ‘Shall I make some tea?’ I ask. Tea is always made at times like this.

Mascara trails down Audrey’s face. ‘There’s no cups, love. He didn’t live here, he just got poured through the letterbox every night, fell on the floor and slept where he dropped. If we gave him something, like pots or pans, he sold them or swapped them. There is pans and that, but they’re filthy in the back kitchen. He got fed by her three doors down – she used to do him meat and veg a couple of days a week. We paid her for it.’

Like members of the one body, they close ranks and pull me into their midst. I am here, therefore I am seconded without a vote, am drawn in as an honorary sister. They weep and curse and touch one another, each living through a past that has been colourful and noisy. Neighbours slip into the house, grey shapes that move silently round the edges of the scene. Yes, they are indeed scene-shifters, fetchers and carriers of props, because the scent of their offerings cuts through the tears. I don’t even know why I’m crying. I don’t know why I sob anew when I see the sarnies, the teacups, knives, spoons, paper napkins.

We eat. There are scones and biscuits and little pies, sausage rolls, tarts, triangular sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Audrey puts some food in her shopping bag, ‘For the young ones,’ she explains to no-one in particular. They have aged in this short time, have begun to bear the guilt that attaches to a parent’s death. I can read their thoughts. They wish they’d been kinder, more obedient, wish they’d listened while their mother and father were still alive to make the rules.

‘These are Mrs Cooper’s cups,’ observes Diana, a sob still fracturing the words. ‘I’ll take them back in a minute.’ She fingers a saucer. ‘Mrs Cooper collected this set with Green Shield stamps donkeys’ years ago, before I was
born, I think. Mam told me. Mrs Cooper only gets these pots out for special occasions.’

Audrey drains her cup, pats a non-existent crumb from the ample bosom, grins when she realizes that she has my full attention. ‘I could have been a page three,’ she announces proudly. ‘Only I got pregnant and got married. Still, I might give it another go, eh? I’ve kept meself firm.’

I nod, grant my approval. Where the money comes from doesn’t matter, I remember that. You just get that typewriter or whatever where you can, cut out the questions and carry on with the business of keeping your dependants alive. ‘Shall we go, Diana?’ I ask.

Diana inclines her head. ‘In a minute. Anyway, our kid’s right. How the heck are we going to get shot of this place?’

Though I should not become involved in anything else just yet, I cannot help myself. ‘I’ll see to it.’ It is yet another of those times when I say something, feel that I haven’t really said it, look round and seek the guilty party. It’s me, of course. I said it.

Everyone’s attention is on me. ‘Yer wot?’ Jack is so incredulous that his voice is near falsetto in pitch. ‘D’you know the Pope, missus? ’Cos it’ll take a fuc— a flaming miracle to turn this into an ’ouse again. There’s no floorboards upstairs. ’E burnt ’em before we got the gas fire put in. An’ that kitchen is a f— it’s an ’ell ’ole.’

‘Even a hell hole can be fixed.’ This is me talking again, Big Mouth, the last of the big talkers. ‘I’ve furniture, paint, we can get some wallpaper. There’s a chap in Crosby who’ll do the work.’

Mark bridles. ‘We’re not charity cases.’

I look steadily at him. ‘Well, I used to be a charity case and I’ve not forgotten. People round here kept me and my children alive when they scarcely had enough for their own families.’ Actually, it wasn’t that bad, not after I’d started writing, but I’ve been near enough to the breadline to be glad of my Warburton’s sliced. ‘I’ve been on the receiving end,’ I tell him.

‘Oh, right.’ He sweeps the long-lashed gaze over me, takes in the silk scarf that hides my creping throat, the Italian shoes, breathes in my Estée Lauder scent. ‘Sound,’ he says contentedly. ‘Thanks, missus. That’s sound.’

‘Sound’ must mean good, I think. They are truly amazing, a separate and robust breed, strong, resilient, humorous to their last breath. A few minutes ago, they were keening like sick animals. Now, the eye make-up is being repaired, cigarettes are being cadged, plates have been returned to their rightful owners. I have enjoyed their company so much that I feel bereft when they leave, am pleased to accept a kiss from Audrey, a pat on the back from the black-dyed one.

We are alone now, just Laura Starling and Diana Hulme in a room that stinks of all kinds of rot, wet, dry, human. ‘We’ll have to get it fumigated,’ she says.

‘We might put in some windows, Diana. Some of that UPVC that’s a dead ringer for ma—’

‘Shut up.’ She fiddles with a string of hair. ‘Our Mark’s gone to identify him officially. Me dad’ll have to go in a shroud, ’cos he’s got no best suit.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ I am, oh I am.

She gulps. ‘I’ll miss him. There’ll be nobody waiting for me outside college, nobody chasing me along a corridor. “Give us the cash for a pint, girl,” he used to shout. He was a docker, ages ago when there were loads of jobs. A lot of them are used-to-bes, most round here are jobless.’

Again, I am slightly afraid. She depends on me, needs me. I should not have taken her on, should not be here. While I’m here, Ben is alone. I pull myself together. ‘Have you seen
Bread
on TV?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’

‘Ma Boswell has a nice house.’

‘Yes.’ She sounds so down, so defeated.

‘We can make this place nice, then you can live in it.’

She blinks, considers. ‘What about the rest of them? They’ll all want their cut. There’s only our Mark with a job, and that van’s on its last radials. He sells fish, always
stinks of it, specially Tuesdays and Fridays.’ She pauses, seeks her point, plucks it out. ‘I can’t pay them.’

‘But I can.’

The jaw drops a fraction. ‘Why?’

She needs the truth, deserves it. ‘Because I can afford it. I want to help you, Diana. But I can’t keep you with me indefinitely.’ I wait for a second, allow the things that have been wedged in my subconscious to come forth and leap from my tongue. ‘I’m bringing Ben home. You will need somewhere to live while you get through the course at the hospital. Ben is going to be hard work.’

The pale yellow head nods. ‘I can help you with him.’

‘No. There’ll be nurses most of the time.’

‘Oh.’ She scratches her nose. ‘Well, it’s very good of you to offer, but I thought you were a floating voter.’

‘So?’

‘It’s a bit communist, sharing out your wealth. What will your husband say?’

I think about that. ‘He’ll probably say something about strawberry yoghurt.’ My hand raises itself. ‘No, don’t ask. Just accept my help gracefully.’ She needs occupying, I decide. ‘In return, you can come with me now. Diana, you are going to deal with my mother.’

She stands, walks a few paces, gazes up the stairs. ‘Hang on a bit,’ she says. ‘I’ll just go upstairs and get my crash helmet. Pity we sold the suit of armour.’ One eye winks. ‘These stately homes isn’t wot they was, is they?’

We close the warped door, drive off to Crosby.

Mother is in a high dudgeon. Mother’s dudgeons are loftier than anyone else’s, I’m sure of that. Enthroned on her armchair, she dominates the room, looks like a queen who is quarrelsome about meeting lesser beings. Diana is with me. Diana is not behaving in a way that will suit, because she has already shaken Mother’s hand, has introduced herself to the dragon.

‘What does your father do?’ My mother fixes rheumy but agile eyes on her latest victim.

‘Nothing. He’s dead.’

My heart misses a beat, but I’ve nothing to fear. Diana is rising to the bait, will not be trounced by this wearying crone. Even today, with her father just deceased, Diana has resources that are asking to be plumbed.

‘What did he do, then?’ The ‘Lanky’ has gone missing from the voice, is replaced by one of her awful attempts at ‘poshdom’.

‘He drank.’ Diana sits, though there has been no invitation. I scurry into the kitchen, set the kettle to boil. Diana Hulme and Liza McNally promise to be an explosive combination. Perhaps I should make a gallon to quench the flames. No, there’s an extinguisher on the wall.

‘He drank for a living?’

I cough, rattle the cups.

‘I suppose so. He drank for a living and it killed him.’ Her voice is desolate, but old Liza will choose not to hear the sadness.

I can almost hear my mother bristling. ‘Was he a wine-taster, then?’

No, Laura, you must not laugh. Diana’s dad died last night, this is not the time for hilarity.

‘I reckon he’s tasted most things in his time,’ says Diana. ‘With the possible exception of Harpic.’

The tap drowns my nervous giggling. I wriggle the end of the Addis dishwashing brush in the drain, force breakfast time tea-leaves round the bend. Like Ben, my mother refuses to use tea bags. And that is the only common ground between them, though my husband was always courteous and kind to the nasty creature in the next room. I recall the occasion when Jodie gave Granny an earful some years ago – I was privileged to be present at the time. Mother had palpitations, a severe migraine and two fingers of the best cognac after dinner that day. Will Diana have the same disastrous effect? Tentatively, I turn off the tap.

Diana’s tap is in full flood. ‘… all round the world.
You see there’s all these islands that haven’t been discovered properly. He used to go and visit, buy their alcohol, but he could never get the recipes out of these uncivilized people. He used to sniff at it and taste it, but he could never work out how the pygmies made such powerful stuff. It was his life’s work, Mrs McNally. And it killed him in the end.’

‘How sad,’ says my mother.

‘Anyway, we’ve just been sorting things out. My brother’s in fish, so he’s gone to Dover to collect the body. He knows all about temperatures and things, so he’ll keep Dad in good condition in the back of the van.’ She is so strong, yet so pathetic. While she aches for her father, she still hangs on to the reins, remains in control. I know that the humour is for me, to keep me cheerful.

‘And the yacht is lost?’ How interested the old woman sounds!

‘Completely. Went down just as they were coming into port. The coastguards tried their best, but they couldn’t save the crew.’

I am out of the apartment in a flash, am hanging, red-faced and hysterical, over the railing on the balcony. She has lost a father, has gained and lost an ocean-going vessel, has gained the interest of a woman who never listens to anyone. Diana is tough, even tougher than I thought.

We drink our tea. Diana, who has come up in the world, makes much of crooking her little finger. Between ladylike sips, she dabs at her face with a handkerchief, one of mine. Mr Hulme’s boat has acquired a name, the
Esmerelda
. Her crew consisted of honest Liverpool folk who were culled from the DHSS queue. They had just returned from some remote island when the
Esmerelda
floundered as she neared Dover.