The Liverpool Trilogy Read online

  It wasn’t. She had to dash round all her shops and franchises this month, because she’d been offered a healthy sweetener to try out some new French products, and she never looked a gift horse in the mouth. For the sum promised, she had guaranteed that she would train her staff personally in the use of the new line, so she was packing when her lover arrived. ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’ she snapped. ‘Did Paul Daniels make you disappear just like that? It’s been like trying to get through to Buckingham Palace.’ She picked up a pair of patent leather shoes, breathed on them, and rubbed them along the front of her tabard.

  Alan bit his lip. This looked like a promising start, didn’t it? ‘Ill,’ he replied after a pause. ‘I’ve been ill and in bed for quite a while. It’s been a difficult time.’

  ‘Too difficult to switch your phone on? Too much trouble to be bothered about me?’

  He nodded. ‘Rough stomach. She probably had a go at poisoning me before she buggered off.’ He sighed heavily and shook his head.

  Mags paused, a pile of underwear in her hands. ‘What? Lucy? Did I miss an earthquake or something? Because it would take something pretty dynamic to shift her. I thought she was part of the fixtures and fittings round at your house.’

  ‘She’s gone. And don’t ask me where, because I’ve just been through all that with my daughter.’ He watched while she placed clothing in her case. ‘Going somewhere? You’ve still got the tan from Crete. You don’t need another break yet, surely?’

  Mags glared at him. ‘I’m going anywhere and everywhere. Tê te à Tê te has sent me the Nouvelle Reine regime, and I’ve promised to be on site every time it’s introduced. So I’ll start with my franchises in the south and work my way back up country. I would have told you on the phone – if you’d ever bothered to answer it. But you didn’t, so there you are. I’m off soon, and I wasn’t able to give you the statutory month’s notice. Sorry, boss.’ Did he even notice the sarcasm?

  ‘Oh.’ He sat down. ‘When will you be home from your travels?’

  A jagged nail caught in the fabric of an underslip, so she stopped to do a bit of remedial work with a crystal file. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said. ‘I need to live sort of halfway between here and the rest – Jenny can take over at this end. I thought Coventry. Because if I’m going to make a proper go of it in London, I’m living in the wrong place. There’s a gap in the market just outside Coventry, and a nice little property with a flat upstairs. So I might move. It makes a lot of sense. That’s why I was trying to phone you. I wanted to tell you, save you the bother of driving all the way out here.’

  He opened his mouth, but no words emerged. The wife had done a disappearing act, his daughter was proving difficult, and now Mags was preparing to leave without a backward glance. He was ruined. In the blink of an eye, he had gone from riches all the way back to rags. And that had always been his greatest fear, because he’d made the steep climb, and it was a long way down to near-serfdom.

  ‘You look like a bloody goldfish,’ she remarked, painting Pearl Envy over her repaired fingernail. ‘Look, Alan – we were never going to be for ever, were we? I’m not the type to settle down, and I thought I’d already made that plain. Domesticity is not my scene.’

  ‘But I love you,’ he declared. ‘And I’ll be free soon. I’m not letting her get away with this – not bloody likely. I’ll divorce her, and she can lump it, because I’m not being messed about by anybody.’

  She laughed. ‘Alan, you love the one you see in the mirror every morning. That’s why Lucy’s upped and offed – you’ve never thought beyond your penis. I mean, lighten up, lad. We had good sex, and that’s all it was. Come on, no need to be so down in the dumps. You’ll soon find somebody else to tickle your fancy.’

  He closed his eyes for a few seconds. There was a lot wrong with women these days, and he didn’t know who to blame, what with the Pankhursts, Barbara Castle, Margaret Thatcher – the world had been going stark, raving bonkers for almost half a century. Yes, the lunatics had taken over the asylum. ‘So this is it, then? We’ve come to the end of the line?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ll be back every six weeks or so. And there’ll come a time when I won’t be able to manage on my own – this is turning into a company and, while I have good people in all my units, I’ll need help at top level – somebody else like me who’s been trained by the best. When that happens, I can sit back a bit more. But I have to work, Alan. We both do.’

  Work? He was finished. She was on her way up, while he was about to hit the basement. How much lower could he go? Back to the bottom end of Deane Road? Not likely, because he’d helped demolish those slums, hadn’t he?

  ‘I might just be able to grab a girl schooled by Herbert of Liverpool. Imagine that. She’s having to move with her husband’s work, but I must get in fast. She’ll be good. He’s the best trainer in the north. That girl might well be the sort I can use at management level, you know.’

  He didn’t know. He’d never heard of Herbert, but she was rattling on about hair extensions, individual false lashes, a treatment that could make nails four times stronger. Pity she hadn’t used it on herself, because then she’d have more time for his problems instead of messing around with varnish and files.

  She studied him. Had the news of her leaving the area hit him badly? ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘You look like you’ve lost a quid and found a bent penny. Straighten your face before the wind changes.’

  He swallowed hard, because he was ingesting pride as well as saliva. ‘She’s cleaned me out, Mags. Everything was in joint names, and she emptied the accounts while we were in Crete. I’ve no idea where she is, and I don’t know where to start when it comes to sorting out the—’

  ‘Call the police. Have her found. She can’t do that and get away with it.’

  He wiped a hand across his damp forehead. ‘She can. Something in the small print, something my bloody lawyer failed to see.’

  ‘Then sue him!’

  ‘Sue a flaming lawyer? Come on, Mags. You didn’t arrive with the last shower of rain. It would be like giving a copper a black eye. Wrong target.’

  Mags dropped on to the sofa. ‘What about the house? Surely you own half of that?’

  He gulped again. ‘Technically, yes. But it’s been in her family for generations, and she’s mortgaged it to the hilt.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ She leaned back and stared at him. ‘You’ve still got Bromley Cross.’

  ‘Have I? She’s paid no bills for months, so I must owe a fortune. I’m in a trap of her making, love.’

  Silence reigned for several seconds. ‘If you’ve come here for help, Alan, there’s nothing I can do. I’m still at the ploughing-everything-back-in stage. By the time I’ve paid rents and wages, I’m—’

  ‘Yes, but if you sold up, you could be my new business partner. In fact, after I’ve gone bankrupt, the firm would have to be in your name. Then, once we’re straight, we can start again with your salons.’

  She laughed. ‘Not on your nelly, mate. I’m a beautician to the bone, so I’ve no intention of burying myself in concrete and the like. Alan, I’m walking my own walk, not some man’s. It’s nothing personal, but I’ve never wanted a permanent relationship with a bloke, because I don’t see the point. I hate kids, I like to live alone, and my business is my life. I aim to retire early, live on some Mediterranean island, and catch up with all the books I’ve never read. Sorry.’

  They were all at it. Created for the purpose of nurturing human life, they were carrying on as if they were men. His daughter was promising to be the same, all career and no obstacles. Men were becoming toys, and people had a tendency to grow out of their playthings. Panic gripped his chest, and a pain shot down his arm. Bloody angina. While she went to put the kettle on, he took a pill. Between them, Lucy, Elizabeth and Mags were killing him. He didn’t want to go home. Home? He had none. He didn’t want sex, either. ‘Is it all right if I sleep on your sofa tonight?’ he asked when Mags returne
d. ‘I can’t face the drive back.’ He couldn’t face his daughter, either; didn’t want to see anyone.

  ‘Don’t be daft. You can sleep with me, as usual.’

  He shook his head. ‘Stomach’s still a bit gippy,’ he said. ‘Best if I stay in here.’ He couldn’t have managed sex, anyway. Sex had been one of the rewards due to a successful man. And the successful man had died.

  After a sleepless night, he let himself out of the house and drove away. He crossed Mags’s name off the agenda as if she had been no more than an item on a shopping list. In Bromley Cross, he parked and studied the legend on a huge hoarding – Henshaw Developers, 20 Detached Residences. His phone number was up there. And his metaphorical number was up, too. The office in town would have to go, as would he. My ticker won’t take much more of this, he thought. He’d been ordered by the hospital to slow down, but he hadn’t known how. A lad from the slums had to keep running at all costs. Filled with self-pity, he went to find something to eat, since food had always been a great comfort.

  At a small café in town, he bought a forbidden breakfast, all the way from two eggs through sausages, bacon, fried bread, and right down to black pudding. He had nothing to live for, so what did it matter? Like Lucy, he needed to disappear.

  Shirley Bishop, who was about fifteen years older than Lucy and on the brink of retirement, was certainly built like a battleship, if not quite on the scale of the Titanic. At five feet and ten inches, she towered above most women, and her girth probably matched her height. Her husband, Hal, whom she adored in her way, was at least six inches shorter than she was, and he might have disappeared had he stood sideways behind a lamp post. But he was a strong little chap, and he proved himself by working as a more than adequate gardener.

  But the Bishops were about to move to a little retirement home on a site near the Lake District. Shirley had looked after Moira since her illness had worsened, and Lucy made up her mind that she would find a replacement for her, since Moira was clearly unfit to be left to her own devices for any length of time. It was a project, and Lucy looked forward to tackling it. She had something to do, something on which she could focus, and that made her existence worthwhile.

  Lucy was beginning to teeter on the brink of contentment. Life was noisy, and she didn’t always have vital stuff like water and electricity, but the place would come together eventually. Nipping next door became part of her routine. At first, she went to ‘borrow’ water whether she needed it or not, but it was clear that she required no excuses. Moira, on good-hand days, was teaching Lucy how to paint in watercolours, how to do crochet and tapestry, how to knit complicated patterns. There was so much life in Moira on her better mornings that she lifted the spirits of all who came into contact with her.

  Bad times happened. She got double vision, the shakes, searing pain from top to toe and, on one occasion, had to be held by Shirley in an upright position while Lucy unscrewed a towel rail in the shower room, because Moira’s grip on it could not be loosened. When she finally dropped it, she began to laugh and cry at the same time. ‘See? He could have divorced me for that. I was well and truly having an affair with that bloody thing.’

  Lucy held her till she was all cried out. Shirley, who was supposedly a hard case, went into the hall to blow her nose rather noisily.

  Lucy followed her when Moira was safely seated. ‘Don’t worry,’ she told the large woman. ‘I’ll get somebody – I promise absolutely.’

  ‘I’m frightened for her,’ Shirley whispered. ‘I feel terrible about leaving, but—’

  ‘But you have your own life, I know. Look, I haven’t been here long, but I think the people in these parts have specially built huge hearts. Somewhere, there’s another like you who’ll care about her. And I’m here, love. As long as I’m here, she’ll be all right. Cross my heart.’

  ‘And hope to die?’

  ‘And hope to die. Dry your face – you don’t want her to see you like this, do you?’

  Anyone and everyone connected to Moira was affected by her bravery. This, Lucy decided, was how Liverpool people dealt with stuff. During the second war they had been as feisty as the Cockneys, because they faced life and death head on – always say the words, don’t hide away, speak your piece. They were beyond price. Somewhere, there would be another Shirley Bishop who would take over the care of Moira.

  This was a bad lunch time. While Richard was out on his rounds, Moira lay stiff as a board on a three-seater sofa, every muscle tensed, fingers twisted into positions that should have been impossible. The usual nurse was away on holiday, and Shirley Bishop was in sole charge.

  So Lucy did what she had done for her father towards the end of his life. For over an hour, she massaged the poor woman with cream made in part from the New Zealand green-lipped mussel. ‘I know I’m hurting you,’ she said. ‘But bringing oxygen via blood into the area will do no harm if it does no good.’ It worked up to a point. Nothing could re-sheathe an exposed nerve, but blood flow helped the pain. At the end of the session, both women were wet through and hot, but Moira was somewhat better. Gratitude shone from her face.

  ‘You’re a healer,’ she said, her eyes full of tears and sweat. ‘You have warm hands. Look.’ She held up ten unknotted fingers. ‘You’ll have to work on Richard’s frozen shoulder. Physician heal thyself? He couldn’t cure a bloody ham in a smoke house.’

  Lucy had to laugh. There seemed to be an eleventh commandment in these parts – thou shalt show love for thy partner by winding him/her up. And perhaps a twelfth ordered them to say the exact opposite of what they meant.

  Shirley was doing it now. ‘Oi, soft lad,’ she screamed through the kitchen. Soft lad was her beloved Hal. ‘Don’t put it there, it’ll get no sun. She’s grew that from nothing, she’s grew it by hand from a seed.’ That was the thing about Scousers, they were full of love. It was an upside-down-ish love in the way it was expressed, but it was real none the less. There’d been nothing wrong with Bolton. The grammatical errors were different, but just as amusing, and, had Lucy lived with someone other than Alan, life might have been as good as this. But she had already begun to feel affection for this large village in Sefton, North Liverpool. Living as she did on the cusp between Crosby and Waterloo, she enjoyed a choice of shops and restaurants together with a beach, a good enough library and a cinema saved by the local people, who owned and ran the business. They had guts, and Lucy admired them greatly.

  ‘Will you do it?’ Moira asked while Lucy waited to cool down.

  ‘Will I do what?’

  ‘His shoulder.’

  ‘Now? I’m exhausted, Moira. It’ll take an effort to walk home.’

  ‘Not now. Tomorrow.’

  ‘It depends on what’s happening next door, and when he has patients and visits and so forth.’

  There were some things Moira couldn’t say after so short an acquaintance. Had she felt able to tell Lucy that she wouldn’t fear death half as much if someone might look after him … but no, she couldn’t do that. He was an adult, he was a doctor, and he would have to cope. All the same, Lucy was so right for him.

  A few lost days followed Alan’s encounter with Mags. He didn’t want a repeat of the third degree from his daughter, so he booked himself into a small hotel on Chorley Old Road, ate infrequently, drank whisky while awake, and never changed his clothes. When the owner of the establishment had received several complaints about the smelly drunk in Room Five, she told him to go.

  So he drove, in his cups, all the way up to the home he no longer had. It was a noisy journey, and a sound akin to screaming was getting on his nerves, so he was glad when he reached his destination, because he was beginning to see flashing coloured lights. Had the Martians finally invaded? He was definitely unwell, he decided, as he pulled into the driveway. He needed his bed, headache pills, a bottle of Johnnie Walker, and a bit of peace and quiet.

  The noise stopped, and trouble began. Boys in blue told him he smelled like an open drain before insisting that he blew into a
tube. He blew. He blew all the way to the rooftops, shouting about his wife, his daughter and somebody named Mags. ‘They don’t give a sodding damn for anyone, these bloody women. Sick ’n’ tired,’ he slurred. ‘Bin a good dad. Short of nothing, my kids. And now? I’m buggered. Do you hear me? I haven’t a leg to stand on.’ He stumbled, thereby proving his statement to be true. ‘We have to find out how to do clo … clon … cloning, then we won’t need women at all.’

  ‘Blow now, into this tube. Did you not hear our siren? Did you not see the lights on our car, Mr Henshaw? You were winding along the road like a snake escaping from a bag.’

  He tried and failed to focus. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked, attempting a friendly smile.

  ‘Not yet, sir. All you need to understand is he’s the brains and I’m the looks. And we’re both in better nick than you appear to be. You have to blow into the tube.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re tired and emotional, and because I say so.’

  ‘You said that without moving your lips.’

  ‘I said nothing, sir. It was my partner.’

  ‘Was it? Clever, that.’ Alan moved in closer to his captors. ‘They’re taking over, you know. They are definite … definitely taking over all the time and every bloody where. They get in when we’re not looking.’

  ‘Do they, sir?’

  Alan nodded rather vigorously, lost his balance, and had to be stabilized by the officers. ‘See, they’re even in your lot. They’ve infil … infilter … they’ve got in all over the bloody shop.’