The Girl From Barefoot House (21 page)

She stood on the pavement, supported by her stick, and took several deep breaths, her dark, brilliant eyes raking the shop fronts, the pedestrians, the passing traffic. ‘Why haven’t I done this before?’ she said in a dazed voice. ‘So near, yet so far. I should have come years ago. Suddenly, the world feels so much bigger. We must go to dinner one night. And the movies, the theatre.’ She put her arm in Josie’s, crying, ‘How pleased I am you came to work for me. Come, my dear, we’ll do some shopping.’

Over the next few hours, Louisa went quite mad with her cheque-book. She bought a striking scarlet dressing-gown and slippers to match, two glamorous nighties, a yellow linen costume, an amber pendant on a fine, gold chain, two pairs of narrow-fitting shoes – she put on a pair straight away – a straw picture hat, kid gloves, a lizard handbag and two colourful scarves.

‘There’s stacks of gloves and scarves upstairs,’ Josie protested, ‘and at least a dozen handbags.’

‘Oh, yes, but these are
new
,’ Louisa said with childish glee, ‘and a woman can’t have too many handbags. Oh, isn’t this—what is it you say in Liverpool? Isn’t this the
gear?
’

‘Don’t overtax yourself, Louisa.’

‘And don’t you nag. I feel like Sleeping Beauty, just awoken from a very long sleep.’ She chuckled. ‘Except with me the years have taken their toll. By the way, this
is for you.’ She pushed the box with the amber pendant into Josie’s hand.

Josie tried to push it back. ‘I didn’t expect a present.’ But Louisa was implacable. ‘I bought it with you in mind. You said how pretty it was. I wouldn’t be seen dead in such an anaemic piece of jewellery.’

‘Ta, Louisa. But you mustn’t do this sort of thing again.’

‘I shall do whatever I like with my money, dear,’ Louisa said loftily.

They paused for coffee in a charming, glass-roofed arcade of tiny shops. Halfway through a cheese scone, Louisa said, ‘There was a quaint little bookshop around here where I used to order books from the States. I flirted quite madly with the owner, Mr Bernstein, but he probably retired years ago. I wonder if the shop’s still in business? I’d like to order that book they’re making such a fuss about back home,
Catcher in the Rye
.’

The shop was three blocks away, according to the waitress, too far for Louisa to walk. They returned to the car, stowed the shopping in the boot and Josie drove the three blocks.

There was no need to order
Catcher in the Rye
. The attractive young man behind the counter of the long, narrow shop said it had been published in this country, and they had several copies in stock. Louisa was writing a cheque when an astonished voice cried, ‘Miss Chalcott! Miss Louisa Chalcott?’

A small, extremely elderly man was coming towards them, arms clasped dramatically across his chest. The lack of hair on his pink head was made up for by a lustrous silver beard.

‘Mr Bernstein!’ Louisa said emotionally. ‘Why, how lovely to see you.’

Mr Bernstein snapped his fingers. ‘Ronald, fetch a chair for Miss Chalcott.’ He beamed. ‘This beautiful lady is a famous poet. Sit down, sit down, Miss Chalcott. Would you like a sherry?’

Josie might as well not have existed during the fulsome and mutually flattering conversation that ensued. She retreated to the counter, where Ronald whispered, ‘Who’s Louisa Chalcott? I’ve never heard of her.’

His favourite authors were Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler. ‘I was put off poetry at school,’ he confessed. ‘I never want to hear ‘The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck’ again.’

Josie said she felt the same about Wordsworth’s ‘The Daffodils’, and she liked Agatha Christie and Dorothy L. Sayers. She told him she’d tried to read Louisa’s poems once, but couldn’t make head nor tail of them.

The conversation turned to pictures. Ronald’s favourite films were thrillers, too, and Josie said that she also liked them best. ‘When I was young, I had a crush on Humphrey Bogart.’

‘You’re not exactly old now.’ Ronald had a quirky smile and lovely dark green eyes. Josie, who hadn’t met a man she considered even remotely attractive since she’d said goodbye to Griff regarded him with interest. He leaned on the counter. ‘
Key Largo
’s on across the road, starring your old hearthrob. Perhaps I could take you tomorrow night? I could pick you up,’ he added nonchalantly. ‘I’ve got a car.’

‘So’ve I,’ Josie said, equally nonchalantly. ‘The thing is, I’m seeing me friend tomorrow, but I’m free Monday.’

‘That would be even better.
Key Largo
will have finished, but they’re showing the latest Hitchcock film,
Strangers on a Train
. We could meet outside at seven o’clock. If it’s too early, we’ll go for a coffee.’

Across the shop, Mr Bernstein was presenting Louisa with a copy of Robert Frost’s
Complete Poems
. ‘A little gift, dear lady. Hot off the press. It only came in this morning.’

‘I always thought Robert Frost a trifle overrated, but thank you very much, Mr Bernstein. Now, don’t forget, I’m expecting you on Wednesday on the dot of half past seven. We shall have a lovely little talk about literature.’

‘I am already looking forward to it, Miss Chalcott.’ With a flamboyant gesture, Mr Bernstein kissed her hand.

‘I think that was a most satisfactory shopping expedition,’ Louisa said on the way home. ‘Fancy Mr Bernstein recognising me after all this time! He’s become a widower since we last met. I think I might seduce him. Wives never stopped me in the past, but I think one might have stopped Mr Bernstein.’

‘Oh, Louisa!’

‘Take no notice of me, dear. I can dream, can’t I? Now, where shall we go tomorrow in the car?’

It was summer. Josie woke up to the warm sun shining through her window, the squawk of the gulls, the tide lapping on the beach. She would leap out of bed and walk down to the water in her bare feet, glad to be alive on such a lovely day, thinking how incredibly lucky she was compared to Lily and all the other people who worked in boring, stuffy offices and factories. Being Louisa’s companion no longer felt like a job. She felt slightly guilty when she took her wages.

Back in the house, she would make two cups of coffee and drink hers with Louisa, sitting cross-legged at the
foot of the bed, and they would look through last night’s
Echo
to see what pictures were on, or discuss a play they’d just seen, which reminded Louisa of an affair she’d once had, or several affairs.

She saw Ronald twice a week. He was a perfect boyfriend. They had plenty to talk about, and he seemed quite satisfied with a few enjoyable and passionate kisses at the end of the evening. Lily was green with envy. ‘How do you do it, Jose? I only go out with a bloke once, and he never wants to see me again.’ Lily had given up all hope of getting married, and was prepared for a life on the shelf.

It would have been easy to feel smug about how fortunately things had turned out, but Josie had already experienced how quickly life could change. When Lily casually announced that she and her mother were going to Germany to stay with Stanley, Freya and the new baby, Josie, who’d been expecting to go on holiday with her friend, found herself with nowhere to go and no one to go with. Once again she felt conscious of her solitariness. She would just have to spend the time at Barefoot House, carry on as normal. When Marian and Hilary came in September for their annual holiday, she would take a few days off.

It was difficult to believe that the twins, with their plain looks and severe clothes, were the daughters of passionate, extrovert Louisa. They appeared slightly aggrieved that their mother looked so well, had put on weight and was obviously much happier than when they’d visited a year ago. As if to prove she’d been right in her choice of companion, Louisa exaggerated the visits to the theatre and the cinema and the shopping trips, making it seem as if they led the life of Reilly and went out every day.

The two women did their utmost to sideline Josie. They made Louisa’s meals, took in her morning coffee, fussed over her in a way Josie knew she’d hate. Phoebe said it was always the same. ‘They call the doctor if she so much as sneezes, and keep telling her how ill she is, how old, reminding her she’s an invalid. Oh, I won’t half be glad when the pair of them have gone.’

It would have been nice to have gone away, be out of it for a whole fortnight, but all Josie could do was take time off. She went into town nearly every day and met Lily in the dinner hour.

One day Lily emerged from her office looking unusually grave. She grabbed Josie’s arm. ‘Ma telephoned this morning, Jose. She tried to call you, but you’d already gone. She ses to tell you that Vince Adams died yesterday of a heart attack.’

The news left Josie cold. ‘I wonder if I should write to Auntie Ivy?’

‘I wouldn’t if I were you.’

‘I’ll think about it. Where shall we go for dinner? I’m starving.’

‘Let’s try that new place in Whitechapel. They take luncheon vouchers. Are you all right, Jose? You look a bit peculiar.’

‘I’m fine.’ But she wasn’t fine. For some reason, when they reached the restaurant, she no longer felt hungry. Her head was full of thoughts that didn’t make sense. Vincent Adams had been her
father
. It was her
father
who had died the day before. If it hadn’t been for Vince, she wouldn’t have been born. How could your father die and leave you feeling cold and completely unmoved? Her life had been so strange, so different to everyone else’s, that she had no warm feelings for the man responsible for bringing her into the world.

She said goodbye to Lily, but didn’t walk back with her to Victoria Street as she usually did. Instead, she set off in the opposite direction. All of a sudden, she felt a strong desire to see Huskisson Street, take a look at the house in which she’d lived with Mam. She hadn’t seen it since the night of the bomb. Their final conversation came back as clearly as if it had taken place only yesterday.

Why, the sun’s come out, Petal
, Mam had cried joyfully during their last minutes in the attic room.
It looks dead lovely out there … I wouldn’t mind a little walk
.

If only they’d gone to Princes Park as Mam had suggested!

Yes, but …
Josie had said.

Yes, but what, my fragrant, my adorable little Petal?
Mam had leapt off the chair, danced across the room, caught Josie in her arms. They had waltzed around the bed.

Josie bit her lip. ‘Oh, Mam,’ she breathed.

She had walked so fast that she reached Huskisson Street sooner than expected. The house had been done up. The window-frames had been painted and the front door, which was open, was bottle green.

Dare she go in? Could it possibly be that Maude, or any of the other girls, still lived there? Just now, if there was one thing she’d like to do more than any other, it was to talk to Maude, tell her about Uncle Vince.

She climbed the steps into the wide hall, which had pale cream walls and a biscuit-coloured carpet. ‘Can I help you?’ a woman’s voice demanded sharply.

The voice came from a window in the wall, the wall of Irish Rose’s room. A woman had slid back the glass and was regarding Josie balefully.

‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering, who lives here now.’

‘No one. It’s a solicitors’. It should be obvious from the plate on the door.’

‘What’s upstairs?’ Josie glanced at the carpeted staircase.

‘Rooms. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on.’ The window was snapped shut.

‘Thank you,’ Josie said to no one at all.

If you sat on the window seat facing westwards – at least, she’d worked out it was westwards, but she could be wrong – you could see the lights of Birkenhead and Wallasey gradually being switched on.

Josie had no idea how long she’d been there, but at first it had been daylight and the shore had been crowded. Then people had begun to pick up their blankets, their sunshades, their toys and go home. Now the sands were empty and it was dark, and the lights across the Mersey twinkled brightly in the distance.

She had been reliving her childhood, every single scene, something which she had never done before. She felt immeasurably sad for all the things she had missed: going on holiday with her mother, for instance, like Lily; telling Mam about her boyfriends. What would Mam think of Ronald? Of Griff? Would she have thought it a bad idea to have married Ben? Josie remembered that she hadn’t liked Tommy. She’d thought her daughter too good for him, that she deserved something better.

Apart from the creaks and groans of the old house, and the rustle of the tide, everywhere was quiet. Marian and Hilary kept very early hours. She vaguely remembered hearing them come upstairs a while ago. Louisa, so different from her daughters, usually stayed up till all hours, scribbling away in the red notebook, or they would talk – Josie hated going to bed early. On top of
the usual sounds, she became aware of a faint shuffling and a tapping noise.

Rats, Josie thought, but she didn’t care if the house was invaded by rats. The twins could get rid of them. She thought about making herself a cup of tea. Louisa, if she was awake, might like some coffee.

In a minute, she told herself.

The tapping and shuffling was getting closer. She was feeling a touch alarmed when the door opened and Louisa came puffing in.

‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’ She switched on the light. She was wearing her red dressing-gown and slippers and looked pleased with herself. ‘Those stairs! That’s the first time I’ve climbed them in ten years. What an achievement. Oh, but if I don’t sit down soon, I’ll collapse.’ She shuffled over to the bed and eased herself down with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

Josie didn’t move. ‘I thought you were a rat,’ she said.

‘Oh, I am, I am,’ Louisa panted. ‘It’s an insult usually reserved for men. People seem to forget there are female rats. I wonder why that is? And why are only women described as kittenish?’

‘I’ve no idea. You can explore the contradiction in your next poem.’

Louisa clapped her hands delightedly. ‘Josie! How glad I am to see you. You treat me like a normal human being. I’m sick of those silly girls fussing round. I’m openly crossing off the days before they go home on my calendar, but they refuse to take the hint. Now.’ She looked at Josie sternly. ‘I heard you come in. It was half past four. There’s been dead silence ever since. What’s wrong, dear? Is it something to do with that phone call? Phoebe said someone rang after you’d gone.’