Laceys of Liverpool (52 page)

The doctor gasped, the nurse snorted. ‘Since you ask, it’s not all right,’ the doctor snapped. ‘It’s one of the most stupid things I’ve ever heard. To be blunt, Mrs Lavin, you’re dying. You might not live long enough to bring the baby to full term. Having a child in your condition is quite mad.’

‘I
am
mad,’ Orla agreed. ‘And I will live long enough for me baby to be born. I
will
. I swear it.’ She grinned. ‘Though I might not breastfeed.’

The nurse rudely butted in, ‘And who’ll look after it?’

‘The whole of Bootle.’

‘What brought this on, pray?’ the doctor enquired while the nurse tut-tutted. ‘The wish to have a child under such dire circumstances.’

‘Well, both me sisters are expecting, as well as me eldest daughter. I didn’t want to be left out. Besides . . .’ Orla paused.

‘Besides what?’ the doctor prompted.

‘Normally, I wouldn’t have dreamt of having another baby. But things aren’t normal, are they? I’ll be bringing a child into the world that wouldn’t have been born otherwise. It seems to be a fruitful thing to do with me last few months on earth.’

The doctor’s face broke into an unexpected smile. ‘That’s rather tortured reasoning, Mrs Lavin. Even so, I admire your spirit. I’ll have your notes transferred to the maternity hospital straight away where my friend, Dr Abrahams, will look after you from now on. I’ll ask him to keep me informed of your progress. You can be assured he will do all he can to see you have a healthy baby.’ He went over to the desk and behind his back Orla stuck out her tongue at the nurse.

Alice opened the door to the house in Pearl Street in answer to Vicky’s knock. ‘Hello, luv. Come in. Orla will be pleased to see you.’

Vicky gasped when she was ushered into the parlour. ‘I didn’t realise you were having a party.’ Every chair was occupied and there were people sitting on the floor. The light was switched off and dozens of candles and night lights burnt steadily on the mantelpiece. The flames flickered wildly from a sudden draught. There was music, very subdued, from a record player in the corner: Frank Sinatra singing ‘Pennies from Heaven’. Voices came from the living room, the rattle of dishes from the kitchen.

‘It’s not a party,’ Alice said. ‘It’s often like this. You must come more, luv. The world and his wife are welcome as far as Orla is concerned.’

‘Vicky!’ Orla shouted from across the room. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes brighter than the candles. She looked more alive than anyone else in the room, in a white satin kimono, vividly patterned, and high-heeled red shoes. Her face was heavily made up and she wore too much jewellery. ‘Give us a kiss. Everyone who comes has to give me a kiss. What would you like to drink? Micky, someone, get Vicky a drink.’

‘I’d like a glass of white wine, please,’ Vicky said to the young man who was Cormac’s cousin. His name was Maurice, she remembered. She went over and kissed Orla on the cheek. ‘I’ve brought you some samples of our new perfume. It’s called Tender.’

‘Tender is the night,’ Orla crooned. ‘Let’s try some.’ She unscrewed the tiny bottle and dabbed behind her ears. The heady scent of spring flowers mingled with the smell of melting wax. ‘Oh, it’s the gear. You and Cormac will be millionaires one day.’

‘You’ve given me an idea for our next one. It’s going
to be more musky than this, for evenings. We could call this one Tender Mornings and the other Tender Nights. It would probably be best if we brought them out together.’

As was her way, Vicky melted into the background and found Maurice by the door with her wine. Fion was smiling up at her from the settee. She patted the arm. ‘Sit down, Vic.’

‘Thank you,’ Vicky whispered. ‘Who are all these people?’

‘Laceys, mostly. Don’t forget, there’s fourteen of us altogether, seventeen with Bernadette and her kids, and twenty-five if you include Uncle Billy’s lot. Some people are neighbours, some are friends from school.’ Fion laughed. ‘When I was young I could never understand why our Orla was so popular. She was horrible to everyone as far as I could see, yet they all liked her. I used to be as nice as pie, but no one liked me a bit.’

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

‘It is. It might still be true for all I know. The thing is, I don’t care any more.’

‘You’d never think Orla was . . .’ Vicky blushed. She’d been about to say something very tactless.

‘Dying?’ Fion supplied. ‘Oh, it’s all right. You can say it quite openly. We all do. Orla doesn’t mind. You’ve heard of people who make a drama out of a crisis, well that’s what Orla’s doing with knobs on. The sicker she gets, the more dramatic the crisis will get. She’s even got her stage make-up on, see! In a few months’ time we’ll all be gathered round her bed waving candles and singing hymns, and she’ll be smiling at us angelically from the pillow. She’s enjoying herself no end.’ Fion’s voice changed, became softer. ‘I don’t half admire her. I didn’t realise how much I loved her till the last few weeks. She’s got more character in her little finger than most
people have in their whole body. Did you know she’s expecting a baby?’

‘Yes, Cormac said. It’s incredible news. And you are too – congratulations.’

‘Ta. Can you feel it?’

‘The baby?’

‘No, the atmosphere. The whole house is throbbing with emotion. It’s almost tangible. Every now and then I have to catch me breath.’

‘Yes, I think I can, feel it, that is.’ But she wasn’t part of it. Vicky felt more like an observer than a participant in the tragic, enchanted events taking place in the tiny house in Pearl Street. She wished with all her heart she were a Lacey and these people would belong to her and she to them.

Cormac stared up at the third-floor window of the house in Camden. It was an elegant house, slightly shabby, situated on a busy road full of traffic on its way to and from the centre of London. The curtains on the window that so attracted his attention were tightly drawn against the brilliant sunshine of a lovely May morning. Perhaps Andrea was still asleep after her night out with her brute of a boyfriend. Perhaps they were
both
still asleep.

He’d looked like a brute to Cormac. His name was Alex and he had a remarkably heavy build for a banker, as well as a coarse face, a rasping voice and a plummy accent. He’d hated him on the spot.

Worst of all, Andrea hadn’t been the least bit pleased to see him. She’d actually been reluctant to let him in, turning her face away when he tried to kiss her – he’d arrived in London late afternoon the day before and had driven straight to her flat. Alex had yet to make an appearance.

‘I didn’t answer your letters because I didn’t want to,’
she said coldly. She wore tight black trousers and a long silky blouse. Her perfect feet were bare, the toenails painted crimson. ‘Anyway, I’ve been away for most of the time since Christmas, in the States doing a fashion shoot. We went all over the place. I didn’t find your letters till I got back last week. Did you need to send so many?’

‘I thought we were in love,’ Cormac stammered. ‘I thought . . .’ He stared at her lovely cold face. ‘Weren’t we?’

‘You may have been, darling. I certainly wasn’t.’

‘But you said . . .’

‘People say all sorts of things in the heat of passion. They don’t have to mean them.’

‘
I
did.’

Her expression softened slightly. ‘I’m afraid
I
didn’t, Cormac. I thought we were just having a nice little affair to pass the time. I won’t deny that I enjoyed it. But it meant nothing.’ Her smooth brow puckered in a frown. ‘I could have sworn you felt the same, darling. You didn’t give the impression of being madly in love.’

A key had turned in the door, and a figure in a pinstriped suit carrying a bowler hat, a brolly, and a briefcase lumbered in: Alex.

‘Who’s this?’ he said suspiciously – and rudely, Cormac thought.

‘Remember that little job I did a few months ago for a company called Lacey’s of Liverpool?’ Andrea trilled. ‘Well, this is Cormac Lacey. Cormac, meet my boyfriend, Alex Everett.’

‘How do you do,’ Cormac said courteously as he shook hands with a reluctant Alex who didn’t speak. ‘Let me know, won’t you, Andrea, if you’d like to do the job again? As I said, we’re launching the perfume in June.’

‘I’m sure I would, Cormac.’

‘Why doesn’t he get in touch with the agency?’ Alex growled.

‘Don’t be such a sourpuss, darling. It’s only natural he should approach me personally. I was best friends with Cormac and his partner, Vicky. Wasn’t I, Cormac?’

‘The very best,’ Cormac agreed.

He’d left the flat, thought about driving back to Liverpool straight away, but felt too tired, so booked into a hotel nearby. He lay in bed for ages, staring impassively at the ceiling, feeling curiously empty, trying to discern what was wrong with him. Dawn was breaking by the time he fell asleep. Even so, he woke little more than an hour later, too early for breakfast. He left immediately to come and stare at Andrea’s window.

Something in him was missing, a chemical in his brain maybe, because Andrea was right. He hadn’t been in love with her. He’d realised almost straight away, as soon as he’d left the flat, expecting to be heartbroken, but finding he didn’t care. He’d
thought
he was in love. He’d badly wanted to be. It was what men and women did: fall in love, get married, have children. The same thing had happened with Pol with whom he’d expected to spend the rest of his life, yet hadn’t minded too much handing over to his cousin, Maurice.

Andrea was a shallow human being, he told himself, and if he hadn’t been so anxiously looking for a soulmate he wouldn’t have allowed himself to be so easily taken in.

Why was he gazing at the window of this shallow human being who could well appear any minute accompanied by her brutish banker boyfriend in his bowler hat?

Cormac had no idea. It was as if he expected the window, glinting so brightly in the sunshine, to send him back an answer, tell him what was missing.

The thing had gone, the link that was missing, the night of his twenty-first when Aunt Cora had informed him Alice wasn’t his mam. He hadn’t been able to love anyone since then. There was a coldness in his heart. He wasn’t sure who he was any more, where he came from, precisely where he stood in the world.

If only Vicky were there and he could tell her how he felt. He could talk to Vicky about anything on earth in a way he’d never talked to anyone else. He’d never discussed what Aunt Cora had told him because he’d never felt the need. But he felt the need now. Vicky would tell him what was was wrong with him. She had answers, solutions, for every problem on earth. He urgently wanted Vicky and it would take hours to get back to St Helens when they could speak. In which case he’d telephone. There was a call box in the lobby of the hotel where he’d stayed.

Cormac ran like the wind back to the hotel. In the lobby he emptied his pockets of change and arranged the coins in little piles on the box: pennies, sixpences, shillings. He was about to dial the factory when he remembered it wasn’t yet eight o’clock and Vicky would still be at home.

‘Hello.’ Her voice was quietly efficient when she answered.

‘Vicky, it’s Cormac.’ The words tumbled over each other. ‘I need to talk. I’m in a terrible state, Vic. There’s something wrong.’

‘Cormac! Have you had an accident or something? Is Andrea all right? Are you still in London?’

‘No to the first question, yes to the others. Oh, damn! This thing needs more coins already. Hold on a mo.’

‘Give me the number and I’ll ring back,’ Vicky said crisply. ‘A long-distance call will eat money as fast as you speak.’

Cormac shoved a pile of pennies in the box, reeled off the number, put down the receiver and snatched it up again a few seconds later when it rang.

‘You know you asked once why I called Alice Alice?’ he said immediately, sinking down on to a black plastic chair. The long leaves of a pot plant brushed against his cheek.

‘I remember, Cormac. And you’re calling now, a whole year later, all the way from London, to tell me why?’

‘Because she isn’t me mother. Aunt Cora is. I was born the same night as Maurice and she swapped us over in the hospital.’ His voice rose to a wail. ‘Oh, Vic! I don’t know who I am. Least I do, but I’m not the person I want to be, the person I always thought I was. I’m someone else entirely.’

There was silence from the other end of the line for quite a while as Vicky took in this startling fact. ‘Don’t be silly, Cormac,’ she said eventually. ‘You’re Cormac Lacey and you always have been. You belong to Alice. They put you in her arms in the hospital and she took you home and brought you up. As far as Alice is concerned, you’re her son.’

‘And as far as Auntie Cora is concerned I’m
her
son.’

There was another pause, then Vicky said in a strangely puzzled voice, ‘But you can’t be.’

‘Yes, I can, Vic. Somehow, I believed Cora when she said she switched me and Maurice around. It’s the sort of thing she would do.’ Cormac shuddered. ‘She’s evil.’ And she was his mother!

Then Vicky said in what Cormac called her ‘school-mistressy’ voice, ‘I’m surprised at you, Cormac. You’re supposed to be so clever. How could you not know such a basic fact?’