Queen of the Mersey (52 page)

‘She could have.’

‘We talked about it when we were in Southport,’ Mary reminded her. ‘We told her what we’d done.’

‘And she told us Carl Merton was still alive.’

‘So we wouldn’t be frightened, knowing the truth. And she said he’d only come into the bedroom because he was drunk. Should we tell her we know he’s been dead all along?’

‘It would only upset her, bring everything back.’

Mary made a face. ‘I’m not sure if I’ll sleep tonight, knowing what we did.’

‘I can’t imagine ever sleeping again.’ Hester shuddered. ‘Would you like a drink, Mary?’ She got to her feet. ‘I think I need a very strong cup of tea.’

‘I’d love one, Hes. No sugar.’

‘You’ve stopped taking sugar? You used to take two spoons, heaped.’

‘Well, I have to think of me figure. I put on loads of weight last time I was pregnant. I’ve tried to be more careful this time.’ Mary rubbed her swollen stomach and dropped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Hes, like I said before. I never think before I act, Mam always tells me that. The last thing I wanted was to spoil things between you and Duncan.’

‘Then what were you doing in his flat?’ Hester asked hotly. ‘Why did you have sex if you didn’t want to spoil things? Why, Mary? Why?’ she demanded. ‘He was my boyfriend.’

‘I was jealous, that’s why. I wanted to prove something to meself, I’m not even sure now what it was. It was all my fault, Hes. Duncan didn’t want to do it, he just couldn’t help himself.’

Hester laughed. ‘Poor old Duncan, forced to have sex when he didn’t want to. I bet he hated it.’

‘I think he did.’

‘I won’t ask if he hates it still, it would be rude. I’d better go and make that tea before I tear your eyes out. Would Flora like something?’

‘Have you any orange juice?’

‘There’s some in the fridge.’

Mary followed her into the kitchen, Flora holding on to her skirt. ‘Hes, is there the faintest chance of us being friends again?’

‘No chance at all,’ Hester said bluntly.

‘I’d love it if we were.’

‘I wouldn’t.’

‘But you’re over Duncan now, aren’t you? Mam said you had a great time in America. Did you meet anyone there? A man, like?’

‘Yes.’ Hester put the kettle on the stove. Her lips were tightly pursed. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘What was he like?’

‘Gorgeous. He loved me, but I wasn’t sure if I loved him. I’m sure now, but I don’t know what good that will do. I’m never likely to see him again, am I? I can’t leave Liverpool until Mummy’s better, and there’s no way he’d leave Hollywood. I wish I was hard, like you.’ She turned to Mary, her blue eyes full of tears. ‘Oh, Mary! I’m so unhappy. I’m never going to get married, have children. Every time I fall in love, it all goes horribly wrong.’

Mary took her old friend into her arms. ‘There, there,’ she whispered, gently patting her back. ‘There, there.’

Christmas at the Olivers’ was almost normal compared to the disastrous one the year before. At least, it started off normally.

On Christmas Eve, Agnes had taken Laura to have her hair set, Hester had bought her a new frock in soft, pale blue jersey. It was a long while since she’d worn anything so pretty and feminine. Roddy gave her a gold locket with pictures of her children inside; Gus had bought her a chiffon scarf, all the colours of the rainbow.

‘You look like the girl I married,’ Roddy said softly when Laura came downstairs in her new frock. Her black hair had grown and was a mass of curls and waves, and her cheeks were pink.

When they sat down to dinner, Hester held her breath. Was this the beginning of the end? Would Mummy soon be completely better? Perhaps it wasn’t far off the time when she could go back to America, start living again. She recalled it was a long time since she’d heard from Steven. At first he’d written every week, then every month, but there’d been nothing at all since October, not even a Christmas card.

The meal went well until they reached the pudding stage, when her mother suddenly, and for no apparent reason, burst into tears. ‘I’m so sad,’ she sobbed. ‘I feel so terribly, terribly sad.’

Roddy put his arms around her, Gus leapt to his feet and began to stroke her hair, Hester reached across the table and took her hands, but all the love in the world couldn’t stop Laura from feeling so terribly, terribly sad.

Agnes Tate thoroughly enjoyed her Christmas. She went to church first thing, then to the church hall where dinner was being prepared for twenty or so old age pensioners who would otherwise have eaten alone. After the old people had finished, played a few games, and had been taken home, she went back to her flat, feeling virtuous, and had a late Christmas dinner with her card-playing friends upstairs, all widows like herself – Agnes took it for granted that by now she really was a widow. They drank a bit too much and swapped some rather risqué jokes. Agnes didn’t contribute, the only jokes she knew were downright filthy.

On Boxing Day, she slept late, snacked on some cold turkey, then went to a sherry party thrown by a member of the Townswomen’s Guild. She’d never realised you could enjoy yourself and behave yourself, both at the same time.

Queenie and Theo spent a quiet few days in the apartment on top of Freddy’s.

They’d spent a blissful two weeks in Kythira in November and Queen of the Mersey had been waiting for them in the port of Catania, Sicily. The boat was now under a new captain, William Porter. Trefor Jones had started his own business and couldn’t spare the time. Whether this was true or not, Queenie didn’t know.

Now they were both exhausted after the hectic runup to Christmas. In a few days, the sales would begin, and things would be even more hectic.

On Christmas Day, they went to the Adelphi for dinner, where a jazz quartet offered foot-tapping renditions of ‘White Christmas’ and other seasonal numbers.

The meal was perfect, the wine potent, the atmosphere terrific. Looking around, Queenie wished they belonged with a crowd like most people there, that she had a father, a normal mother, sisters, brothers, that she could have got to know Theo’s daughters, that she belonged . She had friends, good friends, but they had their own lives to lead. Most of all, she wished she had a child, but it seemed that was not to be.

‘Enjoying yourself, darling?’ Theo whispered in her ear.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said, turning to him. The love in his eyes made her want to weep.

Nothing else in the world mattered when she had Theo.

The new baby was called Christopher; Chris for short. Duncan was dead pleased it was a boy, Mary too, though she wouldn’t have minded another girl. ‘Now we’ve got a perfect family,’ Duncan crowed.

They did their best to make sure Flora’s nose wasn’t put out of joint by the new arrival, and made more of a fuss of her than usual, which suited Flora down to the ground. She seemed quite taken with her little brother, insisted on helping to change his nappies, push him in the pram, and demanding a turn on her mother’s breast when Chris had finished. But Mary was having none of it. ‘You’ve got teeth. You’d only bite.’

Chris was a handsome little chap with tufts of dark brown hair, like little bushes, on his otherwise bald head. Unlike his sister, he slept all night and was no trouble at all.

At twelve o’clock on Christmas Day, when Chris was just one month old, the Maguires set out for Glover Street. It was the custom for all the Monaghans to spend the day with their mother. Mary wore a lovely white lace blouse that Duncan had bought her for Christmas – she hoped her breasts wouldn’t leak.

Flora, conceited little madam that she was, had refused to wear a cardigan that would have hidden her new taffeta frock, pink with puffed sleeves and an enormous sash.

‘If she’s that fussy now, at twenty-one months, what on earth will she be like when she’s older?’ Duncan chuckled affectionately.

The house in Glover Street was packed to capacity. ‘Next year, we’ll take over Bootle Town Hall,’ Dick gasped, as he struggled through the living room in an attempt to reach the kitchen. ‘Our mam definitely needs another lavvy installing, even two.’

A perspiring Vera was sitting in a chair, hidden beneath layers of children, big and small. They all adored their nana. Although her daughters-in-law helped on these occasions, working out between them who would bring the cake, the pudding, the mince pies, the trifle, the turkeys, and other delicacies, it was Vera who did the real hard work. She’d been up since dawn, peeling spuds, nipping the tails off Brussels sprouts, buttering half a dozen loaves, and making the gravy well ahead, otherwise she’d forget and everyone would sit down, half in the living room, the other half in the parlour, their dinner going cold, and her in a desperate panic while she hurriedly prepared a lumpy mess.

After dinner, Mary went upstairs with Chris who was due for a feed. She took him into her old bedroom and found Diane, their Charlie’s wife, who was also feeding her latest baby.

‘It’s like a madhouse down there,’ Mary remarked, opening her blouse.

‘I know, it always is, but I wouldn’t miss it for worlds.’

‘I wouldn’t either.’ Mary remembered the Christmas she had missed. It had been dead horrible. She shuddered, remembering, and comforted herself with the thought it would never happen again.

As soon as dinner was over, the men went to the pub, taking Duncan with them.

They came back for a lively tea, everyone watched television or played games and, as soon as the pubs opened, the men disappeared again and didn’t return until after closing time. More tea was made, the leftovers finished off, and sleeping children were collected off beds all over the house. Everyone kissed Vera and said what a lovely day they’d had, and all of a sudden, the house was dead quiet.

Vera was too exhausted to move out of the chair, even though she longed for her bed. Now that everyone had gone, she was aware how hard and fast her heart was pounding. Her arms were shaking and wouldn’t keep still.

‘Oh, Lord, I’m so tired,’ she said aloud. Despite this, she wouldn’t have changed the day one whit. She loved the feel of little bodies pressing against her, little hands stroking her hair, her face, her arms, pinching her elbows.

She loved the way her lads placed big, sloppy kisses on her cheek when they came and went, or if they were just walking past and felt like it, saying, ‘Love you, Mam.’ Mary did the same.

She was glad their Mary seemed settled with that nice Duncan chap. The relationship hadn’t exactly started off well, but they appeared happy enough with each other now, and their kids were little darlings; all her grandchildren were. If only Albert could see them, she thought tenderly. If he’d been there, the day would have been perfect. She’d been dead lucky, having such a wonderful husband and nine lovely kids.

The shaking in her arms was becoming quite painful. She twitched her shoulders, trying to shake the pain away, but it didn’t work. And now she was having difficulty breathing and there was another pain in her chest, quite fierce.

Vera closed her eyes, little realising that she would never open them again.

It was Iris who found her. Dick and Iris still lived across the road in the flat once occupied by Agnes and Queenie Tate. She’d come to help give her mother-in-law a hand tidying up the house, which had looked a tip the night before when she’d left.

She found Vera in a chair by the fire that had burnt itself out. At first, Iris thought she’d fallen asleep and gave her hand a little shake. But the hand was as cold as ice.

Vera’s big, kind heart had beaten its last during the night.

Six days later, on New Year’s Eve, a Requiem Mass was held in St James’s Church.

Vera’s children were finding it hard to accept that their mother was dead.

They’d imagined Mam being there when they died themselves, holding their hands, trying to kiss them better, saying how much she loved them.

The church was packed. Vera had friends all over Bootle. Four of the Monaghan lads carried the coffin with its precious burden into the church, the other four carried it out to the hearse, which would take it to Ford cemetery, where their beloved mam would rest in peace in the same grave as her darling Albert.

A cruel, freezing wind carried little specks of snow across the desolate cemetery. The heap of soil beside the grave was a little mountain of ice and the mourners shivered inside their thick coats.

Laura Oliver had taken Vera’s death badly. ‘It’s the end of everything,’ she said to Roddy when Vera’s body was lowered into the grave. Her children, Mary first, queued to throw in little lumps of earth that landed with a hollow bang on the coffin that had a brass crucifix fixed to the lid.

‘Don’t think like that, darling.’ Roddy squeezed her arm.

‘But it is!’ Laura said dully. ‘For years now, there’s been Vera, Queenie and me. We went through so much together, but now Vera’s gone and nothing will ever be the same again.’

‘Darling, tomorrow’s the start of a new year, nineteen fifty-seven. Let’s look to the future, not the past.’ God, it had been a lousy two years, Roddy thought.

First that business with Hester, then Laura virtually losing her mind, and now Vera. He comforted himself with the thought that the years before had been good ones. He and Laura had been happy most of the time. And there’d be good years again. After all, if a person didn’t think that way, they may as well be dead.

‘Steven rang on Christmas Day,’ Queenie told Hester, when everyone was walking back to the cars. ‘He said the weather was lovely in Hollywood. The complex he lives in has its own pool. He’d actually been swimming! It’s hard to believe, isn’t it, when it’s so cold here.’

‘Did he ask about me?’ Queenie had warned her Steven wasn’t to be trusted, so she hadn’t mentioned they’d been about to become romantically involved.

‘I can’t remember, dear,’ she said vaguely, which Hester took to mean he hadn’t.

‘He’s got a new girlfriend. She was in that film he made earlier in the year.

She sounds a beauty; half Spanish and halfIrish. He’s sending us a photo. I’ll show it you when it arrives.’

The wake was held in Glover Street, starting off quietly; sherry was sipped, sandwiches handed around. The atmosphere was sombre, everyone dressed in black, wondering if they’d ever smile again. No one sat in Vera’s chair. Iris and another daughter-in-law had looked after the smaller children, those too young to attend a funeral. They too seemed aware of the seriousness of the occasion and were subdued.