The Girl From Barefoot House (54 page)

Until then they’d been living in Huskisson Street, and she had been making him better. When she’d found him in Miami he’d been close to a physical breakdown. Now he was her lover, her child, her patient. She made him rest and fed him, but she couldn’t stop him from drinking, and didn’t try.

There were times when he tried to stop himself. She could tell when they occurred. He would be scratchy and bad-tempered. He would forget things that had happened the day before, things she’d said. After a while he would break out in a sweat and his face would glisten, as if he had a fever. His hands would shake. ‘I think I’ll have a drink,’ he would say, and go over to the pine sideboard where she openly kept the whisky and brandy – the drinks she knew he liked best – pour himself a large glass and immediately be all right again.

He needed drink to keep going as much as he needed oxygen to breathe. He never had hangovers. He had a drink instead. As he seemed able to function normally after drinking an amount that would have made Josie senseless for a week, she reckoned it was sensible to leave
him alone. He knew about Alcoholics Anonymous. If he wanted to go, he would. At the same time, she knew it was killing him. She went to the library, and read with mounting horror the various ways alcohol could kill. It could stop the liver working, damage the heart, cause all sorts of cancers. She thought angrily that he wasn’t being fair on her. She had him back, and she wanted to keep him, but she realised there was nothing she could do.

They had been in the new house a week when Dinah and Peter came home from Cuba. Dinah had come especially to see her dad.

‘In case you disappear again.’ She hugged Jack tearfully. Josie had never known her normally withdrawn daughter be so demonstrative. Perhaps being in love had done it, broken down an emotional barrier. She and Peter were obviously crazy about each other, though they weren’t married. Josie would have liked her daughter to become a Kavanagh. There was a chance they might stay in England. Peter had an interview with a trade union in London in a few days’ time.

‘I’ll never go away again,’ Jack said. Was it just her imagination, but did he look sad when he said that? She was concerned that he regarded the house as a prison. He’d been very low in Miami, allowing himself to be bundled on a plane, virtually kidnapped. After the glamour of Miami and Los Angeles and the hubbub of New York, how on earth could she expect him to settle in a bungalow, no matter how exotically it was decorated, in a quiet suburb of Liverpool?

It must have been her imagination, the sad look. Not long afterwards Jack declared he hadn’t felt so fit in a long time. His eyes had begun to sparkle with the old, irresistible warmth. All of a sudden life in Mosely Drive
became almost as good as it had been in New York thirty years ago.

Josie was working mornings only at Barefoot House. After much consideration, she had made Richard assistant managing director. Cathy Connors was more experienced, but she and Lynne Goode didn’t get on, and giving her the job would have created waves. Anyroad, Richard had been there from the start, when they’d only been producing a few books a year. He knew as much about the company as Josie.

One dull October day when she and Jack planned to go shopping in town, then to the cinema, followed by dinner, she came home at one o’clock, and the music was audible when she turned into Mosely Drive, even though the car windows were closed. I wouldn’t like to live next door to
them
, she thought, and was horrified to discover her own house was the culprit. It was Irish music, the sort she loved – but possibly the neighbours didn’t.

In her lounge, two young men were playing the fiddle with an awesome brilliance, and a girl was shaking a tambourine and singing ‘The Isle of Innisfree’ in a clear, sweet voice.

‘Hi, sweetheart.’ Jack gave her a hug, and yelled, ‘This is Mona, Liam and Dave. I met them at the pub. They’re singing at another pub tonight in Dingle. I thought we’d go.’ The young people nodded at Josie, but didn’t stop playing. She noticed a man, much older, sitting in an armchair, tapping his feet to the music. ‘Oh, and this is Greg. He played at the Cavern when it first opened, New Orleans jazz. The group still play occasional gigs.’ Greg smiled and nodded.

‘Out of interest, will Greg be using our house to
rehearse in, as well as Mona, Liam and Dave?’ Josie enquired.

‘They’re not rehearsing, sweetheart. This is by special request, it’s my favourite.’

‘I see.’ She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, not sure whether to be annoyed or not. The music stopped, and suddenly it was, ‘What did you think, Jack?’ ‘Would you like us to play something else, Jack?’

His head appeared around the door. ‘What’s your favourite Irish song, sweetheart?’

‘“Molly Malone”,’ she said automatically, and minutes later the fiddles began to play, and Mona began to sing, ‘“In Dublin’s fair city, where the girls are so pretty …”’

And Josie began to cry, because it was so much like New York and never, in her wildest dreams, had she imagined she would have those days back again. But it seemed she had.

By Christmas, Jack was at the centre of a network of friends. The house seemed to have become a meeting place for people of all ages, and the phone never stopped ringing. Nine times out of ten it was for him, inviting him to a party, a gig, for a drink, for a meal, to a concert or a play – and the wife, of course. They had tickets for this, tickets for that, and would Jack and the missus like to come? They had friends over from the States, or Australia, or some other country, and would very much like them to meet Jack. Oh, and Josie, too. Their brother or sister was up from London, and had been told about Jack Coltrane. Could Jack pop over for a drink and a chat? And don’t hesitate to bring Josie if she’d like to come.

Josie always went. Life had become almost surreal, she was never without a sense of
déjà vu
, or the feeling it was
all a dream and one day she’d wake up and Jack would be gone, and she would be living somewhere other than their little palace on Mosely Drive. She felt very much in Jack’s shadow, but didn’t care. With the same glow of pride she’d had thirty years before, she watched people fussing over him, wanting his opinion on everything under the sun. She noticed the way women tried to grab his attention, flirt, but it didn’t bother her. He was
hers
. Everyone assumed they were married, and she supposed they still were in the eyes of God. Jack seemed to have forgotten they were divorced, and always referred to her as his wife, so she called him her husband because in her heart she’d always felt he was.

She and Jack shared history. They’d had two children and one had died, and only she knew he was a hopeless drunk.

Dottie Venables came to stay, having driven from London in her battered Mini. She wore her leather jacket and jeans, and had brought a few bare necessities in a plastic bag. She was immediately bowled over by Jack and he by her. They told each other dirty jokes, tore the government to pieces, went to the pub together when Josie was at her desk in Barefoot House, and matched each other, drink for drink.

Francie arrived on one of the nights she was there. He brought his new girlfriend, Anthea, who would never see fifty again. Francie was already best mates with Jack. They had the same taste in music, and went to football matches together. Josie had never known such an hilarious evening. They swopped outrageous stories. Dottie told them about the time she’d slept with an orang-utan.

‘Not a real one?’ Josie gasped, worried the conversation was taking an unhealthy turn.

‘Of course not. I met him at a party. I didn’t realise he looked like an orang-utan till I woke up next morning. I told him to get lost, go swing from a tree, and he wanted to know if my chin had been gnawed by rats.’

‘I remember a party once,’ Jack said. ‘I fell asleep on the couch, and when I woke up it had turned into an orgy. I thought it was a dream and went to sleep again.’ He laughed. ‘My one and only orgy, and I slept the whole way through.’

He was describing the party they’d gone to at Maya’s on New Year’s Eve, Josie realised.

‘I’ve always fancied an orgy,’ Francie said longingly. ‘But they don’t seem to have them in Liverpool.’

‘You’re very lucky,’ Dottie said. She nestled in a chair, a glass of whisky in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Francie and Anthea had gone, Jack was in his study, writing an article. It was a new venture. He’d already sold two on the theme of an American’s impression of Britain in the eighties. ‘You’ve got a bloke I’d sell me soul for. A great improvement on the other one, the stuffed shirt.’

‘Ben?’

‘Yeah, Ben. Not your type, not like Jack. Mind you, he’s everyone’s type.’ The leathery face creased in a suggestive smile. ‘I could eat the bugger.’

Josie frowned. ‘Do you mean he’s like a chameleon? He’s all things to all men sort of thing?’

‘I don’t mean any such thing.’ Dottie paused. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps he
is
all things to all men. It’s not that Jack changes, but men see him as the person they want as their best friend, and women the romantic lover
they’ve always desired. I’ve never envied a woman before because she was married, but I envy you being married to Jack Coltrane.’

‘He drinks far too much, Dottie. You must have noticed.’ Dottie was one of the few people she felt she could open up to. ‘I worry about it all the time. I should stop him, but I don’t know how.’

‘Leave him be,’ Dottie said brusquely. ‘It’s his body, not yours. You might find Jack the reformed alcoholic an entirely different kettle of fish to Jack the drunk. The drink keeps him going, it’s fuel for his engine. Without it, the engine will pack up and die.’

‘He’s going to die, anyroad, at the rate he drinks.’

‘Let him die his own way.’ Dottie waved her cigarette. ‘These are shortening me life, but I’ve no intention of stopping. I enjoy them too much, I need them. I’d sooner go to an early grave then give up me fags.’

There’d been no sign of Ben since she’d come back from Miami, not surprising under the circumstances. When Jack had first wondered why Peter’s father didn’t come to visit when he lived less than a mile away, Josie told him they had lived together for three years. ‘You advised me to marry someone else, remember?’ she said virtuously. ‘Well, me and Ben didn’t quite go that far.’

On Saturday Ben had been invited to Mosely Drive for tea, because now the two families had a grandson between them and they couldn’t go on not meeting for the rest of their lives. Josie wasn’t looking forward to it.

Peter had got the job in London with the trade union, just as Dinah discovered she was pregnant. It was May again when Josie and Jack went to London to be with their daughter when she had Oliver, nine pounds six
ounces, and the most beautiful baby boy Josie had ever seen.

‘Pleased to meet you, luv,’ she whispered to the fat, lobster-coloured ball that was her first grandchild. ‘You’ll have lots more, won’t you?’ she said to Dinah, who was sitting proudly up in bed, despite having had three stitches. Peter looked exhausted, as if it had been he who’d given birth.

‘I’m not sure whether to have another two or three. What do you think, Pete?’

‘I couldn’t stand another one,’ Peter groaned.

‘Come on, Pete.’ Jack slapped him on the back. ‘I’ll treat you to a cup of tea.’

The men left, and Dinah said, ‘Mum?’

‘Yes, luv?’ Josie was examining the tiny fingers, the pink toes. ‘He’s perfect,’ she breathed.

‘Mum, you’ve no idea how much it’s meant to me, you and Dad being around when I was having Oliver. For the first time in me life I feel part of a proper family.’ Dinah’s eyes were unnaturally bright.

‘I know exactly how much it’s meant, luv,’ Josie said softly. ‘I feel the same. I’ve got you, your dad, a grandson, Peter.’ She sighed blissfully. ‘It’s a long time since I felt so happy.’ Jack had probably made an excuse to go to the Gents to swig half the contents of the little flask he carried in his hip pocket. But, then, you couldn’t have everything.

It was an awkward meal. Ben turned out to be the first person in the world to hate Jack Coltrane on sight. He hardly spoke, and then only to mutter a reply to something said to him. Josie found herself paying an awful lot of attention to Oliver, now a month old and
already smiling broadly. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ she said several times.

‘Yes,’ Ben would grudgingly agree.

Jack didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. He drank glass after glass of wine and regaled them with bits of gossip from his time spent in the film industry.

For some reason Ben’s normally good-natured face got darker and darker. As soon as the meal finished he pushed back his chair and declared he had to go. ‘Perhaps you and Dinah could bring Oliver to see me while you’re home?’ he said stiffly to his son. He clearly had no intention of returning to Mosely Drive.

Josie went with him to his car. ‘Thank you for coming.’

‘Thanks for asking.’ He unlocked the door, opened it, then angrily turned on her. ‘I don’t take kindly to being dumped for such a … a
blaggard
,’ he snapped, almost choking on the words. ‘And I’ve never known anyone down so much wine with a meal. Is he an alcoholic?’

‘Mind your own business,’ Josie said coldly.

‘Then I take it that he is.’

‘Take it any way you like.’ She went back into the house and slammed the door.

That night they had dinner in a new vegetarian restaurant in town, where one of Jack’s friends had an exhibition of paintings – one of the garish offerings already hung in their hall. Before long their table was packed, and Jack was at the centre of an admiring audience.

‘Is it always like this?’ Dinah enquired.

‘Always, luv. Here, give us Oliver, so you can eat your pudding in peace.’

‘It makes me feel quite proud he’s my father. It’s like
having Robert Redford for a dad, or Paul Newman. I’m sure everyone’s dead envious.’

‘It’s a nice feeling, isn’t it?’ No one asked Josie what she did. They didn’t know she owned one of the most successful small publishers in the country. She was Jack Coltrane’s wife, which was enough as far as they were concerned.