The Liverpool Trilogy (114 page)

She squeezed his fingers. ‘You don’t know me, either, do you? There’s a cheque on that sideboard made payable to you. It’s for three grand, and that’ll cover the
cost of a semi on her favourite avenue.’

‘But Molly—’

‘But nothing. I’m a rich woman by most standards, so I’ve no price, Don. You move with her. I’m quite happy with things as they are, and I’ve nobody to put in my
will, have I? Get her settled and sorted, but don’t forsake me. You can’t just walk away from Tess, lad. You’d get no respect from me if you did.’ She stood up. ‘Now,
I’ve a bit of ham salad lingering in the back of me Frigidaire. It’s been looking at me funny all day, and I’m sure it’s going to ask for its old-age pension if I
don’t shape. Do you want a bit of pickled beetroot with it?’

She was priceless. Pickled beetroot, a large cheque, ham salad, all the same to her.

In the kitchen, Molly rattled about and heaved a secret sigh of relief. She loved the bones of the man, but she’d found herself a bit unsettled of late. It was nice having a younger chap
who came and made her laugh, yet she prized her independence. Everything would have to change if and when he moved in. Could she let him see her ready for bed, night cream pushed into wrinkles,
hair in a net to keep it grease-free, Sam and Uke on the bed, a Georgette Heyer propped on that little reading slope? And the reading glasses sliding down her nose?

Molly prided herself on her sense of fair play. She’d been angry with Don when he’d left his wife on the day of the big panic attack, so she would probably be scared to death if he
abandoned altogether a woman who might become suicidal. It sounded as if Tess had guarded so fiercely the child inside herself that she had failed to mature emotionally.

Then there was the other point, already considered. Molly wouldn’t be able to mooch around in a towelling robe for hours on a Sunday morning. Her experimental cooking, which had been a
source of hilarity thus far, would surely cease to be funny once Don became a permanent fixture. She needed to do a course in scrambled eggs on toast before inflicting her culinary disasters on any
man. Matt hadn’t minded, because he’d loved to cook, and many meals had been eaten in restaurants.

Also, that poor woman deserved her new house. Don didn’t sleep with his wife, so he would still be coming here for an hour or two of light relief, doggy company and a bit of a sing-song
with accompaniment on the ukulele.

Meanwhile, Don sat with his head in his hands. Had he been completely honest with Molly? Somewhere, deep inside himself, a small flicker of love for Tess tried hard not to be extinguished. And
he remembered from moments earlier that brief yet recognizable expression of relief in Molly’s eyes. She wasn’t ready. And three thousand pounds was so small a sum in her book. He had
to accept it. Tess needed the move; Molly needed time to collect her thoughts and wave goodbye to aloneness. She wasn’t lonely, since she always found somewhere to go, a pub to sing in, a
friend to lunch with, a course to take in the evenings. He was doing no wrong.

In the dining room, he found the cheque resting beside his plate. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

Molly speared a slice of beetroot. ‘It’ll all work out,’ she said. ‘You and I do very well as we are.’

He managed a smile. ‘I need two thousand, not three.’

‘Furniture,’ she replied smartly. ‘And a better car. That bloody thing sounds like it’s got whooping cough or a bad case of diphtheria. And look at me now. Beetroot
vinegar all down me new blouse. Twenty-nine and eleven in the sale, that cost.’

Don relaxed slightly. A thirty-bob blouse, a cheque for three thousand – all of similar value according to Molly. He needed to go and face the shepherd’s pie, wanted to make sure
that Tess said nothing to the children, but he couldn’t just pick up the money and run. A degree of discomfort continued to plague him. The part of him over which he seemed to have little
control wanted to stay with his family, needed to care for Tess, even win her affection. He shivered. Someone was stepping on his grave, and that someone was Don Compton.

Worse was to come. The dogs were outside, and he and Molly had the freedom of the house. While they played on the floor, the face above his changed for a split second, and he saw Tess with a
halo blazing behind her head. Bloody hell. If this state of confusion carried on, he would end up in the hospital with his poor wife.

He drove home with the cheque hidden in his breast pocket. Tomorrow, it would go into the bank, and Tess would have no clue about its point of origin. It was from an insurance company, and he
must try to shake off the embarrassment he felt while in the company of this small piece of paper.

She didn’t ask where he’d been when he finally entered the flat. He could scarcely remember the last time she’d asked certain questions. But he volunteered a part of the truth.
‘I went to see Molly. Her books weren’t balancing.’

Still knitting rapidly, Tess advised him that his meal, minus salad, was in the oven and would be dry. ‘I didn’t say anything to Sean or Anne-Marie.’ And she wasn’t going
to start worrying about Molly Braithwaite, since Molly was a fat frump with no style whatsoever. She was Don’s employer, no more than that.

‘Your knitting’s grown,’ Don commented. Life was becoming stranger, as he now felt almost shy in the presence of his wife. ‘At that rate, you’ll have it finished by
the weekend.’ He took another mouthful of shepherd’s pie. Tess was a good cook, and the meal’s time in the oven had made a pleasant crust on top of the mash. ‘The money
came,’ he added casually. ‘The house will be in your name, and I’ll move in with you if that’s all right.’

She remained silent.

‘Two single beds,’ he added. ‘I need a firm mattress.’

‘All right.’

And ‘all right’ was as far as she got for the moment. He waited, but no further comment was made. She was one bloody infuriating, selfish cow. So why did he feel like an unworthy
teenager at the feet of a local beauty queen? She’d been hard enough to catch the first time round, and his sex life had been rationed almost as harshly as food during the war. He was mad. He
was the one in need of bloody psychiatry. ‘I can’t leave you.’ There. He’d said it.

She stared hard at him. ‘I’m not insane if that’s what’s worrying you.’

Don gritted his teeth.
No, but I very well may be
, was his silent reply. ‘I can’t leave you,’ he repeated. ‘Because somewhere, in a well-hidden part of my stupid
self, the love is still there.’

Tess raised her head. If there was ever to be a truthful moment, it had to come now. ‘That’s a debt I can’t repay properly. But I’d miss you, Don. I’ve grown used
to you.’

He sighed. People got used to bunions, he supposed. And toothache. Any repeated pain became part and parcel of existence. ‘We’ll go and look at it together tomorrow,’ he
promised.

She continued to stare at him. ‘You weren’t going to bother.’

‘I wasn’t going to move in.’

‘So what’s changed?’

‘I can’t leave you,’ he said yet again.

And she smiled. Molly’s smile lit up a room; Tess’s illuminated eternity. ‘You won’t like it,’ she told him.

‘Why?’

‘Skaters’ Trails.’

The man who loved two women began to laugh uncontrollably. ‘How do you manage to get your own way every time?’ he gasped.

She didn’t even continue to smile. ‘Because I’m beautiful.’ She stated the fact baldly. ‘But, you know, I may be wrong in this instance.’

Don stopped laughing. ‘No. You’re beautiful.’

‘I know
that
. I mean the carpet. It is a bit busy. And common. We don’t want to be the same as all the rest, do we?’

He wondered whether she was using the royal ‘we’, as she seldom spoke about them as a couple. ‘How many rooms have Skaters’ blinking Trails?’

‘Just the one.’

He decided to press her. ‘Can I change it?’

‘Of course. It’s your house.’

Recently, she had begun to forget what he had just said. ‘It will be in your name.’

‘Both names,’ was her reply. ‘Because we’ll both be leaving it to Sean and Anne-Marie. Your money, your savings, our house.’

She was now being untypically fair. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Where are the kids?’

Tess shrugged. ‘She’ll be with Karl Marx on his bike, and he’ll be up to his ears in oil doing a foreigner for a friend. I miss them. Not as they are now, but as they used to
be, all shining faces and spelling tests. I felt right. Everything felt right then.’

She was talking to him. He had to answer. ‘That’s because you were doing what you swore you’d do all those years ago. When that terrible thing happened, and not even a funeral,
you buried a bit of yourself, love. Living like that, being hungry and cold, made you determined to give your own a decent chance.’

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘But I had to work, Don. And you raised them, taught them to read and spell and count. I missed a lot of that.’

‘Blame Hitler.’

‘Oh, I do, I do.’

That was the moment when he realized why she was ill. She’d lost her own childhood, and she’d missed a lot of theirs. Her one pledge before God had been broken, and his leg was to
blame. ‘I’m sorry, love.’

‘Why? Did you shoot yourself in the knee?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Then don’t be sorry. None of this is your fault.’

Later, when Sean and Anne-Marie were asleep, Don had a quiet bath. Once dry and shaved, he crept into the bedroom and slipped under the covers. ‘It’s all right,’ he whispered.
‘I won’t be taking advantage. It’s just the leg, Tess.’ Feeling her tension, he began to stroke her hair until she settled.

She sniffed.

‘Are you crying?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Once upon a time, the most beautiful princess in the world was born by mistake in a little wooden hut. She knew she was a princess, because she had a birthmark on her cheek, a beauty spot
given only to people of true blue blood. She moved with all the pride and grace of royalty, and—’

‘And finished up in a launderette on Smithdown Road,’ she said.

Don tutted. ‘No. On Menlove Avenue with leaded lights in the windows and a horrible carpet on the floor.’

‘Shut up.’

‘But a prince with a limp tore up the carpet and bought a blue one to match her knitting and her eyes.’

Tess blinked wetness from her eyes; she would not cry.

‘And they lived almost happily together.’ He lifted her hair and buried his nose in the nape of her neck. So sweet, the scent of this woman’s flesh. ‘Except for motor
bikes, oil on their son’s feet and separate beds.’

‘Go to sleep, Gordon.’

He hated his full name. ‘Call me that again, and I’ll tickle you.’

‘And I’ll have your head cut off by the royal axe man.’

‘Fair enough.’ He went to sleep.

See, the streets need cleaning. Some women get some men in a pile of trouble, and I’m here to balance the scales. I don’t know why it has to be my bloody job,
but my mother was lovely. I thought she could do no wrong till she scarpered. I can’t be doing with liars. Who said ‘to thine own self be true’? Well, I’m being true to mine
own self. Cleaning up, clearing out the trash, letting the sun shine through the rain . . .

Rosh had finally achieved the impossible; she was now in a place where waking, while still painful, was no longer soul-shattering. She had learned to accept a day without Phil,
then another, then the next. Some days were sad, others were bearable, while several were satisfying and almost happy. Which was just as well, because Christmas was approaching fast, and the season
had always been special. Phil had made it so and, having lost a wonderful father, the three children deserved an extra-special time this year. There was money, though Rosh intended to hang on to
most of it. With three children to educate and send forth into the world, she needed that nest egg. But she planned to use some to brighten their lives.

So the wind of change had started to travel through the Allen household, and Rosh intended it to freshen every room. It was more of a breeze than a gale, since the loss of a father as wonderful
as Phil had left a massive hole, and speed might have seemed disrespectful. But Rosh would improve the lives of Phil’s children, would keep them occupied and as happy as possible.
Kieran’s bedroom next, she decided, then Mother’s.

The girls’ bedroom was going to be difficult, because Alice didn’t often do change, but she’d seemed happy enough while watching alterations in Rosh’s bedroom. Perhaps
she might be persuaded? Kieran could work on Alice, get her to choose colours and wallpaper. Fortunately, Philly was easy to please. Immersed in music, she didn’t notice the trimmings around
her. The only time she complained was if lighting was too poor for her to read her sheets when learning a new piece. Her intention was to become a songwriter, as someone had to lead the world out
of its ‘silly’ rock and roll era.

Rosh sat up in bed and looked round the room. It was pretty and very feminine. Everything had moved. Bed, wardrobe, dressing table and chests of drawers had found new positions in life, while
her husband’s clothes and shoes had gone to the poor. Newly painted and papered, the room was completely different. This was no longer the nest in which Rosh had lain with her husband. It had
all been changed as quietly as possible by Rosh, Anna and an odd-job man called Eric.

Rosh grinned broadly. Eric Holt had since become a bit of a pest, as he had taken a shine to Anna, and the situation was fast moving towards the hilarious edge of the spectrum. Kieran and Philly
made many comments about Gran’s new boyfriend, his height, his slender stature, his worn-out cap. Kieran had been heard to offer the opinion that Mr Holt needed a ladder to reach the skirting
boards. Gran often chased Rosh and Phil’s older progeny with a broom, a fish slice, a rolling pin, or anything else that came to hand. If they carried on with the torment, she would kill
them.

Mother was still living here, of course. Determined as a Jack Russell down a rabbit hole, Anna Riley continued
perpetuum mobile
, hyper-alert and full of love. On weekday evenings, she
cleaned a couple of offices on Liverpool Road, and she refused to give up her indispendence. This word she had concocted from two others – independence and indispensability, and the Allen
household was used to that. Kieran had even put forward the concept of an Anna Riley Dictionary, a DIY volume created for the Irish, the adventurous and the totally daft, but his grandmother was
not offended. Years after immigration, she still clung fiercely to her Irish accent. She was grateful to Liverpool, as were many Irish folk, but she had been made in Mayo, and Mayo was printed all
the way through her body like Blackpool in a stick of rock.