All You Need is
Love
Carole Matthews
First published in Great Britain in 2008 by Headline Review
Copyright © Carole Matthews 2008
This edition published by Carole Matthews INK Ltd 2014
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
For my cousin, Allan Case. Who lived life to the full.
9 September 1952 – 9 December 2006
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Lovely Kev and I spent several wonderful days back in Liverpool doing research for this book. It was great to visit places again that I hadn’t been to in years – the Cavern Club, Penny Lane and we even took a ferry across the Mersey in the pouring rain. The city is looking very spruce. If you haven’t been to Liverpool, it’s well worth it and the people are second to none. I highly recommend it.
Thanks to top mate, Paula DeGiorgio, for giving me the guided tour of her Liverpool, including a very enlightening morning at Great Homer Street market – or Greatie. Never have so many clothes cost me so little. The Duck Bus was fun too.
For authenticity, there are a couple of chapters set at the Tate Liverpool – a fab gallery – but all of the events and characters in this novel are completely fictitious.
Spencer’s home, Alderstone, was inspired by a trip to Althorp Hall in Northamptonshire, seat of the Spencer family and childhood home of Diana, Princess of Wales. Another great place to visit for the day – the gallery of Diana’s clothes is simply gorgeous.
CONTENTS
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred and One
Chapter One Hundred and Two
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Chapter One Hundred and Four
Chapter One Hundred and Five
Chapter One Hundred and Six
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Chapter One Hundered and Twelve
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen
The Cake Shop in the Garden
About the Author
Getting in Touch
Praise for Carole's Novels
Also by Carole Matthews
Chapter One
Sally Freeman, Single Mum and Superwoman, to the rescue once again.
‘Let me take those for you, love,’ I say to Mrs Kapur, who is struggling up the first flight of stairs, a heavy bag of shopping from the local Save-It supermarket in each hand.
‘Lift’s out again, Sally,’ she mutters at me. ‘Little buggers. It’s the third time this week they’ve stuck up those buttons with chewy. I’ll give them a bloody clip round the ear if I catch them.’
It would probably be the last thing that she did. Mrs Kapur’s a tiny woman – all wrinkles and sinew – no match for the hulking great youths who hang around the flats looking for trouble and, invariably, finding it. I’m about a foot taller than her and I’m a little shorty myself.
Living on the tenth floor isn’t easy at any age – I’m out of puff when I get up there. When you’re well past pensionable age, as my lovely neighbour is, it must be a nightmare. The old lady stops and leans against the wall while she catches her breath. It’s about 80 degrees out there. The sun’s cracking the flags – those that haven’t already been cracked for years because the Council never gets round to fixing them. Despite the heat, Mrs Kapur’s still wearing a thick coat and a headscarf over her sari.
Super Sal takes the bags from her. ‘Stocking up?’ I ask.
‘I’m out of everything,’ she says with a shake of her head.‘No bog roll. No cat food.’
Technically, we are not supposed to have cats in our tower block but no one minds Mrs Kapur’s big ginger moggy, Gandhi – apart from the Council, of course.That cat’s the only company she has these days. He was originally called something else, something more cat-like – Tiddles or Puss-puss – but all the residents rechristened him and it kind of stuck. Now even Mrs Kapur calls him Gandhi. ‘Got my pension today, though.’ She gives me a gappy smile.
‘I hope you’ve treated yourself to a nice big cream cake.’
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‘I have that,’ she chuckles. ‘Got Gandhi a bit of fresh fish too, as well as his tins. Probably why my bags are so heavy.’
‘I’ve told you before,’ I remind her. ‘I’ll do your shopping for you. All you have to do is give me a knock and tell me what you want. I’m up there every day.’
‘I don’t like to bother you, doll.’
‘I’ve got naff all else to do, Mrs K. It’s no trouble.’
‘You’re a sound girl, Sally Freeman.What would I do without you?’
Get one of your lazy, good-for-nothing sons to look after you, I want to say, but I don’t. She adores them all – lazy bastards that they are – and wouldn’t have a word said against them. They deign to pop in for five minutes once in a blue moon and then, strangely, she never seems to be able to find her pension money when they’ve gone.And I thought Indian families were supposed to be close?
Hoisting up the Save-It bags, I say, ‘Ready for the assault on the north face?’
She laughs at that.
Unlike other Superheroes, I don’t have my own cape or Lycra outfit emblazoned with an eye-catching flash of lightning. No. All I’ve got is a Matalan T-shirt, charity-shop jeans – very last season – and cheap shoes off one of the stalls on Kirberly market. No silky padded knickers and star-spangled corset for this Wonder Woman.
‘Come on, Mrs K.You can make me a quick cup of tea when we get to the top.’ Most Superheroes get to save the world; all I do is stop frail old biddies from having heart-attacks because some bored-senseless little shite thought it was fun to vandalise the lifts.
I put my hand under Mrs Kapur’s elbow and give her a bit of encouragement up the stairs.‘Ever thought of applying to the Council for a bungalow, Mrs K? Or what about sheltered housing?’ Even if she lived on the second or third floor it would have to be better than this.
She takes the steps painfully slowly, lifting one tiny foot to the next stair then a mammoth effort until the other joins it. My son, Charlie, walked like this when he was two years old. Now he’s ten and he runs up here like a wildebeest with a hungry lion at its bum.
Mrs Kapur stops and takes a few laboured breaths. ‘I’ve lived here all my life, doll. I can’t move now.This is all I know.Where would I go?’ She shakes her head again and her scarf falls over her eyes. I put down one of the bags and push it back for her. ‘I’ll be going out of here in a wooden box.’
Sooner than she’d like if she has to keep using these stairs. The Council has given up bothering to come and fix the lift, no matter how many times I ring and complain. It works for about three days – sometimes not even that long – then someone kicks in the door or pulls off the control panel. Once there was a big pile of poo in there and, frankly, I couldn’t swear that it was from a dog. In my role as Superwoman, I had to clean it up, of course. I’m on first-name terms with everyone in the local Housing Department – not that it does me any good. You’d think they’d be nicer to one of their regulars. Frankly, their customer service isn’t what it should be.
While we catch our breath, I’ll tell you a bit more about where I live. It’s what’s commonly called a ‘sink estate’ on the outskirts of Liverpool. Our tower block – one of three on the estate – is bordered by a rag-tag of run-down Council houses and prefabs that probably should be condemned by now. Row upon row of grey, box-like houses that were built as a temporary measure during the Second World War with nothing more substantial than Lego bricks, they still manage to defy the elements and stay standing to this day. William Shankly House – named for the legendary manager of Liverpool Football Club – was built in the late 1960s and should have been knocked down in the early 1970s. Why some bright spark thought this would be a fitting tribute to the great man, I’ll never know. Bill Shankly would never have put up with this crap. He’d be spinning in his grave now, bless him, if he could see this. It’s a concrete monument to all that was bad about British architecture at that time.Whoever decided that high-rise city living was desirable? Some over-paid architect living in a low-rise cottage surrounded by rolling countryside and nothing but the sound of skylarks, no doubt.
The outside of the building is unpainted pebbledash stained with dark streaks of damp that meander down its pock-marked sides. Inside isn’t any better. The stairwells are dark and dingy; the lights are always on the blink, and after dark they’re a mugger’s paradise. As there aren’t any public lavatories around here and the youths of today clearly have very weak bladders, the entrance hall is frequently used as a toilet. I wedge the front door open every day, but no amount of fresh air can get rid of the all-pervading putrid smell. When it’s hot, like today, it makes you want to heave.
While Mrs K and I tackle the steps to the next floor, I’ll tell you a bit about me too – other than the fact that I’m an unpaid Superwoman. I’m twenty-seven years old, but feel as if I’ve lived three lifetimes already. I’ve got lots of ‘smile’ lines for my age – even though, sometimes, there’s not been a lot to smile about. I’m fit as a flea from climbing ten flights of stairs a dozen times a day. Think of all the money I save on expensive gym membership! You have to look on the positive side, don’t you? My friend, Debs, highlights my hair every few weeks for nothing, which I like to think makes me look younger. I’ve got one of those trendy, short bobs – also courtesy of Debs – which is borne mainly out of a need to have low-maintenance hair because, despite being unemployed, I never seem to have time to do it. Most of my life is devoted to my ten-year-old son, Charlie, who’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I might be crap at most things in life, but I’m a bloody good mum. Despite what the Daily Mail might have you believe, not all single mums are slappers, sponging off the state and spending their benefit on Smirnoff Ice.
Having vented that, I have to take a deep breath and say, perhaps needlessly, that Charlie’s dad isn’t around. What a charmer he turned out to be. Left me when I was six months’ pregnant for a Mrs Robinson-type woman from that hotbed of sin, St Helens. Thank goodness that we never married. I reckon that I had a lucky escape. He did suggest that he do the decent thing but, to be honest, he wouldn’t have known the decent thing if it had bopped him on the nose. To prove my point, I can tell you that the onetime love of my life is now a permanent guest of Her Majesty – spending his days in Walton Prison for armed robbery. In my book, that means he’s given up any rights to see me or Charlie ever again.
As it happens, I left the space for the father’s name blank on Charlie’s birth certificate. Very wisely, as it turns out. But it’s something that the Child Support Agency are a bit put out about. They probably imagined that I’d had a different fella every night and didn’t know which of the lucky souls was the dad. I wish. I’d been with Charlie’s dad for three years – not exactly a flash in the pan. To call him my childhood sweetheart might be pushing it a bit, but we met at school when we were fourteen. He’d been my only proper boyfriend; the only person I’d ever slept with. I wasn’t like my mates either, crossing their fingers as their favoured method of contraception. Charlie was the result of a dodgy condom – must have been. In my mind I was being really careful. We never, ever did it without protection. And look what happened. I wonder, one day, will all single mums rally together to sue condom manufacturers? If I’d known about the morning-after pill – or if it had even existed then – my life could have turned out very different.
All my big career plans, such as they were, went out of the window once my squawking bundle of joy was born. I had to abandon my childcare course at the local Technical College, which I’d only just started. But what little I did learn certainly came in handy. Now I feel older – much older – and wiser. And I wouldn’t change a thing, as Charlie – now a ten-year-old grunting bundle of pre-teen angst – has brought me nothing but happiness. He’s my sole reason for getting out of bed in the morning.
Now we’re at the top landing and we both stop and puff for a bit. Even if you’re fit and a Superhero, this is a long way up. My flat’s opposite Mr
s Kapur’s on the top floor and just a bit further down the landing. I got the flat when I was seventeen. I’d just had Charlie and, believe me, I was so grateful at the time. I didn’t know where else I was going to go. Mum had not long since died and I knew that I couldn’t stay in the house with Dad. You don’t want to bring up a baby around a raging drunk, do you? I could never have left Charlie alone with him. The man just wasn’t safe. He’d always had a drink problem, but with Mum gone he went completely to pieces. One minute he’d be sober and all smiles, the next – when he’d had a few too many bevvies – he’d be crashing round the place, cursing fit to make Gordon Ramsay blush and trying to pick a fight with the telly. Anyway, he’s gone too now. I know it sounds harsh, but good riddance, I say. He never was a father to me.
I look round at the peeling paint and listen to Mrs Kapur’s breathless wheezing. This place felt like a sanctuary when I first moved in, my own little oasis, somewhere I could call home. I didn’t even mind lugging the pram up ten flights of stairs. Funny how your opinion changes over the years.
Chapter Two
I unpacked Mrs Kapur’s shopping for her too. Not that she had much, bless her. There’s hardly anything in her cupboards. I felt guilty taking a cuppa from her and she wanted to share her cream cake. She’s such a love. Turns out she’d only bought the cake because today was its sell-by date and she’d got it half price. Is this what our poor pensioners are reduced to? Buying about-to-go-off cream cakes? Makes you proud to be British, eh?
Now I’m back in my flat, I go to see what’s lurking in my own kitchen cupboards. It’s not exactly a treasure trove of gourmet delights in here either, but Charlie and I never go hungry – that’s one thing I’m very particular about. The rest of the kids round here seem to exist on nothing but pizza and turkey twizzlers. I’d rather not pay my leccy bill than go without food. I’m sure my power company don’t feel quite the same. They’d rather see us starve. Bastards. I make sure that Charlie gets fresh veg every day; at the worst, when times are hard, frozen peas. He can only have cola once a day. And I buy the cheap crap from Save-It, so he actually doesn’t like it that much. He just complains about it because that’s what kids do. No doubt he thinks I’m a mingy old bat, but I tell him it’s for his own good. One day when he’s big and strong and has all his own teeth and isn’t dying of obesity or heart disease, he’ll thank me.
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