*
Max had gone strange. He knew he’d gone strange, though he seemed unable to rectify the situation. When he wasn’t gardening or digging graves or filling them in, he spent some of his free time in the chapel with St Bernadette. A feeling of peace enveloped him as he prayed to her in his head. He asked for forgiveness, begging her to intercede on his behalf, because he wasn’t the worst man in the world; nor was he the best.
After coming clean about drugs and keeping watch while the big four burgled houses and robbed shops, he informed the dead nun about Trev’s accident and burial. He was terrified of being accused of murder, and he told her that, too. Trev hadn’t wanted to stay in France. Trev had wanted to go home, and he wouldn’t rest easy under foreign soil. It haunted him that Trev’s wishes remained unfulfilled.
Father Pierre Dubois often stood at the back of the chapel, anxious not to be seen by his new English friend. Something was bothering Michel. Some of the other gardeners had commented about his size and started to call him Max because of it, which had made the man very uneasy indeed. But it was more than being uncomfortable with a nickname. Something had to be done about this.
While Max blessed himself, the priest went outside and waited for him. It was time to talk.
The two men walked together in the direction of Pierre’s house. ‘You spend much time with our little nun.’
Max shrugged. ‘It’s peaceful in there. She’s peaceful. I feel calmer when I’ve been inside and talked to her. I don’t do it out loud – I just talk to her in my head. See, you Catholics believe that saints are close to God, so she can talk to God for me, can’t she? I’ve never been a religious man, so it’s just somewhere I go when I’m on a break.’
‘You are troubled, my friend.’
Max produced a hollow laugh. ‘Aren’t we all? Wars all over the place, poverty, kids going blind or dying because they drink bad water. We’ve got climate change, melting ice-caps, polar bears eating their own young. And it’s us what’s done all that, Pierre. We got a beautiful planet and fucked it up. Oh, sorry. I should watch my language, yes?’
‘Words are no problem for me. Let us sit.’
They claimed two chairs at a pavement table outside a cafe. Pierre ordered coffee and two pastries, while Max did his best not to feel embarrassed.
‘Now,’ Pierre began when the waiter had left, ‘we begin to look at Bernadette, yes? I explain our little saint for you. There are miracles at Lourdes for people with physical illness. Is it possible that she reaches out now to you, on behalf of the Virgin Mary, to offer a cure for your worries?’
Max raised his shoulders. ‘So she pulls me towards the chapel?’
‘She may. You see, she was simple peasant girl with no education. She saw the vision, and people laugh at her. So one day, she told the Lady that no one took it serious. And the Virgin Mary said, “I am the Immaculate Conception.” Bernadette did not know such language. Only then did people start believe her, and the miracles began after a while. Now, she calls to you in your heart.’
Max wasn’t sure that he wanted anything or anyone calling to him in his heart. It was all crazy; even as a kid, when sent to Sunday school, he went instead to play football or marbles with other boys who truanted.
‘Do not be afraid,’ Pierre said. ‘You will come to where you are going naturally, and I will help you along the way. I have some books in English that may guide you on the journey of the spirit. Do not fight this, mon ami. Some things happen outside us, but reach the inside. We lose the power to control our thoughts and behaviour, but this is will of God, of Jesus’s Holy Mother, too. You have been invaded, Michel.’
‘So I’m an occupied country? Like France in the war? Maybe I’m waiting for the Yanks to turn up.’
Pierre smiled. ‘Oui.’
‘Why is that funny, Pierre?’
‘My family. Resistance in Paris. They were very . . . what is word? Very casual when they put grenades in German vehicles. The tales that travelled through the house were funny and tragic. Is enough to say the family Dubois made some difference, helped English who came down in parachute, made life less easy for army of enemy.’
‘He was a mad bastard, that Hitler. Why did a big country like Germany follow him? They can’t all have believed in what he was preaching, could they? Some must have known he was mental.’
‘Yes, he was ill inside the head, but Germany was desperate before he came to lead. Also, they did as told for fear of death. But this no longer a problem. We think now about your troubles. Eat your pastry, then we go home.’
Late that evening, Max received his first blessing from a priest of the Catholic faith. He was also given a special rosary that had been blessed by Pius XII, who had been Pope during the war. Pierre told him not to use it for prayer until he was ready, but to handle it as Arabs did their worry beads.
Max lay in the attic bed, counting his sins along the beads. He had many sins, too many for one decade. Then he found the single bead that separated each run of ten. On every one of these separate wooden globes, he prayed for Trev’s soul. It seemed the right thing to do.
*
Monica was in a tizz. Kate was on her way with Kylie, Troy and some knitting patterns. ‘I’ve never been no good at knitting,’ she mumbled under her breath. ‘Never been no good at nothing apart from tarting up houses.’ Then she remembered that she knew how to crochet, because an old neighbour had taught her down the Dingle when she was nine. Crochet patterns would be the answer.
She took the ready cake mix, threw it in a bowl with egg and milk, then rattled it about a bit till it looked right. Then, the mixture got divided and shovelled into the bun tins, and she stuck the lot in the oven. Two of her kids were coming, and they would have fairy cakes. The icing was in the fridge, ready made by somebody else, but she squeezed it into one of Kate’s proper icing bags. ‘Why did I buy this stuff?’ she asked the empty room. It was because she knew she was going to see the kids again, she supposed.
After dolling herself up a bit, she sat and waited. Who was looking after Britney and Chelsea? Ooh, she must hide the evidence. When the cake mix box was in the bin, she waited again. The muslin. Where had she put the muslin? Yes, yes, it was on the desk in the big everything room. She hoped that Kate would agree with her choice, because Monica had instincts about such matters. The cakes were done; she set them to cool on the windowsill. Only now, in the absence of her offspring, was she beginning to understand how hard a real mother and housewife worked. ‘I avoided my duty,’ she whispered. ‘I must see that psy . . . psy . . . person Kate’s been hammering on about.’
She heard a key in the door, and Troy shouted something unintelligible. Then he flew up the hall and through the door, a smile lighting up his face when he saw Monica. ‘Mama,’ he shrieked.
Tears threatened, but she held them back; she didn’t know why she wanted to cry, anyway.
Kylie arrived. ‘Hello, Mam. You all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine, princess. Come on, we’ll ice our fairy cakes.’
Kylie did her best with the piping on warm cakes, but Troy, over-excited, threw hundreds and thousands everywhere, and Monica shrieked with laughter. Was this what she had missed while tiling walls and painting ceilings?
Kate entered the danger zone. ‘This is a fine mess for somebody with OCD,’ she said, giggles fracturing the words.
‘Mam, he’s got them silver ball things now,’ Kylie cried.
Monica relieved her son of the silver balls and handed him some chocolate bits.
Kate approached the table. ‘There’s more topping than cake, Monica. They’ll have their work cut out getting their teeth through that lot.’
The two women left Kylie in charge of the wrecked kitchen. Kate mentioned the fireplace in Southport, but Monica said it was sold. ‘I want to show you this sample of muslin. It’s plain white, but with a stripe in a slightly thicker texture. I thought it would suit Victoriana.’
Kate agreed. ‘Well done, you. I see we�
�re on the same page.’
Monica seemed to grow another inch on her abbreviated body. She was on the same page as somebody posh what talked proper. She was as good as any man when it came to sorting out these new flats.
‘How are the trades coping?’ Kate asked.
‘Fine. With me having a foot up their arses, they shift like buggery. The man on the floor had to take wood back.’
‘On the floor?’
‘Replacing the floorboards upstairs. You said light oak, but he brought some stained rubbish, so I nearly sacked him on the spot. He’s had one verbal warning, I think they call it, and he’ll get another if he doesn’t show some sense and shape up to the job. After two verbals, it’s a written red card and cheerio, bog off and find a fool to work for.’
Kate laughed. ‘I see you have everything in hand.’
‘No, I told you. I keep a foot up their idle arses. We’d have been better off with Poles. Don’t look like you don’t understand me – I mean Polish people. They put twice the hours in for half the price, and they’re usually good. I had Poles fitting my marble worktops in our back kitchen. Apart from ten minutes drinking black tea and eating some funny-looking sausages, they stuck to the job. It’s true – you can’t beat a Pole.’
‘No, it would be silly to punch a pole.’
‘Stop it, Kate. I’m going back to the kids.’ But she halted and turned before reaching the door to the kitchen. ‘Kate?’
‘What?’
‘She’s keeping the baby, then? Our Kylie, I mean.’
‘Yes. She believes abortion is murder.’
‘Do you?’
Kate thought about that. ‘I couldn’t do it myself, but I’ve nothing against women who think it’s right for them. And Kylie is a determined young woman.’
Monica nodded. ‘Takes after me.’ She left the room to clear up hundreds and thousands, silver balls and chocolate bits, but when she got to the kitchen she found that Kylie had cleaned up everything apart from Troy.
‘I don’t know where to start with him,’ Kylie grumbled. ‘It’s in his hair, all over his legs and arms – he’s a walking cup cake.’
Monica shook her head. ‘No, he’s a fairy cake.’
Kylie laughed. ‘He’s too young to be a fairy boy.’
‘Kate says cup cakes are a Yankee thing, and there’s enough Americanisms in the Oxford dictionary.’ Oh yes, she was learning from Kate. ‘I’ll stick him in the bath. Have you any spare clothes for him?’
Kylie nodded. ‘I always have spares. That’s one of the things you do when you take a young child out every day.’
The two females stared at each other.
‘Was I that bad of a mother?’ Monica asked.
‘Yes, you were. You were bloody terrible. But the truth is, we still love you and you’re wanted back home.’
Monica explained about the person she had to see. ‘It might have started off hormonal – you know, after having babies. I’ll get sorted, but I want a job as well. Kate says you can all come here when you like. We can get a travel cot for Troy, and I have a massive bed big enough for you three girls. I don’t mind sleeping on the couch. Weekends, I mean.’
Kylie wasn’t too sure about that. ‘We’ll see about it. Dad wants Britney and Chelsea to stay in the house they’re used to, and Troy lives with me.’
Monica picked up her son and took him to the bathroom. ‘You’ve grown,’ she grumbled playfully, ‘and your hair’s full of icing.’
He missed the meaning. ‘Sing,’ he ordered. ‘Mama sing.’
She stripped off her clothes and got into the shower with him. She sang, ‘If you’re happy and you know it wash your hair,’ thereby making a game of the cleansing of Troy. She changed ‘hair’ to legs, arms, belly, bum and willy until her only son shone with cleanliness. It was fun; she had missed all the fun by getting Pete or Kylie to bathe this sweet child.
‘I’m sorry,’ she told him.
‘Sowwy,’ was his reply.
With herself in a robe and Troy swathed in a towel, Monica returned to the kitchen. She handed the infant to Kylie, returned to the bathroom and picked up her own clothes and Troy’s. ‘These will be dry enough to take home with you. Kate has a washer-dryer – it does both jobs.’
As she pushed the laundry into the drum, Monica realized that she had enjoyed this time with two of her children. ‘It won’t be forever,’ she told her eldest. ‘Just till the man helps me get my head straight. I can still keep a job with Kate, and we can hang on to the childminder your dad got, so don’t be thinking I’m not coming back.’ As long as divorce didn’t happen, of course.
Kylie pulled on the little boy’s T-shirt. ‘There you are, kid, all done.’
‘Awdun,’ Troy said.
Monica looked at them pensively. ‘Sometimes, you have to stand away from something so you can see it proper. Like a diamond in a jeweller’s window, I suppose. You need to put yourself in the perfect place to see all the colours bouncing off. I’m not well, our Kylie, and that’s the bottom line, as Kate would say.’ She paused. ‘You’re keeping the baby?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘What about school?’
‘It’s OK, cos Alex has got me some tutors.’
Monica managed a smile. ‘I’ll be ready before the baby comes, I hope.’
Kylie gave Troy a few toys to play with. ‘What about the neighbours, Mam?’
‘It’ll all be right, I promise. A house is a house, but a home is people.’ She turned and saw Pete in the doorway. ‘Hello, stranger,’ she said shyly.
He smiled. It seemed that his nuisance of a wife might be trying to come to her senses, though it was odd to find her in a bathrobe during the day.
‘I had to shower Troy,’ she explained. ‘We baked fairy cakes and he spread them about a bit. Make a cup of tea while I get dressed and his clothes dry in the machine.’ She fled, found something to wear, and returned to the bathroom. Was he still going for a divorce?
She arrived again in the kitchen. ‘I’m seeing somebody about my nerves,’ she told her husband. ‘I want to get right and be a mam for these kids and a grandma for whatever our Kylie brings home.’ She glanced at Troy. ‘Another lad would be great, but we’ll take what we get, eh, Kylie?’
Kylie burst into tears.
For the first time in years, Monica held her weeping daughter. ‘Stop it, love. It’s me what’s been at fault, not you. Let me try – give me time. Tim, he’s called. Rodney Street.’ She looked at Pete. ‘Where’s Alex?’ she asked.
‘On the beach with six dogs, four bottles of water, three dishes and a pile of shit bags. He forgot the partridge in a pear tree.’
Kate entered the kitchen. ‘Monica, about tiles for the bathrooms . . .’ She stopped when she saw what was happening. ‘Kylie, calm down. It’s too early to wet the baby’s head.’
The girl stopped crying and started laughing.
‘Don’t be getting hysterical,’ Monica said.
Pete gazed at her. If he could get her back the way she used to be, there’d be no need for divorce, no need for Lois. Lois was a great girl, but his family came first. There was a chance. He would cling to that chance and the hope that accompanied it.
Amber was living with Kate Price’s furniture, and she couldn’t quite manage to mind about that. The flat was beyond gorgeous; it looked like something out of a glossy magazine.
She lingered in her bedroom and looked at a four-poster draped in muslin tied at each corner, ancient wardrobes and chests of drawers, silk rugs, velvet curtains, a chaise longue, a group of twelve cameos on a wall. This was what she had always deserved, though she would swap everything without hesitation for a life with Alex Price as its pivotal point.
She didn’t seem able to stop thinking about him. He was a mystery, a quiet man who had always been aloof. Until now, until the woman named Kate had stepped into his life. He was louder, happier, and Kate had changed him.
‘It’s not going to happen,’ she reminded herself as sh
e closed the bedroom door and entered the living space. It still took her breath away and, knowing that her sugar was low, Amber grabbed her weekend Milky Way from the fridge. Even the kitchen screamed Kate, as it was filled with expensive pots, pans and plates on a rack installed by a carpenter. They were all different and precious, and a very special one owned shallow cups in a circle; these circles were for oysters. Amber Simpson was now in the oyster class, though she had no intention of consuming seafood.
The living room had been two large bedrooms, which fact was announced by an RSJ across its centre. The area was massive, at least thirty-six feet long and sixteen wide. The end nearest the kitchen was for dining. A circular table stood on a massive central support with clawed feet, and there were six chairs, four of which sat at the table, while two carvers stood guard, one at each end of a Victorian dresser with drawers, cubbyholes, secret sections and a huge mirror.
The rest was a fabulous mixture of yesterday and today, but it worked. A display cabinet from the 1930s held china and crystal, all pieces donated by Madam Price, of course. Two bookcases, a piano, a bureau and Amber’s own distressed coffee table completed the hard furnishings, and all the modern seating was in black and grey with red and silver cushions. Yes, even the cushions had been a gift from the woman she both envied and hated.
‘The rugs and curtains are mine,’ she reassured herself. ‘But I have to say Mrs Price has good taste.’
She sat in an armchair. Rumour had it that Mr and Mrs Price had been carrying on in the boardroom as soon as Amber had left. Oonagh Murphy had been full of it. ‘They were chasing each other round the room. Then it went quiet, so I think they were having sex.’
Amber had seen neither of them again until summoned to a storage unit in Liverpool about two weeks after the meeting. Mrs Price had affixed red spots to the items she wanted to keep – mostly small things like a Victorian writing slope, some prints, and a hexagonal sewing box on three legs. ‘The rest is yours, so take what you like and I’ll sell the rest.’
For the Love of Liverpool Page 19