The Girl From Barefoot House

by Maureen Lee

  She was about to make tea, but felt the urge for something stronger, so searched for bottles. There was beer in the fridge, but she hated beer. She found a bottle of gin in the sideboard, and wondered how much the legal limit was for when she drove home. A double – she’d risk a double, mixed with orange squash.

  The hours crept by. She drank more gin, lay on the settee and tried to sleep, couldn’t, got up, had another gin, thought about Lily, thought about Jack, thought she heard a burglar, but it was next door’s cat scratching at the door, no doubt attracted by the light. She gave it milk and let it out again – Lily would have a fit if she knew, she hated cats.

  Four o’clock! A child started to cry. She went upstairs. Alec, in the bottom bunk, was sobbing hopelessly.

  ‘What’s the matter, luv?’ She held the small, shaking body in her arms. ‘Have you had a bad dream?’

  ‘Feel sad, Auntie Josie.’ He could hardly speak. ‘Feel dead miserable. Want my mummy.’

  Simon turned over. ‘Shurrup,’ he muttered.

  Alec quickly fell asleep, and Josie sat at the top of the stairs in case he woke again. Gosh, it was creepy, so quiet and so still. Alec’s wretched crying had disturbed her. She longed to be in her own house in her own bed. Hurry up, Lil, and have your baby, she urged.

  The phone went just after half four. She raced downstairs and picked it up before it woke the boys. ‘Francie!’

  ‘Hello, Jose.’ His voice was curiously calm.

  ‘How’s Lily?’

  ‘Dead, Jose. Lily’s dead. She went into a fit or something, then she haemorrhaged, then she died. The baby’s dead, too. It was a little girl. We were going to call her Josephine, after you.’ He laughed. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this. Lily’s dead.’

  4

  They had put Lily in the pink nightgown trimmed with ivory lace that Josie had bought. Her lips were painted a delicate pink, her hair brushed away from the forehead made smooth by death and arranged in waves on the white satin pillow of the best coffin money could buy, which would have pleased her no end. Her hands were crossed over her breast. She looked peaceful, serene, as she had never done in life. It was hard to imagine a cross word had ever emerged from the pink mouth, Josie thought in the funeral parlour as she gazed down at the still, silent figure of her friend. She still couldn’t believe Lily was dead. She half expected her to sit up and bark, ‘Who d’you think you’re staring at? Is that all you’ve got to do, Josie Flynn?’

  The crematorium chapel was half-full – Lily’s children, her husband, her brothers and sisters, a few nieces and nephews, their husbands and wives. Josie was the only person not a relative. Lily had had few friends. Dinah hadn’t come. The new job was making her paranoid about taking time off.

  At first, Josie didn’t recognise the tall, tanned, athletic man in the front pew, blond, fiftyish, in an expensive grey suit. Then she realised it was Ben. Ben Kavanagh!

  So all the Kavanaghs had turned up for the funeral of their baby sister. Were they looking at each other, wondering whose turn it would be next? Their ma and da had gone, now Lily, the youngest. For which Kavanagh would the next funeral be held?

  Daisy and Marigold felt guilty. They shouldn’t have taken offence and neglected their sister while she was pregnant. They should have made allowances. After all, Lily hadn’t been herself.

  ‘She realised it was her fault.’ Josie told them. ‘She was going to write from hospital and apologise.’

  ‘Well, she might have,’ Marigold said with a dry smile.

  ‘It would have been a first,’ muttered Daisy.

  It was strange. No one seemed all that upset, as if they, like Josie, couldn’t believe Lily was dead. She had been so noisy, had made her presence so forcefully felt, that it didn’t seem possible she had been silenced for ever.

  Francie grieved for his lost wife, but felt no guilt for having found her a pain to live with, a fact that couldn’t be challenged just because she was dead. He arranged for the most lavish of funerals, because it was what Lily would have demanded had she known she was going to die. ‘I keep hearing this nagging voice in me head telling me what to do,’ he confided to Josie. ‘“I want roses on me coffin, red ones, shaped like a cross. Make sure you wear a clean shirt and a black tie for me funeral. And don’t drink too much afterwards, Francie O’Leary. Don’t forget, I’ve got me eye on you.”’

  She would always be grateful to Francie for making life seem not quite as tragic as it really was.

  Everyone went back to Marigold’s house in Calder-stones for a drink and something to eat. Marigold’s children were grown up, long married, and numerous grandchildren cluttered the rooms.

  Josie grabbed a sandwich and a glass of wine, and hid in a corner. Perhaps because Lily wasn’t there, for the first time she felt out of place within the hubbub of this large family.

  ‘I wanted a word with you.’ Daisy approached, elegant in floating black chiffon. ‘It’s rather sad, I’m afraid. In a few weeks, Manos and I are leaving Liverpool to live in Greece.’

  ‘Oh, Daisy!’ Josie cried. ‘You’ve always been a permanent fixture in me life, almost as much as Lily.’

  ‘I know, and you in mine.’ Daisy smiled tremulously. ‘It was our Lily going that did it. Stanley and Robert live so far away, and I had no idea where Ben was. Marigold’s wrapped up in her family. There seemed no reason left to stay, and Manos has this huge extended family in Crete. I miss being part of a family.’

  Josie kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I hope you and Manos will be very happy in Crete. Twice in me life you’ve come to me rescue when I’ve been at rock bottom. I’ll never forget that, Daise.’

  ‘Promise you’ll come and stay some time, Josie. You’ll always be welcome. You’re one of Manos’s favourite people.’

  ‘I promise.’ Josie nodded vigorously, knowing she almost certainly wouldn’t. It was just that partings were much easier if you promised to see each other again.

  ‘I’ve been trying to escape from our Stanley for ages.’ Ben arrived in her corner. ‘You look great but, then, you always do. Have you sold your soul to the devil in return for permanent youth?’

  Josie opened her mouth to laugh, but quickly closed it. Lily wouldn’t approve of people laughing at her funeral. ‘You can talk! You look wonderful, like a Nordic god.’

  ‘I’ve taken up tennis. I’m rather good at it. I’m champion of the local club.’ He grimaced. ‘Senior champion, in the section for the over forty-fives.’

  ‘Where exactly is the local club?’ she asked curiously. ‘It’s something all of us have wanted to know for a long time.’

  ‘Isle of Wight. Come on, let’s find somewhere quieter to talk.’ He took her arm and led her into the garden. It was full of children, but there was a bench right at the bottom, half hidden by an apple tree iced with pink blossom. ‘After Imelda died,’ Ben said when they were seated, ‘I felt I wanted a change of scene, for myself and the children. We drifted round the country for a while and I worked as a supply teacher. I kept meaning to write to say where I was, but never got round to it.’ He shrugged. ‘I was pretty mixed up for a while. Then I got a job with an aeronautic design company on the Isle of Wight. We settled down, and it seemed too late to let people know, so I never bothered.’

  ‘Who told you about Lily?’

  ‘Read it in the Echo,’ he said surprisingly. ‘About this time last year, I felt dead homesick. Colette was already married and living in Dorset – I’m a grandfather of twins, by the way – and Peter discovered the social conscience I used to have myself. He’s in Cuba, working on a farm. I decided to look for a job in Liverpool, come home. I’ve been getting the paper ever since.’

  ‘It’ll be nice to have you back.’ She meant it sincerely. A Kavanagh coming, a Kavanagh going, and one gone for ever!

  ‘I can’t wait to be back,’ he said, ‘though I was expecting a right earful from our Lily when I showed my face. Instead, I feel gutted. I thought the Grim Reaper would have to drag Lily
to her grave kicking and screaming when she was a hundred.’

  Josie was glad of the buzz of activity in Barefoot House when she returned next day. William Friars had called when she was away. Havers Hill had decided not to publish Death By Stealth in paperback because of its initial mauling by the critics and the subsequent small sales.

  ‘He said he would graciously allow us to publish it.’ Cathy grinned. ‘I said I’d talk to you.’

  ‘Write and tell him to get stuffed,’ Josie said curtly. ‘I didn’t want the book in the first place. Tell him if he’d like to write another set in the war, we might take it.’

  ‘With pleasure. Have you had any further thoughts about that suggestion Richard made?’

  ‘I haven’t had time to think for weeks.’ Barefoot House seemed to have reached a plateau. There was only a limited amount of good crime fiction available. She didn’t want standards to drop by accepting work she might once have rejected, and Richard had come up with the idea that they extend their range to another genre of novel – science fiction, romance, war or historical, books for children. ‘I don’t know, Cathy. I don’t think I want to become a millionaire. I’m content with things as they are.’

  Cathy left, looking disappointed. Josie chewed her lip and worried that she was letting down her staff by being too unadventurous. She should be looking for ways to go forward, not be content with standing still. Mind you, it would be her taking the risk, not Cathy, Richard or the others, and she wasn’t in the mood just now.

  She scanned the post. There was a letter from Brewster & Cronin in New York, marked ‘Personal’. Val Morrissey had hired a private detective to trace Jack’s whereabouts, but had had no luck so far. ‘I’m worried about Jack myself,’ he wrote. ‘After all, the guy’s my father-in-law of sorts. I really liked him the few times we met. I’ll not give up until every avenue has been exhausted.’

  There was no mention of Jessie Mae being worried about her stepfather. Josie opened the top drawer of her desk and took out the photo Val had sent in January. She was glad to have a face to put to his familiar voice. He was smaller than she had imagined, going slightly bald, very ordinary and rather nice. He was smiling happily at the camera but, then, this had been his wedding day. Yet the bride wasn’t smiling. Jessie Mae’s plump, pretty face was expressionless. She didn’t glare at the camera, she didn’t smile, merely stared. She didn’t look happy, she didn’t look sad, or excited, or even faintly pleased that she had just married a relatively wealthy man who was crazy about her. Josie didn’t think she had ever seen such dead eyes before. ‘Jessie Mae’s had problems,’ Jack had said.

  Well, at least his real daughter was upset. Dinah was hurt and angry that the father she had only just met had vanished from her life again. ‘I can’t have meant much to him, can I?’ she said bitterly whenever she called to ask if Jack had been found.

  At six o’clock, Ben came to take Josie to dinner. He was staying the week with Marigold. ‘You didn’t say yesterday you had your own business. Our Marigold told me this morning. Who’d have thought it, eh? I’ve actually read two of your books.’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ she said indignantly. ‘Did you think I was too thick to start a business?’

  ‘I never considered you even vaguely thick, Jose. You didn’t seem the type, that’s all.’

  ‘I suppose it was born of necessity.’ She glanced around the office, at the rows and rows of bright red books. ‘I was in a rut, and the thing just grew and grew.’

  Ben had come in his car – the latest model BMW, she noticed. The job on the Isle of Wight must pay well. They drove into the countryside and ate in a little seventeenth-century pub near Ormskirk, with beams and an inglenook fireplace. Over chicken and chips, she told him about Richard’s suggestion. ‘But I’m not as entrepreneurial as I look. Barefoot House became a success despite me. It happened so gradually I hardly noticed. If I’d known I’d end up handling things like film rights and TV rights, I’d have probably backed off.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ he said comfortably. ‘Anyroad, most businesses start from nothing. Didn’t Marks & Spencer grow from a stall selling candles? Or was that Harrods? Great oak trees from little acorns grow, so it’s said. Would you like to finish off this wine, Jose? I’ve already had two glasses, and I’m driving.’

  He emptied the bottle into her glass. It had been an enjoyable, relaxing evening. They had talked, without a hint of strain, about when they had been children living in Machin Street, the things they’d done together, the times they’d had, about Lily and the tantrums she used to throw. He seemed to have got over the passion he’d once had for her, and she was glad. He had spoken about Imelda, how painful the marriage had been, how he and the children had suffered from her moods.

  ‘It would have been so easy to blame her, hate her, but the poor woman couldn’t help it. She was sick. If she’d had a physical illness, everyone would have been sympathetic, but people have no patience with the mentally ill.’

  She was reminded of how kind he’d always been, how understanding. ‘Imelda was lucky to have had someone like you.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ he muttered. ‘There were times when I felt at the end of my tether. I’m the sort who likes a quiet life.’

  Mrs Kavanagh had remarked once, ‘Our Ben will make some girl a good husband, but not a very exciting one.’

  ‘He’s a soppy lad, our Ben,’ Lily had said.

  He took out his wallet and picked up the bill. Josie watched his face as, frowning slightly, he counted out the money. It was a sensitive face and, despite all he’d suffered, the green eyes were guileless and innocent, like a child’s. He was a good man, through and through.

  ‘If you can spare the time before you go back, perhaps I could treat you to dinner,’ she said impulsively.

  His face lit up. ‘I’ve always got time to spare for you, Jose. Not tomorrow, I’m seeing Francie. The night after?’

  ‘It’s a date.’

  Josie woke suddenly with the eerie feeling that she’d just been sharply prodded in the ribs. The room was pitch dark, and the electric alarm clock showed thirteen minutes past three. She reached out a shaking hand to switch on the bedside lamp, terrified that another hand would grab it. She would never get used to sleeping alone in the big old house.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she enquired timidly.

  No answer. Josie gritted her teeth and sat up. The bedroom was empty. She rubbed her left side, where there was the definite sensation of having been poked. Lily had had the irritating habit of poking people if she thought they weren’t listening, or had said something she didn’t like, a habit Josie had suffered from more than most. It had driven Francie to the verge of murder, as his ribs were unnaturally exposed.

  It dawned on Josie that Lily was dead. Lily was dead? She would never see her friend again. ‘Lil,’ she wailed. ‘I want you back.’ She began to cry for the first time since Francie had called from the hospital to say Lily and the baby had died. The tears flowed for the girl who had been her best friend since they were six, whose death she’d been unable to grasp. Until now, when she’d been poked awake by an unseen finger.

  ‘You bitch, Lily Kavanagh,’ she whispered through the tears. ‘You did that on purpose.’ She’d like to bet that, all over the country, various Kavanaghs and a somnolent Francie O’Leary had been awoken by a red-faced, bad-tempered Lily, waving her arms and stamping her feet because no one had acknowledged the fact that she was dead. No one had cried. No one had mourned, only her daughters and her two little boys.

  ‘You’ve left a great big hole in me life, Lil, and I’ll always miss you.’ Josie snuggled back under the bedclothes. ‘But if you do that again, I’ll bloody kill you.’

  Two months later, on the first of July, Ben Kavanagh returned to Liverpool, having procured a job with a chemical company over the water in Birkenhead. He bought the top half of a large Victorian house in Princes Park which had been converted into two flats.

  The evening afte
r his furniture had arrived from the Isle of Wight, Josie helped arrange it in the big, elegant rooms.

  ‘You’ve got excellent taste,’ she said as she straightened the cushions of the comfortable three-piece, upholstered in coarse, oatmeal wool. The carpet was new, mustard tweed.

  ‘I got most of the stuff from Habitat. I like the modern look – plain colours, no curly-wurly bits on the furniture, white walls.’ He was stacking books in alphabetical order on a natural wood bookcase.

  ‘Shall I hang the curtains?’

  ‘Please. I put the fittings up last night. The rings are already in.’

  The navy blue curtains took only a few minutes to slide on the pole. She found a screwdriver and secured the pole at each end, then took the screwdriver and another set of curtains, brick red, upstairs to hang in the bedroom. Here the carpet was grey. The bed had a slatted base, a polished plank for a headboard and was covered with a grey duvet. A wardrobe and six-drawer chest were equally unadorned.

  She hung the curtains, secured the pole and sat on the bed to admire her handiwork. A bit Spartan, but what you’d expect of a man. Well, some men. Jack’s apartment in New York had looked as if he were about to hold a jumble sale.

  Ben came in. ‘I’ll hang my clothes up tonight. They’re still in boxes.’

  ‘What else shall I do? What about ornaments?’

  ‘Don’t believe in them. I prefer the cool, uncluttered look.’ He sat beside her on the bed.

  ‘That chest looks very bare. It needs something.’

  ‘It’ll have a bowl for my small change, and that’s all.’

  ‘What about a little vase on the window-sill? I’ve got things in my attic you can have.’

  He grinned. ‘They can stay in your attic, thanks all the same. Ornaments need dusting. I can live without them very well.’

  ‘You’ve always been so sensible and organised,’ she said admiringly.

  ‘It doesn’t seem to have got me anywhere.’ He laughed shortly. ‘So far, my life has been extraordinarily chaotic. My wife killed herself, and I’ve spent years living in places I didn’t want to live.’