The Girl From Barefoot House

by Maureen Lee

  By nine o’clock the sun was struggling to come out. By ten it was a shimmering golden ball, and the clouds had miraculously disappeared. The garden was like a fairy tale, engulfed in a mist of steam as everything began to dry in the heat. Dinah’s posy and the buttonholes were delivered, along with a great heap of russet chrysanthemums. Josie mustered every vase she possessed and arranged them around the house. The caterers were bringing the buffet while the wedding was in progress – the woman next door would let them in. Jack still hadn’t opened his letter.

  She went with Dinah for a shampoo and set, and Dottie looked after the children – nothing on earth could persuade Dottie inside a hairdresser’s. Peter had stayed the night with his father. It had been Josie’s idea. ‘It’s unlucky for the groom to see the bride before the wedding,’ she stated. Dinah thought the idea daft. They’d been living together for years and had two children and another on the way. ‘Don’t tempt fate, luv,’ Josie warned.

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ Dinah said impatiently, but nevertheless agreed.

  They returned from the hairdresser’s to find the tailor had delivered Jack’s suit. Jack was in the shower, and emerged shortly afterwards, wearing the trousers and a new white shirt, a leather belt around his much too narrow waist. He looked ten years younger, and fitter than he’d done in weeks. There was colour in his cheeks, and he held himself sternly erect. ‘Which tie, do you think?’ He held up three.

  ‘Let Dinah choose, it’s her wedding.’

  Dinah frowned at the ties. ‘The light grey one, Dad.’ She went to give Christopher his midday feed.

  ‘She called me “Dad”.’ Jack’s smile was sweet and grateful. ‘Your hair looks nice.’

  ‘I thought I’d have it tucked behind me ears for a change. It’ll look better with the hat.’

  ‘When am I going to see this incredible hat?’

  ‘Later, when I’m completely ready. Who was that letter from?’ she asked casually.

  ‘I haven’t opened it yet. Probably an acknowledgement from one of the theatres for my play.’

  Josie looked at her watch and screamed. A quarter past one! ‘I’d better get changed.’

  She took particular care with her make-up, outlining her eyes with black kohl, which she hadn’t done in years, smoothing pale gold shadow on her lids, giving the lashes several coats of mascara. She lightly powdered her face, stroked her cheeks with blusher, painted her lips a shade similar to the chrysanthemums that filled the house. There were new tights, very pale, bought specially to go with the ivory dress. No need for a slip as the dress was lined. The cold material was icy when she put it on, making her shiver. The strappy shoes felt uncomfortable straight away, but she didn’t care because they went perfectly with the dress. She searched through her jewellery box for Louisa’s amber pendant, and the earrings Jack had given her to match. Finally, the hat, which cast shadows over her face, making her look enigmatic and aloof, like Greta Garbo.

  She was ready, and her full-length reflection stared back at her from the wardrobe mirror. I am beautiful, she thought, but I will never be as beautiful again as I am today.

  Jack was in his study. There was no sign of the letter that she was so anxious for him to open. ‘How do I look?’ She gave a little twirl.

  He caught his breath, and the expression of tender, naked love on his face made her heart turn over. His lips trembled slightly when he smiled. ‘Was that a Liverpool accent I just heard?’

  She remembered the way his dark eyes had smiled into hers when he’d asked the same question on the steps of Best Cellar. ‘Yes,’ she replied now, as she had done then.

  ‘Please, can I kiss you? I haven’t kissed a girl from Liverpool in years.’ He took her in his arms, ever so gently.

  ‘I can’t remember what I said then.’ She rested her cheek against his. ‘It’s thirty-five years since the night we met.’

  ‘I asked your name and where you came from. You said you were Josie Flynn from Penny Lane. I decided there and then to change your name.’

  She didn’t think that was true. ‘Have I ever told you I’d been watching you for ages?’ Watching the handsome, animated young man across the tables of the basement coffee-bar in New York.

  ‘Hmm. We only met because I’d forgotten my coat.’

  And if he hadn’t! Oh, what would have happened then? Things couldn’t possibly have turned out more tragically if they’d both married someone else. Yet there was nowhere else on earth she’d sooner be at this moment than in the arms of Jack Coltrane.

  He seemed to have found a mysterious inner strength. His voice in the registry office was steady when he gave his daughter to Peter Kavanagh. He firmly held Josie’s arm for the photographs, kissed Dinah, shook hands with Peter and Ben, shared a joke with Dottie and Francie.

  They went back to Mosely Drive. Guests had already started to arrive. Champagne was opened, toasts were drunk, food began to rapidly disappear. Mona, Liam and Dave played Irish songs and encouraged everyone to join in the choruses. Greg and his group of grey-haired musicians belted out ‘Sidewalk Blues’, ‘Beale Street Blues’, ‘Snake Rag’ … Francie put on his Beatles records, Dottie did an imitation of Mrs Thatcher, the tailor, whose name was Maurice Cohen, sang a haunting Yiddish ballad, and quite a few people cried.

  The day wore on. Josie had removed her hat and shoes, Dinah had combed her hair loose and changed from the blue suit into something lilac and filmy. She looked heartbreakingly lovely.

  Dusk began to fall, music continued to play, the children went to bed, and everyone lit the hundreds of candles which had been placed inside the house and in the garden, and it was like walking through stars.

  But none of the stars shone as brightly as Jack. Josie couldn’t take her eyes off the man she had married. He seemed almost to float among the guests, a glass in his hand, everyone anxious to have a word with him, just catch his eye. Perhaps she had drunk too much, perhaps time was going backwards, but the more she watched, the younger he seemed to be, as if a miracle was happening.

  ‘He’s okay.’ Ben appeared at her side, slightly tipsy. He nodded towards Jack. ‘He’s okay.’

  ‘I know, Ben.’ She linked his arm in hers. ‘Can we be friends?’

  ‘Always, Jose. Always.’

  Midnight. People started to leave. They shook Jack’s hand, pressed his shoulder, even hugged him, as if the men knew this was the last time they would see this very special person they regarded as their best friend and the women the lover they had always dreamed of.

  Francie put on a Frank Sinatra record, and the vibrant, tender voice began to sing ‘Smoke Gets In Your Eyes’. The few people left were in the living room, where the French windows opened on to a carpet of candles, fluttering low now. Gradually, the flames began to go out, one by one by one.

  Dinah and Peter were dancing, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms. Oh, she was so pleased their daughter was happy. Then Jack held out his hand, and Josie drifted into his arms. She could hardly think. There was too much emotion in the room, and she couldn’t bear it.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you, sweetheart,’ Jack whispered.

  ‘My darling, I don’t want you to go.’ Over his shoulder she could see the last remaining candle flicker out, and the garden was plunged into darkness. ‘They asked me how I knew, our true love was true,’ Frank Sinatra sang.

  Jack was beginning to flag. It must have come over him very suddenly. She could feel his body heavy against hers. She was virtually holding him up. ‘Go to bed,’ she urged softly. ‘I’ll join you in a minute.’

  ‘That mightn’t be a bad idea.’ He jerked himself upright, one final effort to get through his daughter’s wedding day. The music finished, Jack said goodnight.

  ‘Goodnight, mate.’ Francie pumped his hand. He was nodding for some reason, nodding over and over.

  Dottie kissed him. ‘Sleep well, Jack.’

  Ben shook his hand, Peter gave his father-in-law a hug, Dinah flung her arms around his neck. ‘Night, Dad.’<
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  Jack touched her chin. He said something Josie couldn’t hear, then left the room.

  Dinah’s eyes were bright with tears. ‘He called me Laura,’ she said.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Josie asked anxiously.

  ‘No.’ Dinah shook her head. ‘That’s what the drinking’s always been about, isn’t it? He killed Laura and he’s never got over it.’

  ‘Probably, luv.’ For some reason she thought about the other children there might have been had she and Jack had stayed together. She said her own goodnights, and apologised if it looked rude but she’d like to be with Jack.

  He was already in bed when she went in. She noticed he’d managed to put the grey flannel suit neatly on a chair. ‘Nice try, sweetheart,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nice try, with the play, that is.’ He chuckled. ‘The Royal Court wrote last Monday and turned the play down. A few days later they write on a completely different letterhead, saying they’d be pleased to put it on.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Josie removed her clothes and slipped, naked, into bed. She pressed herself against him. One of these days she’d read his play for herself. ‘Are you mad at me?’

  ‘I’m mad about you, sweetheart, always have been.’ He yawned. ‘I think I’ll sleep now. Have you enjoyed the day?’

  ‘It’s been wonderful, Jack.’

  He was already asleep. Josie woke up during the night, and he was making love to her with all the energy of a young man. His brown eyes were smiling warmly into hers, his hair flopped on his forehead. She could feeling herself coming, coming … Oh, this was the best she had ever known, exquisite. Her body was on fire, and Jack was pouring himself into her, loving her …

  It must have been a dream because when she woke Jack was barely conscious, and he never got out of bed again.

  Over the next few days he slipped in and out of reality. Now and then he could carry on a perfectly lucid conversation, then his eyes would close and nothing could rouse him.

  ‘Ben would make a good husband,’ he said one day. He even managed a rusty laugh. ‘He’ll cut your meat up for you when you get old. Francie would make you laugh. Did you know you’re the first girl who turned him on?’

  ‘He told you?’

  But he had drifted away. Next time he woke up, hours later, he asked for Laura. ‘She’s not here, darling. Shall I fetch Dinah?’

  He had gone again. Josie called the doctor when he began to have hallucinations and a sedative was injected. ‘It’s a pity we didn’t meet before,’ the doctor, an elderly man, said drily. ‘I would have told him how much my late wife and I used to enjoy that television series of his. What was it called?’

  ‘DiMarco of the Met’

  ‘That’s right. We could never get our little son to bed the night it was on.’ He promised to come again that night.

  ‘He should have injected a triple whisky,’ Dottie said. Like Dinah and Peter, Dottie had stayed in Mosely Drive. Francie and Ben came every day. People kept telephoning. ‘He’s stone cold sober for the first time in years.’

  ‘What can I do?’ Josie cried frantically.

  ‘Nothing. Just pray the end will be quick.’ Dottie wasn’t inclined to beat about the bush.

  Jack Coltrane died when his daughter was with him, and his son-in-law was holding his hand. It was ten past two in the morning. Josie was snatching a few hours’ sleep on the settee in the study when Dinah woke her. ‘He’s gone, Mum. It was very peaceful. One minute he was breathing, then suddenly it stopped.’

  They embraced each other, then Josie went into the bedroom. She pressed Peter’s shoulder. He kissed her and left the room, and she was left with Jack. She knelt beside the bed, laid her head on his chest and wept.

  Somehow she got through the days before the funeral. Jack had wanted to be cremated, and the service was in the same chapel as Lily’s had been held. There was no Mass, no hymns, no prayers, no priests, just people taking turns to say a few words about their friend. The rather rusty strains of Louis Armstrong, Jelly Roll Morton and King Oliver drifted from the loudspeaker, but Josie hadn’t mentioned he’d wanted Ella Fitzgerald because listening to ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’ just wasn’t on. She would have broken down, along with everybody else.

  She didn’t look when the curtains closed on the coffin and it slid into the flames. Jack had dismissed the idea of flowers, so there were no wreaths to admire when they emerged into the pale sunshine of a mid-September day. Everyone stood around awkwardly, talking in subdued voices. Dinah said, ‘Do you mind if Peter and I go, Mum? I’m worried about leaving the children with the woman next door. Francie or Ben will give you a lift home.’ She squeezed Josie’s hand. ‘I’ll have tea made.’

  ‘I’ve invited a few people back.’ Only a few. It would be such a contrast to last week’s wedding.

  She shook dozens of hands, thanked people for coming, her voice cold with grief. Would she ever feel normal again?

  Nearly everyone had gone, just a few old friends left. Marigold and Jonathan kissed her and said goodbye, then Terence and Muriel Dunnet, both now very old, Cathy Connors and Lynne Goode from Barefoot House, Richard White, all terribly sad.

  Josie was left with Dottie and the two men who had featured so largely in her life – Ben Kavanagh and Francie O’Leary. They walked over to their cars, unlocked the doors, looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to choose.

  Dottie said, ‘See you back at the house, Jose.’ She took it for granted that Josie wouldn’t want a lift in the decrepit Mini with rusting doors and an engine that sounded a bit like its owner’s gruff voice.

  There’s nothing left for me! Josie thought despairingly, as she glanced from Ben to Francie, from Francie to Ben. Then, from nowhere, came a vision of leafy jungles, hot arid deserts, trains and buses to far-away places, strangers speaking languages she didn’t understand.

  She caught her breath. Dottie was about to slam the door of the Mini. ‘Dottie,’ she called.

  ‘Yes, Jose?’

  ‘Can I come with you?’

  Maureen Lee’s award-winning novels have earned her many fans. Her recent novel, The Leaving of Liverpool, was a Sunday Times top 10 bestseller. Maureen was born in Bootle and now lives in Colchester. Find out more at: www.maureenlee.co.uk.

  * * *

  MAUREEN LEE

  * * *

  MAUREEN LEE IS ONE OF THE BEST-LOVED SAGA WRITERS AROUND. All her novels are set in Liverpool and the world she evokes is always peopled with characters you’ll never forget. Her familiarity with Liverpool and its people brings the terraced streets and tight-knit communities vividly to life in her books. Maureen is a born storyteller and her many fans love her for her powerful tales of love and life, tragedy and joy in Liverpool.

  * * *

  The Girl from Bootle

  * * *

  Born into a working-class family in Bootle, Liverpool, Maureen Lee spent her early years in a terraced house near the docks – an area that was relentlessly bombed during the Second World War. As a child she was bombed out of the house in Bootle and the family were forced to move.

  Maureen left her convent school at 15 and wanted to become an actress. However, her shocked mother, who said that it was ‘as bad as selling your body on the streets’, put her foot down and Maureen had to give up her dreams and go to secretarial college instead.

  As a child, Maureen was bombed out of her terraced house in Bootle

  * * *

  Family Life

  * * *

  A regular theme in her books is the fact that apparently happy homes often conceal pain and resentment and she sometimes draws on her own early life for inspiration. ‘My mother always seemed to disapprove of me – she never said “well done” to me. My brother was the favourite,’ Maureen says.

  I know she would never have approved of my books

  As she and her brother grew up they grew apart. ‘We just see things differently in every way,’ says Maureen. This, and a falling out during the di
fficult time when her mother was dying, led to an estrangement that has lasted 24 years. ‘Despite the fact that I didn’t see eye-to-eye with my mum, I loved her very much. I deserted my family and lived in her flat in Liverpool after she went into hospital for the final time. My brother, who she thought the world of, never went near. Towards the end when she was fading she kept asking where he was. To comfort her, I had to pretend that he’d been to see her the day before, which was awful. I found it hard to get past that.’

  * * *

  Freedom – Moving on to a Family of Her Own

  * * *

  Maureen is well known for writing with realism about subjects like motherhood: ‘I had a painful time giving birth to my children – the middle one was born in the back of a two-door car. So I know things don’t always go as planned.’

  My middle son was born in the back of a car

  The twists and turns of Maureen’s life have been as interesting as the plots of her books. When she met her husband, Richard, he was getting divorced, and despite falling instantly in love and getting engaged after only two weeks, the pair couldn’t marry. Keen that Maureen should escape her strict family home, they moved to London and lived together before marrying. ‘Had she known, my mother would never have forgiven me. She never knew that Richard had been married before.’ The Lees had to pretend they were married even to their landlord. Of course, they did marry as soon as possible and have had a very happy family life.

  * * *

  Success at Last

  * * *

  Despite leaving school at fifteen, Maureen was determined to succeed as a writer. Like Kitty in Kitty and Her Sisters and Millie in Dancing in the Dark, she went to night school and ended up getting two A levels. ‘I think it’s good to “better yourself”. It gives you confidence,’ she says. After her sons grew up she had the time to pursue her dream, but it took several years and a lot of disappointment before she was successful. ‘I was determined to succeed. My husband was one hundred per cent supportive. I wrote lots of