Having had Velux windows put in the roof at the back of the house, Lucy had created two new rooms for her twins, so she could let five for bed and breakfast. The sixth needed to be kept for Lizzie, who was expected soon, because the park season was over and she wanted to spend time with the beautiful Simon next door. Soon, though, all three would be back at college, and Lucy would be able to concentrate on herself and the business.
Motherhood never ended. That had always been the case, but she had allowed their final years at university to act as a punctuation mark, or even as the end of a chapter. There was no end. She would always be their mother. As for their dad, well … Paul and Mike had refused point-blank to visit him. Their excuse was that they didn’t want to upset a man who was recovering from surgery. They were angry; Alan was still their father, but they would always be on Lucy’s side. And although Lucy maintained her status as mother, she could not force them to do her will, since they were adults.
These were adults? God help the world! She tidied up after her boys and checked the small shower room that had been installed between the two bedrooms. Picking up underpants, shirts, jeans and socks, she wondered yet again whether she had raised her children properly. Lizzie lived like the creator of whirlwinds, while the boys were clearly used to having servants pick up after them. Not at college, though. They probably lived as untidily as most students.
The roof space at the front had been boarded and lit so that it could be used as storage for her children’s property. No Velux windows here, because the house had come with a set of rules that precluded such adventures. But she had to provide for her children, probably until they found full-time work after finishing their education, so she had to store their possessions. And she was pleased, was glad of their company. If only they could be a bit tidier, they’d be almost perfect.
Never mind, she told her inner self as she descended flights of stairs. She had started off with seven bedrooms to let, one of which had turned out to be big enough just for linens, and now she had five. And then there was David. Yes, she needed to keep one for him. So that left only four.
Why was she smiling? What was happening in the grey cells behind the eyes? No, much further back than that, and in muddy waters, because she wasn’t sure, couldn’t quite see. Yes, she could. No, she couldn’t. She stopped on a landing to straighten curtains. Yes, no, yes, no – she had a pantomime script running in her head. Downstairs, where she lived, there was a king-size bed in a very grand room. Everywhere looked rather splendid since she and Lizzie had released from prison items that had once graced Tallows. She would do it. She would. One person could never fill a king-size bed, even when said person had a tendency to lie diagonally …
‘Stop it,’ she whispered. ‘Bloody well behave, Lucy-Lou.’ Pa had given her that nickname aeons ago. From Lucy-Lou, Lucy had evolved, and her rather upmarket given name had been left for years to rest on its laurels.
Some little devil that had dozed for ages in her soul had come to life of late. Occasionally, she listened to it; sometimes, she told it to bugger off, but she couldn’t kill it. Like Superman, it survived all attacks, all attempts at demolition, because it was … it was her youth. She continued down the stairs. Did anyone ever grow up completely?
Lucy Henshaw, really Buckley, looked at herself in a mirror. At forty-five, a woman was wiser than she had been, but some splinters of those teenage years remained. The need for adventure, for closeness with another human, for a real future – all these requirements and hopes lived on behind an older face, beneath a heart whose beat was still capable of altering at the sight of a certain man. Or men.
David would not need a room for very long, because—
The phone rang. It was a fancy item that delivered several ringtones, and this was his. ‘Hello, David.’ He was doing two things at once again. She could tell when he was multi-tasking, because he became quieter and even more vague than usual. Men were like that. Women, who were used to simultaneous demands, had evolved differently. ‘Put the book down, or the pen, or whatever it is you’re fiddling with.’
‘Sorry, ma’am. How are you?’
‘About the same as I was when you last spoke to me. Three-quarters of an hour ago.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Sorry. It was fifty minutes.’
‘Ah.’
She waited. ‘How’s Samson?’ she asked after counting past ten.
‘Fine.’
Lucy sighed. She remembered the ‘Would you consider going out with me?’, the bungled kiss, the holding of her hand while Lizzie had died so brilliantly in the park. He was a beautiful soul, kind to the core, almost as messy as a small boy, serious to the point of obsession when it came to his work. David was not perfect, yet his imperfections were the very qualities that made him lovable. Lovable. ‘Why did you call?’ she asked.
‘To hear your voice.’
OK. That was a fairly good answer. Obvious, but acceptable. He missed her. ‘You miss me,’ she accused him.
‘Well, of course I do.’
It was like pulling teeth. He was as much use as a grilled kipper when it came to small talk. It was hard enough to pin him down when he was here in the flesh, but on the phone there was no chance of eye contact, no opportunity to skewer him to a chair and make him talk. ‘Hopeless,’ she said. ‘Absolutely hopeless.’
‘Am I?’
‘Yes.’ This could work in her favour, too, she decided. If he wanted to hide behind the phone, she would play the same game. ‘Your room is still ready. Any time you have to work at this end of the East Lancashire Road, you and Samson can stay here.’ She paused and bit her lip before continuing. ‘But what do we do with the dog when you claim your rightful place?’
‘What?’
Doctors were not as bright as they used to be. They seemed to need a picture painting every time something different or new was suggested. Unless it was medical, she supposed. Even then, they wanted diagrams. She crossed her fingers and closed her eyes. ‘When you move into my room.’
‘He can stay with your cat who thinks he’s a dog.’
Lucy almost punched the air in triumph, though she managed to contain herself. How quickly the answer had come. It was clear that he, too, had a little devil resident in his psyche. ‘You just put more than six words together, David. Are you less afraid of me these days?’
‘I was never afraid of you.’
‘Really? Were you afraid of yourself?’
‘Of us,’ he said calmly. ‘Strong chemistry. If it doesn’t work, we’ll lose a good friendship. You see, Louisa, chemistry isn’t always stable. It can burn brightly and briefly, it can maintain its own life, turn to poison, or disappear into the ozone. It can also explode.’
Lucy found herself smiling again. ‘You’re still an all-or-nothing boy, still the little lad who tried to clear the brook on a rope that was too short and almost drowned.’
‘Ah, but I knew you’d save me.’
‘Hang on to that thought, man.’
‘And let go of the rope?’
‘Of course. But not until the twins and Lizzie are out of the way. There’s still a little of the prude in me.’ She lowered her tone until she was almost whispering. ‘We began, you and I, at Tallows. We were children there. Perhaps we need a tryst, an afternoon in my room in the old house. The place needs decontaminating, anyway.’
He laughed. ‘And what am I? A bloody anti-bacterial detergent?’
‘I’ll let you know the answer to that when I’ve wiped the floor with you.’
‘You’re too quick for me, Louisa Buckley.’
‘I always was.’
A few seconds passed. ‘Louisa?’
‘Yes?’
‘Is it real?’
‘That’s what we have to find out. You can’t bungee without jumping. Oh, but that’s a rope you can’t let go, because they harness you to it. Worthwhile things always involve risk. Anyway, I’m going now to visit Moira for cocoa. What an exciting life I lead.’
‘Is she the o
ne whose husband is after you?’
‘Richard has no ticket to ride.’
This time, his laugh was louder. ‘Are you being vulgar?’
‘I am.’
‘Thank goodness for that. Go and drink cocoa and give my best to your wonderful neighbour. Moira, I mean.’
‘Bye, David.’
‘Bye.’
Lucy replaced the receiver and sat back, a hand to her mouth. She had no idea why she was covering the broad grin, because there was no one else in the house. The twins were at a barbecue in the next garden with the Turner girls, and Lizzie was still in Manchester. Or was she? Simon Turner had taken a few days off, and he was missing, too …
Lucy walked into the hall and glanced through a small pane of glass in her front door. Richard, who had driven away earlier, had returned and was tidying the interior of his car. She opened the door, went out, ignored him and walked up the ramp that covered the Turners’ steps. His face looked thunderous, and she was in no mood for storm.
Moira looked up when Lucy entered the room. ‘Hiya, babe. He’s in a mood. It’s one of those very black ones – he won’t talk to me. Sometimes it’s like living with a delinquent teenager on crack cocaine.’
‘Will he want cocoa?’
Moira shrugged. ‘Make some, take it out to him and if he doesn’t want it he can have a bath in it for all I care.’ She went on to explain that he’d come home in a strange state, and that he wouldn’t talk to her. It wasn’t her fault – she’d done nothing wrong, and he was being a pig.
Lucy wasn’t making cocoa for pigs. She provided a mug for herself, and half a mug for Moira, who didn’t want to be scalded by hot liquid. ‘Talk to him, Lucy,’ she begged.
‘Moira, I don’t do bad moods. I’m having enough trouble as it is with David’s reticence.’
‘No progress, then?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, exactly. It was something Carol said. She’s the one I’m hoping will take over from your Shirley. You’ve met her. I can tell by the grin on your physog that you’ve met her. She has a sister with MS and she’s looking for jobs in houses that are close together, because her van’s a candidate for euthanasia, so it’ll be the bus for her and Dee. I’m hoping they’ll look after both of us.’
‘Oh? And what pearls of wisdom did she deliver?’
‘She said the secret is to let men think they rule, but to do the steering for them. Something like that. So I’m steering him gently, and I think he’s beginning to warm to the idea of having a partner after so many years. But I can’t deal with Richard in a bad mood, love. He’s tossing things around in his car. Bits of paper, books, maps – even the floor mats are out on the pavement.‘
‘Yup. That’s a bad mood, right enough. You just wait till he has a really bad one. He sets fire to things, goes round the house looking for rubbish, has a bonfire, bugger the neighbours.’ She paused. ‘He’s a good man, though.’
‘I do know that. Now, put your cup down, I’ll take your top off and we’ll tackle those knots in your shoulders.’ First, she put Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata on the sound system. Moira often responded well to music.
She started at the base of the skull, smoothing gently over vertebrae that felt as if they were forming extra bone. As Lucy worked down the spine and across the rigid shoulders she applied more pressure, while Moira’s hands and arms jerked about in reaction. After a while, confused and exposed nerves settled to the point where limbs quietened down, and the patient was relaxed and on the brink of sleep. Lucy wouldn’t cry. She covered Moira with a throw, as she wanted not to disturb her by dressing her again. Sometimes, when she tried to help this woman, her heart seemed stretched to breaking point, but she never wept until she got home.
Later, after walking past Richard’s car in which he continued to thrash about like a stranded fish, Lucy entered her own house and indulged the need to cry. It was anger, for the most part. After cancer, diseases such as Parkinson’s, muscular dystrophy and multiple sclerosis were among the cruellest she had ever come across.
He phoned yet again, and he was different this time, on her case right from the start. ‘You’re crying. Why are you crying? Has he touched you? That GP from next door, has he tried anything?’
‘No. I’m all right, David.’
‘Like hell you are.’
She placed the phone on the table and dried her eyes. When she picked up the instrument, it was dead. Her mobile sent out the text signal. On my way. Love you. David.
That damned fool of a lovely, wonderful man was driving just short of forty miles to reach the woman he … loved. He had listened to her crying, and he was travelling miles out of his way. She should stop him. She didn’t want him to act like a father; she planned for him to be her—
‘Lucy?’
Her husband?
She turned. It was time she started locking her door, because Richard Turner was standing there. ‘What?’ People should knock. People should not come in without invitation when a householder was having a soul-clearing weep. Crying, like going to the loo, should be done in private. She was almost furious, and she didn’t quite understand why. ‘Don’t bring your bad mood in here, because I’ve enough on without your banging about and lighting bonfires. Go away. Tidy your car, or something. I thought you were keeping your distance from me, anyway.’
‘Why are you crying?’
She exploded for the first time in her adult life. ‘Why? Because she’s in the house, stuck there, day in and day out. Because I try to help her with massage, and I know it brings just temporary relief. Because all she thinks about is you, you being settled after she dies, you having some kind of partner who won’t make your life a misery. She is the most selfless person I’ve ever met, and you stay outside rattling about in your car, having a paddy. The kids have been burning burgers out there – why don’t you go and throw a can of petrol on the barbie.’ Tears streamed, and her words were broken by sobs.
‘Lucy, what on earth got you into this state?’
‘You. Your selfishness, your needs, your bloody importance. She’s so ill and so lovely. She deserves better than you, because she is magical and special and all the things you’ll never be. She asked me … you know what she asked me, because I heard you tearing her apart afterwards. I put a stop to you, Dr Turner.’
He was becoming angry. First Lexi, now this one, and all he had come for was an A–Z of Liverpool so that he might find his way to a chap who used to be a private detective. Lexi would be stopped. But now he was distracted. ‘By telling your children?’
‘They are all I have. Go home. You are getting on my bloody nerves.’
It was clear that she had snapped, and he did the same. It was all suddenly too much for him, and he needed contact. He grabbed her, held her close and kissed her hard on the mouth. ‘I love my wife,’ he said. ‘And you are bloody wonderful, especially when you’re angry.’ Lexi? Who the bloody hell was she? Cod roe, while there was caviar to be tasted?
Lucy blinked stupidly. It occurred to her that this had been her first ever real kiss, that she had enjoyed it, that she wished she hadn’t enjoyed it, and that the curtains were open. Perhaps the children had seen what had just happened. ‘My boys and your girls are out at the back in your garden. Let me go.’
He obeyed and mumbled an apology. She busied herself with stupid things like cushions, newspapers and seed catalogues. ‘You’d better go. Moira isn’t happy, because you’re in a filthy mood, so you’d better talk to her. And I’m expecting David.’
‘Ah.’ He shuffled about uncomfortably. ‘I’ve searched the car, but some kleptomaniac has buggered off with my A–Z, and I have to find a street I never heard of. Do you have a copy? Someone I know has moved to West Derby, and I need to find the route to his office.’ He noticed that she was blushing. The embrace had affected her, then, but perhaps she was simply embarrassed. ‘I came home to talk to Moira, and found her too ill, Lucy. I lost my rag with the illness, just as you did.’
Luc
y said nothing. He had come home because he needed to talk. He needed. It was all about him, just as it had always been about Alan. Alan the developer, Alan the good-for-a-round-down-the-local-pub chap, the hail-fellow-well-met builder, the big man. And here stood his shadow, the best diagnostician in Crosby and Waterloo, a saint with a crippled wife, oh what a shame and isn’t he handsome?
Yet desire still burnt. Two men. She had possibly waited all her adult life for a train to arrive, and now she had a pair. One was the non-stop express, and it was standing here, fully fuelled, lit up and ready to move. The other was on its way. It was a slower train, but its reliability was undeniable. Richard was dangerous. All fast-moving things were hazardous, but therein lay the attraction. The devil in her soul was alive and well, so she threw her neighbour out of the house. The A–Z was nonsense, because he could have got directions to wherever by looking in the phone book and finding the name and number of the man he sought. One telephone call, and he could have the bloody route described to him. And what about the Internet? He wasn’t thinking straight. Something had happened, and he needed to talk. Whatever the reason for his wish to confide, Moira was too ill to be upset.
‘I won’t be used,’ she muttered. ‘Not any more. If anyone’s going to be a user, it’s my turn. Oh, and Moira’s, too.’
She wouldn’t phone or text David when he was driving, because he was a one-thing-at-a-time person, and he shouldn’t be distracted while on the road. It was too late to stop him now, she decided. But he could help. Yes, yes, he could. She dashed next door and pushed Richard out of the way. His wife was awake once more. ‘Moira?’
‘Yes?’
‘Any hospital appointments this week? Dentist, therapist for breathing and swallowing, chiropodist, prayer meeting, or, perhaps, another sordid afternoon with your lover in Blundellsands?’
Moira pretended to think. ‘No. I’m clear now until the next wife-swapping evening. I’m giving line-dancing, bell-ringing and aerobics a miss this week.’
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 18