The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

‘Oh, sod it, David. We live once.’

  There was a bit of giggling on her part, because the condom container in the T-shirt made a noise every time he moved until he discarded the garment. Then they lay in their tree house, which structure had been transformed as if by magic into a large, grown-up bed. Time meant nothing; it was as if they had never been apart.

  Eight

  Alan, realizing that he was doing a fair imitation of a goldfish out of water, closed his mouth with a deliberate snap. He stepped out of Trish’s Mercedes and stood on a path as wide as many B roads. Behind them, ornate gates hummed their way back towards the closed position. Gardens at the front of the property were formal, with massive lawns, shrubberies, fountains and flower beds. There was even a maze, and the rockery was the biggest he had ever seen.

  It was an amazing sight, one that left Tallows a mere understudy standing in the wings, because Styles was the brainchild of a man who had died only recently. It was real, it was new and it was now. Young trees lined the private road, and the acreage beyond the building appeared to go on for ever. Alan knew that even had he worked for a hundred years, he could never have matched Howie Styles, because the man had been an artist. ‘How many acres back there?’ he asked. ‘You could build a whole estate of semis and still have room to spare.’

  ‘I don’t know how much land there is. It’ll be on the deeds, I suppose,’ Trish replied. ‘Let’s just say I’ve never walked that far, and Howie mowed the grass on one of those sit-and-ride mowers. We have three, because it takes three men to do the lot. It’s like looking after something the size of Jersey, I can tell you that.’

  It was an awesome house in a fairytale setting. They entered the mansion through double doors and stood in a hall that rose the full height of the building with a domed and glazed roof at its centre. Two staircases swept away, one at each side of the entrance area. It was flamboyant, yet understated because of carefully chosen colour combinations. ‘Bloody magnificent, Trish,’ he said. ‘A great credit to a great man, God rest his soul.’ Trish smiled and led him through the rest of the house. She appeared to be bored, putting Alan in mind of the curator of an art gallery who had seen it all before, and too many times to count.

  Everyone in the trade knew that Howard Styles had left his mark on Manchester and surrounding towns, but this place was almost unbelievable. Trish, also, was hard to understand, since she seemed too trusting, especially when she opened a safe inside which she stashed her pearls. The double row of baubles around her throat had meant little to Alan, but she pronounced their value to be over two thousand pounds when she put them away. ‘Howie was very security conscious,’ she said. ‘Keen as mustard when it came down to that sort of thing.’

  Alan offered no reply. If she dumped him and he had the combination to this lock, there was probably enough in the safe to keep him for a few years. Yes, there were several possibilities here, but he’d have to clear off pretty damned sharpish if reduced to thieving. Anyway, he liked her too well, didn’t he? She was a gradely little woman, just his type – no nonsense, no frills, and with a boyish figure. Most of all, she was needful, so there was a chance that he might be appreciated at last.

  Alderley Edge was probably the most expensive place in the north. In the county of Cheshire, it housed business tycoons, lottery millionaires and footballers by the score. The area in which Styles stood boasted estates whose price tags were beyond the reach of mere mortals. Trish had been happy to tell Alan the estimated value of her property, though it clearly meant little or nothing to her. She would have been content in a three-bed semi, yet she told him in matter-of-fact terms that Styles was worth more than six million, and that most of the ‘daft’ houses out there were owned by footballers and their WAGS. ‘My Howie built two or three of them, and he did his best to persuade the clients to have a bit of sense. But the rest? Wear dark glasses and a false smile. It’s like being on some Hollywood set – the houses aren’t real.’

  ‘Not in the same class as this, any of them I saw as we drove through,’ Alan said. ‘Talented bloke, your old man.’

  Trish giggled. ‘Did you see the one like a miniature castle?’ she asked. ‘There’s another one a couple of miles away that looks like a wedding cake. Howie had a good laugh at that one, I can tell you. He used to say Cheshire is visible proof that their brains are in their feet. Mind, he was a great Manchester United supporter, hardly ever missed a home game. I couldn’t even tell him how they were doing towards the end, though. All that crying was just a symptom – he didn’t know who I was for well over three months. I lost him long before I buried him, Alan.’

  There was an indoor swimming pool next to a huge bar with two full-sized snooker tables and a dance floor. The push of a button produced a second dancing area over the pool. Every bedroom had its own en suite, while the main living rooms were vast. ‘Just the two of you lived here?’

  ‘We lived in an advert, love. The swimming pool we never used – it was there to show what he could do. Ninety per cent of this house is what Howie called salad dressing – here just to prove that he was good at his work. A health farm type of business is interested in making another of those places where people can come to relax and detoxify. They’ve made an offer. I’m selling it and Howie’s business, because I don’t need either of them. Then I’ll move to the seaside, I think. The countryside round here’s gorgeous, but I’d sooner live by the sea. All my life, I’ve wanted to look after retired Blackpool donkeys. I love animals, me.’

  A dart of pure fear pierced his chest. Pain in that area still managed to scare the daylights out of him. ‘So you don’t like this house?’ How could anyone with a full set of marbles take against a place such as this?

  Trish shrugged. ‘Neither of us ever really cared for it. We threw a big party at least three times a year, and he got business that way. You see, people who live in houses as big as this are trying to prove something. Howie was showing that he could build a decent mausoleum, because you can’t live in a mansion like this. It’s for what he called rich zombies, all money but no life in them. No, we were happiest in Blackpool. Can you imagine two people rattling about in here? We had to phone each other on our mobiles – it was the quickest way of making contact, and I suppose it saved on shoe leather. This isn’t for me, you know.’

  ‘No, no. I can see that. It’s not my idea of comfort, either.’ But the six million quid could be a great solace, he mused. This was an uncomplicated, good-hearted woman, yet she wasn’t stupid. She had come from the slums and had married into the slums, but Howard Styles had built up a magnificent company known for its quality and efficiency. For every month added on to a stated date of completion, the customer got a huge five per cent reduction. Each substandard result within a project meant a free replacement, while the craftsmen attached to Styles had to remain alert and obedient, or they’d be gone with the wind.

  Alan was a bit worried. She seemed to like him and to want to help him, and she knew he was penniless, but would she get rid of him when she returned to Blackpool? He couldn’t just ask, not yet. If he jumped in carelessly, he might muddy the waters. He must keep himself in check for these first few days or weeks, leave her to make all the decisions, since he was hardly in a position of strength.

  ‘Your bedroom’s the fourth on the left,’ she advised him. ‘And Howie’s dressing room’s next to it. Use his clothes – you’re about the same size now you’ve lost that weight. Shoes, too. We’ll get you back to normal in no time, just wait and see. There’s a little gym next to the pool, and we have a fitness trainer who comes twice a week.’

  He couldn’t drink. Because she knew that, there would be no table wines, no visible bottles of whisky or brandy. The bar near the pool had been stripped, its optics denuded, shelves bared, spaces under the counter stacked with soft drinks and squashes. Trish was quiet, but thorough. Something else that had occurred recently to Alan was the knowledge that he was no longer fit for work. His main anxiety had been related to the thought of
being idle, but idleness suddenly suited, especially if this lady might just carry him through an interesting retirement. ‘So. What do you do in Blackpool?’ he asked.

  Trish beamed. ‘Bingo, tea dances, line-dancing and whist club. We were just starting to learn contract bridge when Howie got ill, so that was a non-starter. Then there’s bowling – they’ve some lovely crown greens up there. We’re members of a health club – keep fit classes and yoga. And we visited our donkey sanctuary a couple of times a week when we were there. We saved a couple of horses as well that were due to become dog meat. He was fond of horses, my Howie. In fact, he liked all animals – even rescued a llama.’

  Alan hoped the horror didn’t show in his expression. There was always a price to pay, and he was in no position from which he might bargain. She held all the cards, all the money, the only chance of a future for him. Apart from anything else, he might go to prison unless someone hid him. And the last thing he needed was Lucy. Even bingo and bridge might be better than living with a hand held out for the crumbs from his ex-wife’s table. ‘And you have a house there? In Blackpool, I mean.’

  She picked some photographs out of a drawer and almost ran to him. ‘It’s gorgeous, and you can see the sea from the upstairs front windows. I’ve always liked Blackpool. I used to go on day trips with Mam and Dad when I was a kid. They couldn’t afford a boarding house, so it was there and back in a day, on a charabanc. And now I look at all this and wish they’d lived longer, because me and Howie could have done so much for them. I miss him. Not the poor Howie I had at the end, but the man I married. He was such a lovely, kind, gentle man.’

  He took the pictures and looked through them. The Blackpool house was detached, between the wars, and quite attractive. She was right, of course. Who wanted to live in Alderley Edge when Blackpool plus six million was an option? ‘Have you ever thought about a yacht?’ he asked casually.

  Trish laughed. ‘You must be joking – I can’t even swim. But we were considering – Howie and me – getting a place in France. Somewhere near the Loire, I think he said. He liked fishing. We were doing an evening class in conversational French, but … Well, it wasn’t to be.’

  ‘Aye, it was a damned shame, him dying like that before his time. The only good thing was he didn’t know anything at the end, once he’d stopped crying.’

  She grabbed his hand. ‘I’ll not forget how you asked about him when you came round. Never a thought for yourself, just for my Howie. But I have to make one thing clear, love. I can’t stand drunks. I’ll look after you as long as you stay off the booze, but if you let me down, you’ll have to go, because I’d never cope.’

  He decided to ask. ‘Do I go to Blackpool?’

  She laughed. ‘If you can keep up with me, pet. And if we get on. Properly, I mean.’

  He understood. She was lonely, and she didn’t want him to sleep for ever behind the fourth door on the left. ‘Right.’ He gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘I’m bloody starving, Trish. Me belly thinks me throat’s cut.’

  ‘And you even talk like he did. He was always bloody starving. Till he went off food altogether, I mean. That was when I knew he’d lost the fight, because nothing came between him and his food – ever.’

  ‘So where are the servants?’

  Trish’s laughter echoed round the enormous house. ‘Why do you think there’s a sofa and a telly in the kitchen? We lived in there, me and Howie. Staff come in during the week and clean the rest of the whited sepulchre. Apart from sleeping upstairs, we spent most of our time in the kitchen, and I do all my own cooking. He loved gardening, and he used to help a lot out there. I enjoy cooking, so we jogged along nicely, and the help stayed out of our way. It works.’

  ‘Do you want me to give you a hand with the dinner, then?’

  ‘Not if you want to live. Sit. Turn the telly on, and find something you like to watch. After our meal’s settled, we’ll go for a constitutional in the grounds. You can meet Damien.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The llama. Howie reckoned Damien has the three sixes tattooed somewhere under the matted wool. He spits. Then there are peacocks, geese – they can get nasty – ducks on a pond, and some horses. They’re used by special schools for children who’d never get to ride otherwise. People come and look after them, but they have their own entrance at the back of the estate – we never see the horse people.’

  Alan switched off as she prattled on about her bloody animals. ‘I’ve found the horses a home: another house where the owner will carry on letting the kiddies ride. As for Damien, he’s going to a Yorkshire sheep farmer who already keeps llamas, because they frighten away anything that might try to damage the flock. So it’s all arranged. As long as I manage to offload the house, that is.’

  She prepared vegetables, baked potatoes and chicken stuffed with olives and tomatoes. They watched the news, and were halfway through the meal when the doorbell sounded.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ Trish said. ‘I forgot. It’s the health farm people with some of their staff – they want to look round. The really big bosses are French, you know. So they might just throw in a nice little farmhouse near the Loire if I play my cards right. See? If you think about things, life can dovetail very nicely.’ In this happy frame of mind, she set off across the vast hall to open the door.

  Alan followed cautiously. It might be his daughter. Easterly Grange could have put two and two together and— He stopped in his tracks. It wasn’t his daughter, but it was someone who could muck up his life good and proper.

  ‘Come in,’ Trish said, widening the doorway. ‘So good of you to travel all the way from London. If you’d like to start upstairs, that’s fine. You don’t want me dogging your heels every inch of the way. And if you need to spend the night, we’ve adequate accommodation for all of you.’

  A man explained in broken English that they had a hotel nearby before thanking her for giving them free rein.

  Alan heard the man, but did not see him. His eyes remained locked into the gaze of the woman who stood by his side. No. It couldn’t be. He backed away into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Never in a million years would he have expected to see her again. And his appetite had gone.

  Trish returned. ‘I’ve left them to it. If they’re willing to give me a good price, then I’m out of here.’ She paused. ‘You’re not eating.’

  He explained that he was full, that the quantity and quality of food to which he had become inured had reduced his appetite, and that her cooking was superb. ‘I’ll get some air,’ he said. ‘You catch up with me when the visitors have gone.’

  ‘But should you be on your own?’

  ‘I’m used to it. And I won’t go far.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’

  He sat in a gazebo for a while, hands trembling, a headache threatening to become more powerful by the minute. Was there no escaping the past? He raked through the ashes of memory in an attempt to assess whether the arrival knew enough to damage his chances with Trish. Was his luck running out again?

  He walked away from the house, because the visitors might want to look round the grounds. Damien spat at him, and the geese chased him. So he put himself away in a large shed and hid behind stored timber. ‘Don’t talk to her, Trish,’ he whispered. ‘Please, don’t talk to her.’

  Waking in the arms of a man was wonderful; waking in the embrace of Dr David Vincent was special beyond words. Lucy imagined that many folk would laugh if they knew how chaste they had remained, but she knew differently. The magnetism was there to the point where it all but crackled in the air, yet they had managed to sleep without indulging the need to be closer. Separately, they were strong people; together, they were almost unbreakable.

  ‘No jokes today, missus?’ he asked. ‘Nothing about unfinished business, unstarted business and my ability to lie unmoved next to a red-hot woman? No digs at my manhood? Hairy legs? Snoring?’

  She awarded him a pseudo-disdainful glance. ‘Later.’

 
‘So you aren’t cured? Will I still have to cope with all your sillinesses?’

  ‘Yup. You use the bathroom first, because you’re in Bolton today, am I right?’

  ‘You are.’ He stayed where he was. ‘It wasn’t easy, Louisa. And it can’t be maintained. Tallows, then?’

  ‘Tallows. After we’ve found my beloved ex, and preferably when Moira isn’t there. I suppose I could leave her for an hour, but—’

  ‘It’s not enough. I want longer than an hour, my darling. A lot longer.’

  She managed not to shiver. ‘I agree. There’s more to us than the merely physical. I feel as if I’ve come home after emigrating to some strange place. The thing is, where is that strange place? He can’t have gone far, not after being in hospital for so long.’

  David rolled away and picked up the phone. ‘I’ll talk to Rhys, see what I can get out of him.’

  ‘At half past seven?’

  ‘He’s like me, babe. He takes the whole thing very seriously. I have to catch him before he goes into theatre at one of the hospitals. Alan was lucky to get him, because he’s definitely the best in the north when it comes to dicky tickers. For all I know, he could already be standing on a helipad waiting for a picnic box with a heart in it.’

  ‘Even I know that’s not his job.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ He dialled. Lucy listened to the banter. It was medical, vulgar and very witty. Then the questioning began. Feeling like an eavesdropper, she left him to it and went for a quick shower. When she returned, he was sitting on the edge of her bed. ‘Well?’ she asked, towelling her hair.

  ‘He’s possibly with the childless widow of some millionaire from Cheshire.’

  Lucy dropped the hair-drying towel. ‘Possibly? And do we know the name and address of this possible person?’

  ‘No. Rhys said she’s had enough shocks lately. Her other half died recently in Easterly Grange – brain tumour.’

  ‘Isn’t she in mourning?’

  ‘Rhys also says she’s a good little soul who did her grieving before he died, because she lost him an inch at a time. Then she started to visit your old man. She was seen in one of the corridors just before Alan did his disappearing act. So, taking into account your husband’s need for money and his preference for stick-thin females, well, it’s not rocket science, is it? He’s with her. And you know very well what he’s capable of. But you’d be better to leave him to it.’