Dee shot down the road like greased lightning. Lexi, who seemed mesmerized, allowed herself to be prodded, pushed and steered like a cow on its way to market. In her high-heeled shoes, she was no match for Dee in the speed department, while shock accounted for her lack of reaction to this unusual form of persuasion.
In the hall of Lucy’s house, she was placed on a monk’s bench and ordered to stay. Dee muttered something about Mam having missed her way: she should have been a dog-trainer with all this fetching and staying. ‘I’m sorting me cupboards,’ she announced, before leaving the enemies to their own devices.
‘What are you doing round here?’ Carol began.
‘None of your business.’
‘I can make it my business if I want. I’m housekeeper here, and Dee’s my deputy. It’s our job to keep the place nice, and nothing can be nice if you’re part of the picture.’
‘I don’t have to tell you nothing,’
‘Then you can stay sat there like cheese at fourpence till Mrs Henshaw gets back with her lawyer. And the doc next door won’t be long.’
Lexi swallowed. ‘I left me bag in a taxi, and I was told the driver lived down here. I’ve been looking for him for weeks.’
Carol leaned forward. ‘Listen, you. There’s no taxi drivers along this stretch. They’re all doctors and lawyers and stuff like that – professionals. So bugger off and stay away if you know what’s good for you. Don’t go shouting on Mersey View, or they’ll be sending for the busies. We aren’t used to your sort in these parts.’
As soon as Carol stepped back, Lexi shot out of the house. She had to be at her till in half an hour, and she didn’t want to be late again. There were computers and printers in the office at the back of the shop. If she could force herself to be nice to Greasy Bleasdale, he might let her have a lend of his equipment for half an hour.
She staggered up to the main road, flagged down a black cab, and continued on her way to work. Mrs Turner was going to receive some very revealing letters. He said his wife knew he played away – did he think Lexi Phillips came down in the last shower of rain? It was time he learned never to kid a kidder. It was time he grew up. It was also time he learned a bit of sense, because he’d been let off lightly so far.
In the back of the cab, she removed the crippling shoes and tried to rub some life into her feet. Thank goodness she kept a pair of flatties in her locker at work, because she might be on shelf-stacking. She didn’t know which was worse – filling shelves or sitting on her arse for hours on end. But she did know that life wasn’t fair, and Richard Turner was having it too easy. Well, easy would be a thing of the past. She’d make damned well sure of that.
On his way back from Liverpool, Richard stopped at the house where his car had been cleaned. Shirley and Hal were leaving in just over a month, and Richard posted through the letter box an invitation for interview for the gardening jobs on Mersey View.
On his way back to the car, he saw Lexi passing in a black cab. Where had she been? What the hell was she doing in these parts? Didn’t she know there was nothing she could do? Witnesses at the practice would back him up, and as long as that was the case no medical council would turn a hair. But was his local reputation about to take a battering?
He went home immediately. Celia was taking surgery, so there was time for him to nip back and see if anything untoward had occurred. Two cars stood outside Lucy’s house – hers, and another that was presumably the property of her lawyer. The boyfriend, Dr Vincent, was to come back this afternoon to collect Lucy and Moira. He was suddenly glad that Moira was leaving. If Lexi was going to kick off, it would be easier without Moira in situ.
He entered his own house quietly. The dulcet tones of Carol Makin bounced off walls throughout the whole ground floor. ‘So I says to her, “What the bleeding hell are you doing round here, like?” And I shoved her on to Lucy’s monk’s bench, and I says, “They don’t have taxi drivers on Mersey View, because we’re all professionals.” And she went a right funny colour, because I’ve seen her round here before, and she knows I have. Are you taking both these skirts with you, love?’
‘I’ll have to, Carol. You don’t think Lucy’ll mind my accidents?’
Shirley chipped in. ‘No. She’s as sound as a pound, is Lucy. She’s managed you and your problems before. And if she can’t cope, she’s not daft. That David’ll get you some help.’
That David. Richard was sick to the wisdom teeth of that David. David Vincent had the best woman Richard had come across since meeting Moira, yet he seemed an airy-fairy sort of chap, always engrossed in thought, always here with his bloody dog and his bunches of flowers.
But Richard had other fish to fry. He walked into the sitting room. ‘Hi,’ he said with forced brightness. ‘Who’s been looking for taxis, then?’
Carol stared at him for a few seconds. She had her own theories about this fellow, but she had better keep her gob shut. Well, not shut, but on a low light. ‘Litherland Lexi. Expert in sailors, sex, shoplifting and supermarket checkouts. She’s a bother-causer.’
‘Ah. So you chased her?’
‘Dee did. With a feather duster and a bit of vacuum cleaner. My Dee might be thin, but she’s feisty.’
Richard smiled at his wife, and she returned the compliment. ‘You all right now, babe?’ she asked.
‘Yes, fine. I’ve come back for notes, then I’m off to visit the sick and the imaginative.’
‘The imaginative?’ Carol raised an eyebrow,
‘They imagine they’re too ill to work ever again,’ Moira replied for him. ‘Usually a bad back, till Richard finds them heaving furniture or climbing ladders. He copped one enjoying himself on a bouncy castle the other week. He’s supposed to walk with a stick, but he got caught out. Richard always finds them out in the end.’
‘And what do you do then?’ Carol asked. ‘Dob them in to the soshe?’
He smiled. ‘I have never in my life dobbed in anyone to the financial arm of the social services. I praise them to the hills, tell them how proud I am of them for having overcome such a terrible illness, and remind them to visit the job centre. In the end, they do. Most of them, anyway.’
This one was a right clever clogs. Carol had met his type before in posh houses she had cleaned: a gob full of marbles, always saying the right thing, then mucking about behind the wife’s back. And this wife deserved better, because she’d enough to cope with without a fancy-talking whoring fool for a husband. Lexi was looking for him. If he’d been with Lexi, he deserved a red card, bugger the yellow warning.
Carol made her excuses and left the house. She didn’t like him, didn’t like the way he looked at Lucy. Men took little notice of fat, shapeless women, but fat women noticed everything. As did Dee, who ate like a horse and managed to look like someone in the final stages of some eating disorder. No men looked at her, either. Carol and Dee were just essential items of furniture, but they missed nothing.
She found Lucy in the kitchen. Her friend, Glenys, was outside in the back garden. ‘I don’t like him,’ Carol announced. ‘He’s slimy, sly, and full of himself.’
‘Who is?’
‘That pie-can of a doctor next door. He looks at you, Lucy, as if he wants to rip your clothes off your back.’
‘He’s just sex-starved, Carol.’
‘I don’t think so. There’s been a well-known knicker-dropper hanging round. What are you laughing at? Have you never heard of a knicker-dropper?’
‘I have now.’
‘Well, if he can’t have you, he’ll take what he can get. And what he can get from Litherland Lexi is a damned sight more than he might have bargained for. She’s trouble. She’s had a row with just about everybody apart from next door’s goldfish – she could start a war in an empty room. And she’s hanging about like a bad smell on a hot day.’
Glenys came in. Carol summed her up as yet another dumpy little female who could pass through life without being noticed. A lawyer was a good thing for Glenys to be, because she c
ould study people without fear of interruption. The invisibles were the ones who came nearest the truth, since few bothered to address them, yet it was the unaddressed who saw through all the talking, all the excuses. ‘Hiya,’ said Carol. ‘I’m the housekeeper, and I’ll be making breakfasts for guests when Lucy’s having a break. I’ll live here while she’s away.’
Glenys shook Carol’s hand. ‘Hello, Carol. I’m her lawyer, and she’s told me all about you and your daughter. A couple of gems, by all accounts.’
The big woman blushed. ‘Well, if we’re gems, we’re still uncut and definitely not polished. Rough diamonds, you might say.’
‘You’ll do for me,’ Lucy said. ‘But do try to tolerate my neighbours. You don’t have to like them, but please try not to let it show.’
Carol muttered a few words about doctors thinking they knew everything, some of them knowing nothing, and herself having bathrooms to see to.
Glenys burst out laughing when Carol had made her exit. ‘Where do you find them, honey? Can’t you collect stamps or Victoriana or something normal?’
When the hilarity had subsided, Lucy told her friend about the encounter in town. ‘So,’ she concluded. ‘He’s with some other woman who’s come into money. According to his card, Howard Styles was a developer in the Manchester area. Mags Livesey says there’s a massive house – big enough to be made into a Champneys style health spa and worth over five mill.’
‘Bugger,’ muttered Glenys. ‘So I guess we have what Houston might describe as a problem.’
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. ‘I’m copying this address,’ Glenys said finally. ‘Then at least he’ll know when the divorce is final. As for the rest of it – well, if she’s recently lost her husband, she’s vulnerable. Let me look into it. I need to know about her family, about who’s going to prop her up in the next year or so. Because if it’s Alan, she’s in trouble. What do you think?’
Lucy raised her arms and shrugged. Part of her insisted that she’d done her bit and that this new women should be left to get on with it. Yet knowing what he was, and what he was capable of … ‘I’m confused,’ she admitted.
‘Millions, Lucy.’
‘I know.’
‘If his health improves, he’ll steal from her.’
‘I know.’
‘What can we do?’
Lucy stood up. ‘Well, I’m going to the summerhouse with Moira, and having salad, salmon and wine when we get there. We’re travelling in a wheelchair-friendly van, and I’ll use Alan’s car while I’m in Bolton. And I’ll keep in touch with you, because I want you with me when I go to Styles.’
‘So you’ve decided?’
‘It seems so. She has to be warned, and in case she thinks I’m lying just to upset their applecart, you will bring the paperwork.’
‘You sure?’
‘Not completely. But the woman – whoever she is – deserves a chance. Look what he did, not to me, but to his own children. Paul, Mike and Elizabeth are all he has, yet he mortgaged their property, stole their legacies. If he’s capable of that, he might well clean out this Mrs Styles.’
When Glenys had left, Lucy went next door to see how Moira was faring. She found her quiet, unsmiling and twitchy. ‘Moira? Whatever’s the matter?’
Moira lowered her head. ‘I knew it would happen. That’s why I wanted to find somebody decent for him, somebody who’ll be here after I’ve gone.’ She lifted her chin and looked into Lucy’s eyes. ‘I hoped you’d be the one. That was why I did that stupid thing. Somebody’s looking for him now, you see. Carol and Dee know her, and they chased her. He’s got himself involved with the type he thinks of as safe, because he can’t love her and it’s just sex. But I know he needs love, you see, and I also know he’s well on his way to being in love with you. So I took a chance and, well, you know the rest of it.’
Lucy sat down. ‘I’m going to marry David, Moira. Don’t say anything, because I haven’t told him yet. I find Richard very annoying and very attractive, but it’s never going to happen.’ She waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming. ‘Are we going to Tallows?’
‘Yes. Oh, yes. Lucy, I’ve tried to help him and he won’t listen, won’t even speak to me about the creature that’s hurting him. The cleaning of the car, the fire, the silence – it’s all down to the whore Dee and Carol shifted. I can’t do anything until he talks. Let him have some space. We’re going.’
So they went.
Nine
Moira looked forward happily to her journey inland towards the foothills of the Pennines, because David had promised to travel via the prettiest route. A lift took her up from the pavement into the van, where her wheelchair was bolted to the floor after safety belts fastened her to the seat. When the luggage had been similarly pinned down, Lucy and David climbed into the front seats. The drive took just under an hour and, during that time, the passenger in the rear had the opportunity to appreciate the advent of beautiful scenery, and also to view at close quarters the relationship between David and Lucy.
They laughed a lot, though she was louder than he was. At every opportunity, at junctions, traffic lights and pedestrian crossings, he turned to look at Lucy. Feeling something of a gooseberry, Moira watched while pretending not to. She was in the company of a magic she remembered, though she experienced no jealousy or resentment. These two deserved some happiness, and she hoped that they would live long and enjoy it. There were many valuable people in the world, and she was in the presence of two of the best.
Perhaps it was because they shared history, however ancient, that they seemed perfect together. They were completely in tune, head over heels in love, and delightful to study. She was for him, he was for her, and that was an end to it. In some place beyond vision, in heaven or within the deepest roots of nature, a decision had been taken. The couple were bound together, their co-existence inevitable from the hour of birth.
They stopped at the bottom of a hill. ‘You’re in Lancashire now, Moira,’ David told her. ‘No dark, satanic mills any more, no slave-drivers to hang a lad for stealing a fent of cotton.’
‘Fent?’ Moira asked.
‘It was usually the end of a weaver’s bolt, and it often had flaws in it.’ He pointed to the hills. ‘There was snow in summer up there, yards and yards of calico left out to bleach in the sun, because they had no chemicals. If you took a bit of that summer snow, you hanged. The cotton came from America to Liverpool, then was brought here by drays or barges. We were all Lancastrians then.’
‘Liverpool’s always been Lancashire to me,’ was Moira’s answer. ‘And so has Bolton, come to that. All this Merseyside and Greater Manchester rubbish – we’re Lankies, every last one of us. Except for the accents, of course.’
‘Boundaries,’ David said. ‘Created and moved in the interest of politicians. It did them little good.’
Moira sat back and thought about her husband. Richard, an exciting man who had moods, was definitely not the type for Lucy. In fact, when she looked over her shoulder into her own past life, Moira realized that the give and take in her marriage had been, for the most part, a one-way street, since she had done most of the giving. And the forgiving. She continued to adore a man whose selfishness was becoming legend. Lucy, newly released from domestic servitude, would have flattened Richard, while he would never have appreciated this woman’s wit and humour. He had been with a whore. Moira had no proof, yet she knew it …
She looked out at the bowl that contained Bolton, gazed at pleated moors rising and dipping in gentle folds towards Yorkshire. It was a fabulous place. They drove through villages filled with weavers’ cottages, stone-built and with proud little aprons of garden laid out towards the pavements. There were ancient churches, old pubs with exterior beams and string courses that had stood the test of centuries.
Lucy turned. ‘Here we are, love. On your left, the big house. It’s been in my family for generations.’
‘Impressive,’ Moira said. It wasn’t a house – th
is was a mansion, and Lucy, God bless her, was about to turn it over to the Timothy Vincent Trust.
‘It’s devoid of furniture,’ Lucy said, ‘so you and I are living in the dolls’ house. We bought the shed when the kids were in their mid-teens – somewhere for them to have adventures without parents breathing down their necks. They brewed their own beer in it, rolled joints and grew out of all that by themselves. Sometimes I thought I was too lenient, but they turned out OK, I think.’
‘It’s hardly a shed.’ Moira looked at the pretty little wooden house.
Lucy agreed. ‘It’s a park home. Two bedrooms, dining kitchen, shower room and a nice big living room. Lots of trees behind, and a large garden leading up to Tallows. It’s peaceful.’
Moira muttered something about Bedlam being peaceful after him and his fires. It was lovely here. She was brought down to earth via the lift, and David scooped her up from the chair and carried her into the house. ‘Back in a minute,’ he said as he left the room, muttering to himself about finishing something or other. Lucy went to check the food in the fridge. He had remembered – salmon, wine, salad and potatoes. He was a good lad.
‘How could you leave all this?’ Moira asked. ‘The woods, the garden, that wonderful house and this little fairytale cottage? I’m sure I couldn’t have given it up. It’s absolutely glorious.’
‘It was, and it will be again.’ Lucy put the kettle to boil. ‘I’ll just make sure the beds are—’ She stopped in her tracks for a few seconds. What the heck was he doing? She ran through the living room and opened the front door, then leaned against the jamb while she looked at him. He was a star. He was a one-off. He was a long way past merely wonderful.
David stopped hammering. ‘Sorry. I meant to finish it, but work claimed me, and my own house has been invaded by industrial cleaners who haven’t the slightest idea about how to save research. Fortunately, most of it’s on my laptop, and the stuff in boxes is easy to find, but I tend to scribble on bits of paper and—’ He stood up. ‘What’s funny?’ She seemed to be near to hysteria.
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 22