The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  The dogs greeted Don when he stepped out of the car. They understood his unsteadiness and always made room for him. Molly waved from the doorway. She was losing weight. ‘You look good,’ he called.

  She embraced him and led him inside. ‘Well, I’ve given up the slimming club,’ she announced. ‘Seven and six a week to be told off in front of everybody like a kid that’s never done its homework? Sod that for a game of hopscotch. So I pinched a diet book and I’m doing it meself. She must have been coining it, that Glenda one. Come in. I’ve finished the lessons in acupuncture. All the needles are ready, and you’ve won first prize.’

  Don shook his head wearily. In the past couple of years, she’d done massage, which was lovely, cake decorating, which was rather hit and miss, and now she’d been messing about with some Chinese chap and a pile of fine needles. She was ordering him to get his kit off.

  ‘Bloody hell, Molly. Give me a break, will you? I’ve had a terrible day, and you’re kicking off with designs on my body.’

  She blew a raspberry. ‘Listen, cheerful. I’m only halfway through tattooing, so my designs are a bit limited, just butterflies and birds. No, I’m going to stick pins in you, see if we can get that knee a bit looser.’ She studied him for a few seconds. ‘What’s happened? Does she know about me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, then? Sit down; you look like you’ve gone eight rounds with a pro boxer. Will I get you a brandy? Cup of tea? Some crayons and a colouring book?’

  ‘Shut up, Moll. No. First, promise me you’re not studying to be a tattoo artist.’

  ‘Joke,’ she said before shutting up while he told her the lot. Rockers, bikes, Menlove Avenue and estate agency were all delivered wrapped in Skaters’ Trails carpet while she sat quietly and listened. ‘So,’ Don concluded, ‘she went and had a panic attack. I didn’t notice at first, then, when I did notice, I thought she was putting it on, but Dr Byrne said it was genuine. She’s scared. I told her I’ll be leaving her when Sean and Anne-Marie have gone – if not before. Terrified of being on her own, she is. And to be honest, I’ve never been sure about her nerves. At least my bad knee’s visible because of the way I walk. What’s wrong with her could well be in her head, and we’ve no bandages or calipers for that.’

  Moll watched his face and shared his pain. ‘And you drove off before the doctor left?’

  ‘I did. I was in such a bloody mood, I had to park away from the road until I stopped shaking.’

  ‘Not nice, Don.’

  ‘I know that.’

  She touched his hand. ‘I’ve seen her, you know. I got dressed up in all me muck and took a load of washing there. She’s pretty.’

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘So you want me for me money, eh?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Molly threw her head back and guffawed. She had a laugh only slightly lighter in weight than that of a dock worker, and her whole body shook. Well, the bits that weren’t encased in an over-enthusiastic all-in-one girdle shook. She was his oxygen, his entertainment, his comfort. ‘I love you, Moll.’ There. He had finally said it.

  That put a stop to her merriment. She wanted this man, but not at any price. ‘Don, I don’t care if we live tally, cos we don’t need certificates except for proof of insanity. But I do care what happens to her. If Tess’s price is a house on Menlove Avenue, a bit of carpet and a bent mirror, she can have all that. I’ve two hundred thousand doing nothing, and a business I’ll flog as soon as I feel like it. She can keep her launderette, live on her tree-lined avenue and have new furniture if she wants it. We’re off to Harley Street, you and I. There’s a chap who does knees with metal and plastic or something. He can use putty for all I care, as long as we can get that leg a bit better.’

  He blinked back a reservoir of emotion. Chalk and cheese? No. Molly was solid gold, while Tess was steel, shiny, cold and heartless. She was also frightened halfway to death, because she needed scaffolding all round to preserve her air of normality. ‘She wouldn’t take it off you, love.’

  ‘No, but she’d grab it from you and bite your hand off at the wrist.’

  ‘I haven’t got it, have I?’

  Molly sucked in some air and delivered a shrill whistle. ‘Then get it, you mad bugger. What happens to men’s imaginations, eh? A policy. You took out a policy years ago and never told her about it. Or you’ve won the pools – whatever it takes. You want to live with me, she wants to move to Menlove Avenue, so that’s what has to happen. With my money, but sod it.’

  ‘And when she finds out I’m living with my dead boss’s wife?’

  ‘Leave her to me. I’ve buried bigger dragons than your Tess, mate. Look how many builders I deal with on a daily basis. Cheeky bastards, most of them, but if they don’t toe the line, they can beggar off to Mike Merryfield’s dump. Cut price? He couldn’t trim his toenails, never mind his prices. The government will deal with him, because we’re still technically in a period of austerity as far as building’s concerned.’

  That was another thing about Molly: she knew her onions, her cement and her bricks. Judging from some of the offerings delivered to table during her Italian period, she confused the three occasionally. But she was an experimental cook, and life was never dull. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he promised. ‘The kids are still there, so I should have time.’ Whichever way he looked at it, he was going to be a bought man. Still, if he had to be someone’s property, he would choose Molly any day. ‘And thanks, Molly. It’s really generous of you.’

  She beamed at him. ‘I’ll be getting the better deal. I’d swap a house on any avenue for you. Now. How do you feel about rainbow trout?’

  ‘Are they found at the end of a rainbow with leprechaun’s gold?’

  ‘No, they’re found at the wet fish shop, and they cost quids.’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll give them a go, but don’t forget the brown sauce.’

  ‘Heathen,’ she hissed before making for the kitchen.

  Don sat with her children, Sam and Uke. Uke had won his name by breaking Molly’s ukulele as soon as he entered the house for the first time. Molly had a George Formby party piece that she sometimes performed in local hostelries, and the ukulele was a vital prop. So she’d bought another one, forgiven Uke and carried on as before.

  They were grand dogs, lively, gentle and caring. Don would have loved to get the kids a dog, but they’d never lived anywhere suitable. Perhaps Menlove Avenue would be suitable, though he couldn’t see himself depending on Tess to look after a puppy. There was too little love in her.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ he asked Uke, who always pushed his way to the front in a queue of canines, even if the queue consisted of just one pair.

  No answer came, of course. ‘Molly?’ Don called.

  A flustered face pushed its way through a serving hatch. ‘What?’ she snapped with mock anger. ‘I’m still tickling me trout here.’

  ‘Are they alive?’

  ‘Well, they’re very fresh.’ She paused. ‘How do I know when they’re cooked?’ she asked.

  ‘When they stop flapping about.’

  She thought about that one for a few seconds. ‘Do I cut their heads off? Because they’re staring at me. I feel like I’m stood in the dock on a murder charge. What did you want, anyway?’

  ‘Only to say I meant it.’

  ‘Meant what?’

  He put a hand to his mouth. ‘Bugger. Can’t remember.’

  ‘You love me.’

  ‘That’s the one,’ he said.

  She disappeared, and a few swear words accompanied by the smell of burnt fish and a clattering of implements travelled through from the kitchen. The head reappeared. ‘Don?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Will you go down the chippy?’

  He managed to suppress his laughter. ‘What about the trout, love?’

  She shook her head gravely. ‘Cremated. I’ve sent flowers. They said family only, but I thought a little bunch of freesias would do no harm.’


  And it was all compressed into those few minutes and seconds. He loved Molly because she didn’t mind being laughed at, because she courted attention with her ukulele and her Formby songs, because she liked to learn and have a go, even with acupuncture and rainbow trout. She was alive, funny, generous, as mad as a frog in a bin, and beautiful. Lovely eyes, soft skin, open mind.

  They ate cod and chips from vinegar-soaked paper, watched an old film on Molly’s television, played tiddly-winks and fought over which was a tiddle and which was a wink. Dogs joined in the fun, made off with the tools of the game and left two adults spread out on the carpet.

  ‘You’ll have to help me up, Molly.’

  ‘I know. You’re a bloody liability. Tell you what, you stay where you are and I’ll build a cage round you so you can’t go home. I’ll put Sam and Uke in with you so you won’t be lonely. Hey.’

  ‘What?’

  She pushed the next words out of a corner of her mouth. ‘They’re staring at me funny.’

  ‘You what? Who?’

  ‘Me fish. Don’t look now, they’re watching. It’s the trout. They’ll never forgive me for the trout.’

  ‘They never saw the bloody trout.’

  ‘But they have ways, Don. Look at that angel fish—’

  ‘You told me not to.’

  ‘Why do they call them angel fish? Delinquents, they are. That one there’s a bastard. They know I murdered trout.’

  ‘But we sat here and ate cod—’

  ‘Anonymous cod. Cod with no heads.’ She stood up and helped him to his feet. ‘I’ve committed fishslaughter,’ she said.

  ‘Moll?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shut up and get a bloody head doctor. I’d better go before she smells a rat. If she smells a rat, I’ll decapitate it and get done for ratslaughter. That way, you won’t be on your own in court.’

  She clung to him. ‘Don’t let her drive you any madder than you already are. No matter what she does or says, stay cool, not angry.’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  He drove from the edge of Woolton to Smithdown Road, his foot easing off the accelerator as he neared his destination. The kids would be in bed. Tess might be in bed, or she might be waiting with one of her prepared diatribes. He wasn’t in the mood. He’d never been in the mood for lectures, but what could he do? Tess would have her pound of flesh, wouldn’t she?

  He climbed the stairs to the flat, his leg throbbing fiercely. She would have put his name down for gardening in her new house, he supposed. Gardening? A potted plant was his limit. Cutting lawns and trimming hedges lay well outside his restricted range of abilities.

  Ah, she was trying a different tack. For a woman approaching forty, Tess Compton was in excellent shape. She was wearing an almost transparent nightdress, her face was made up, and she had spread herself out like Marilyn Monroe on the sofa. His immediate reaction was born in hope, hope that his children were asleep. But he couldn’t look at her, since she was so annoyingly beautiful. God, he wanted her. What sort of animal was he?

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘Well what? Wishing well, artesian well, well done? It’s too late, Tess. You’re beautiful, but there’s no point. You go to bed, and I’ll have the sofa. Sean and Anne-Marie will think it’s because of my knee. We can’t fill in the missing pieces of our jigsaw. It’s not about sex; it’s about respect, fun, talking. You look stunning, and you always did, but lovemaking was always the payment you made for something you wanted, like Anne-Marie. So thanks, but no, thanks.’ To get her own way, Tess was prepared to act the whore.

  She shot up like a rocket on bonfire night. ‘So you won’t try?’

  ‘I’ve tried long enough. Now, listen to me for a change.’ He swallowed nervously. ‘A while back, I took out a policy, and it will mature soon. That will get you your house. Anne-Marie will probably go with you, because she’s Quarry Men mad, and one of them lives along that avenue. Sean will do whatever he wants.’ He held up a hand when she opened her mouth to speak. ‘I’ve not finished. You say nothing to the kids until we’ve found the right house. When they learn about everything, it will be from both of us. Together. For once, think about them, not about you.’

  She stood up, turned away, and walked into the bedroom.

  Don lingered for a while at the living room window. Last order stragglers meandered homeward, some whistling, some singing out of tune. One maniac had fallen in love with a lamp post and was whispering sweet nothings into its corporation-green paintwork. A late bus trundled by, a tangle of multicoloured youths fighting on its upper deck. Rainbow. Rainbow trout. ‘That angel fish hates the bloody sight of me.’ Burnt supper, down to the village for fish and chips twice, plenty of vinegar. An ordinary woman who still worked in spite of her wealth, who still spoke like a native, who sounded just like George Formby when doing her bit at the pub. ‘Turned out nice again.’ Yes, she was a mimic. She was a giver. It was time to make things happen; it was time to move on.

  Leather’s hard to sew, but I managed to cobble together a close-fitting mask with eye holes, a space for my nose, a gap for my mouth. Buggeration, this one was a fighter. I didn’t give her enough chloroform before sticking her in the sidecar. She’s in some woods up a side road off the A580. Scratch marks on my arms. Must wear closer-fitting clothes.

  I’ll be all right for a while now …

  Three

  There is a nowhere place, a morning twilight that hangs between night and day, between sleep and wakefulness, and its nature is cruel, because it shelters us for so brief a time from recent miseries. When sense returns, memories pierce consciousness like shards of glass cutting through bone and tissue, embedding themselves in a heart that felt repaired just moments earlier. It refuses to be managed, eliminated or curtailed, as its nature is elemental and buried in the id of every human creature.

  Life was getting no easier. Today, Roisin Allen sat bolt upright in the bed, reality crashing into her chest, heart racing like a lorry down a cul-de-sac, impact inevitable, petrified, waiting for the grinding of gears, the scream of brakes, the stench of burning rubber. She was both victim and perpetrator, since she was the one who must mend herself, and she could not stop her own machinery.

  What would Phil have said? ‘Pull yourself together, you’ve kids to mind.’ Or, ‘You can’t stand still; you have to move on with life.’ Oh, Phil, how shall I carry on without you, and why didn’t I treat you better? No, I didn’t want more children, but we could have— Well, I could have held you and loved you when you needed that.

  Guilt was the worst part. Within moments of waking, every cross word she had uttered, every dirty look she had delivered, came back to her on a vivid Technicolor screen, sound included, in her weary head. He had called her his Rose, his Rosie. Roisin, pronounced Rosheen, was a beautiful but unusual label, so most people named her Rosh. In the mornings, he had nominated her Dozy Rosie, because she’d been a reluctant riser.

  Phil had been dead for three weeks, and Rosh Allen continued to suffer these early morning symptoms. She slept next to a bolster that was not him, but fooled her when she shifted during slumber, giving her false security, false hope. Drugs sent her into unconsciousness, but they hung over her like black rain clouds, and she seldom woke properly until after lunch time. Mother had moved in, of course. She had taken over the children, the cleaning, cooking, washing and ironing. Mother, usually Mam, in her late fifties, could not carry on like this for ever. An amazing little woman, Anna Riley coped with whatever life threw in her direction. I continue selfish, Phil. My poor mother is weighed down by it all, and I know I should be—

  The bedroom door crashed into an item of furniture. ‘Why ever do you keep the chest of drawers just there? Every morning the same, and I nearly lose your breakfast. We’ve eggs scrambled all the way to glory and back just now.’ The tray was dumped unceremoniously on a bedside table. ‘Get yourself on the outside of that lot, then out from under the blankets.’ Anna paused. ‘I’ve given up me house, so.
The keys go back this afternoon.’ She sighed. ‘Some of us have to make the decision to get on with life, you see. We can’t all go Shakespearean and lie round like Desdemona in a fit with her leg up. ’

  ‘I haven’t got my leg up.’ The woman in the bed glared hard at her mother.

  ‘Neither did Desdemona, but she’d every right to, poor soul. Anyway, like I said, I’ve given up me house.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And it’s grateful they were, because a family can take it now. I was rattling about like the last pill in the bottle. When you’re better, I shall find myself a sitting bedroom not too far away from you.’

  ‘A bed-sitting room, you mean.’

  ‘Perhaps I do. But we have to get Winston and Lucy-Furr. You must come and help me. I have a vehicle for their transportation, but cats can be troublesome, as you are quite possibly already aware.’

  Rosh groaned. Troublesome? Her mother’s cats were from the dark side. Their behaviour was criminal; had they been human, they would have been in Walton Jail. There had been four of them, but two had gone off to ruin wallpaper and furniture in cat afterlife; however, the two worst had managed to survive the busy stretch that was College Road. And now Anna intended to bring them to the relative peace of Lawton Road in Waterloo, Liverpool North. ‘I don’t want them.’ Rosh would rather have mumps or scarlet fever.

  Anna made no reply. Her daughter had spoken, had referred to something other than her grief. This was progress indeed. An inch at a time, Anna’s precious Roisin was going to be dragged back to life.

  ‘Mam?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Does Winnie still talk all the time?’

  ‘He does. He comes home and delivers a lecture, especially if there’s rain about. Blames me for the weather, so he does. And every time, I have to show him it’s raining at the front of the house as well as the back. Or vice versa. Always, he demands tangible proof. The boy’s a fool, but handsome enough for a ginger tom. You’ll grow used to them, I promise.’