by Maureen Lee
‘Share the profits!’ Alice exlaimed. She wanted Myrtle’s more than anything on earth, but sharing the profits seemed a bit rich. ‘You mean half each? That hardly seems fair. It’s me who’ll be doing all the work.’
‘OK, you have two-thirds, I’ll take a third.’ Cora had known Alice, dim as a Toc H lamp though she was, would be unlikely to agree to half. A third was what she’d wanted all along. It was the easiest way she’d ever come across of making money. ‘I’ll just go in the parlour and write it down. I won’t be long.’
Alice waited on the edge of her chair. She’d done it! Tomorrow morning Myrtle’s would be hers, but she wished it hadn’t been necessary to involve Cora Lacey. It left a nasty taste in the mouth. A third of the profits! She held out her hands to warm them in front of the small coke fire. It was cold in here. She shivered. The fire gave off scarcely any heat. Cora surrounded herself with nice things, but had no regard for creature comforts. No wonder Billy took himself to the pub night after night.
She knew nothing about her sister-in-law other than that her maiden name was Barraclough, her mother had died when she was born and she’d been brought up in Orrell Park by two spinster aunts, both long dead. Nothing was ever said about a father.
It was a constant wonder what she and Billy had seen in each other. Billy was hardly ever in, Cora rarely went out. In company they ignored each other. Billy seemed nervous in the presence of his cold-eyed wife, Cora contemptuous of her childish, good-natured husband.
Her legs were numb with cold. Alice got up and walked around the room to bring them back to life. She picked up a glass vase off the mantelpiece. It shone like diamonds as she turned it back and forth in the dim light. She flicked it with her fingernail and it gave off a sharp, tinkling sound, like a bell. Cut glass! How on earth could Cora afford such a thing? Where had she got the twenty-five pounds from, come to that? Off Horace Flynn?
‘I reckon she does more than keep his books,’ Dad had said, or something like it. Alice shivered again at the thought of fat, greasy Horace Flynn coming within a yard of her, let alone doing his books – or far more intimate things if Dad was right.
There was a child’s book on the table; a colourful cardboard alphabet book with an animal beside each letter. A for Antelope. She turned to the back page: Z for Zebra. A piece of paper fell out on which had been written several simple sums: 1 + 1, 2 + 2, 2 + 1. The answers had been filled in by a clumsy, childish hand. Cora must have written the sums, Maurice had filled in the answers. She must be teaching him at home.
For some reason Alice glanced at the wall where the cane usually hung. It wasn’t there. She noticed it propped against the green tiled fireplace. Her stomach turned. Was Cora whipping her little boy to make him learn?
Alice suddenly longed to get away from this lovely, cold room with its expensive ornaments and return to her own comfy, warm house, where there wasn’t a single ornament costing more than sixpence, but which was far preferable to here. Hang Myrtle’s. Cora could keep her money and her business arrangement.
She made for the door – and remembered John who would be sitting in the chair under the window waiting for her, glowering, wanting to know where she’d been, how many men she’d allowed to touch her. The accusations were getting wilder and wilder, more and more offensive. She couldn’t bring herself to tell Dad some of the things John had said. How many men had she serviced? Did they stand in line? How much had she made? Terrible accusations from the man she had thought would love her for ever. Alice suppressed a sob, just as Cora came into the room with a piece of paper torn from a writing pad.
‘Sorry I was so long, but it had to be worded carefully. Just sign here where I’ve drawn a line of dots. I’ve brought the ink with me and a pen.’
‘I’d like to read it first.’
‘Of course,’ Cora said smoothly. ‘You should never put your signature to anything you’ve not read first.’
‘I, Alice Lacey,’ Alice read aloud, ‘acknowledge receipt of the sum of twenty-five pounds from Cora Lacey, entitling the said Cora Lacey to a third share in perpetuity of the business presently known as Myrtle’s Hairdressing Salon.’ She frowned. ‘What does “in perpetuity” mean?’
‘Till the money’s paid back.’
‘That’s all right, then.’ It wasn’t often she put her signature to anything. She sat down and carefully wrote ‘Alice M. Lacey’ on the dotted line.
‘What’s the M. for?’ Cora enquired.
‘Mavoureen. It was me mam’s name. Me dad called her Renee.’
Cora nodded. ‘Well, here’s your money.’ She held out a small piece of paper.
Alice regarded it vacantly. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a cheque for twenty-five pounds.’
‘But I need the money, not a cheque!’ She’d only vaguely heard of cheques and had never seen one before.
‘A cheque’s the same as money,’ Cora said with a superior smile. ‘Just give it to Myrtle’s daughter. She’ll know what to do with it.’
Alice wanted to protest, but it would only show her ignorance. She took the cheque, thanked Cora and said she had to be getting home.
Outside the house she paused. She felt uneasy. How could a piece of paper be worth the same as twenty-five pound notes? Oh, if only she could ask John! He seemed to know everything worth knowing. Alice sighed. But the days were long gone when they could discuss things – should they have a day out in New Brighton on Sunday if the weather was fine, for instance? Or perhaps Southport, easier to get to on the electric trains that ran from Marsh Lane Station? Was it possible to squeeze another bed into the girls’ room now that they were getting older? Orla constantly complained about sleeping three to a bed.
The cheque thing was bothering her. She would have gone back to Dad’s, but he’d be out by now, probably with Phyllis Henderson, his latest woman. But Bernadette would know. Unlike Alice, she was clever. Although they’d started St James’s Junior and Infants together, Bernadette had passed the scholarship at eleven and gone to Seafield Convent. She lived no distance away in rooms in Irlam Road. Hopefully, Bernadette would set her mind at rest. It would make her late home, but she was already late and by now John was probably doing his nut.
‘Oh, well! I may as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb.’
‘Of course a cheque’s all right, silly.’ Bernadette laughed. She was already in her dressing gown ready for bed although it was only half past eight. Since Christmas she’d been feeling low. Roy McBride had turned out like all the other men she’d known, except for Bob, and had tried to get his hand up her skirt in the taxi on the way home from the dance on Christmas Eve. She had decided to give up on men altogether and rely on books for company.
‘We get loads of cheques in the Gas Board. What’s it for, anyroad?’
For the third time that night, Alice explained about Myrtle’s, then described her meeting with Cora. ‘She made me sign an agreement of some sort – and she wants a third of the profits, but never mind. As from tomorrow Myrtle’s will be mine, that’s all that matters.’
‘Oh, Alice!’ Bernadette looked dismayed. ‘I wish you’d asked me first. I would have loaned you the money and you wouldn’t have had to sign anything. I wouldn’t have demanded a share of the profits, either. Just the money back when you could afford it, that’s all.’
Alice regarded her friend, equally dismayed. ‘It never entered me head you were so flush, Bernie.’
Bernadette shrugged. ‘It’s why Bob and I never had kids, isn’t it? I stayed at work so we could save up for furniture for our house. Since he was killed I couldn’t bring meself to touch a penny. It didn’t seem right, buying clothes and stuff, so the money’s been lying in the Post Office for years. There must be going on for forty pounds by now. You could have had the lot and used some to do up Myrtle’s place a bit. It certainly needs it.’
‘Oh, Bernie! I wish I’d known.’
‘Tell Cora to stuff her cheque and I’ll arrange to draw the money out
tomorrow.’
‘I can’t, can I? I told you I signed an agreement.’
Bernadette looked at her doubtfully. ‘What did it say?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘You’re too trusting by a mile, do you know that, Alice Lacey? Anyroad, how about a cup of tea? Better still, a glass of sherry to toast your new business venture.’
‘You make it sound very grand.’ Alice smiled.
‘It is very grand. I feel dead proud that you’re my friend. Hold on, I’ll just get some glasses from the kitchen.’
While she was gone, Alice glanced around the big, rather gloomy room that was at least warm. A big fire burnt in the massive fireplace. The book Bernadette had been reading was lying face down on the floor alongside an empty cup that had obviously contained cocoa. She wouldn’t have wanted to be in Bernie’s shoes, not for a moment, but just then she felt a certain amount of envy for her friend for being able to do as she pleased – go to bed when she liked, stay out as long as she cared to without someone breathing down her neck wanting to check up on her every single moment. She squirmed guiltily when she considered how much nicer life would be without John.
Oh, Lord! Alice felt sick. According to the sideboard clock it was ten to nine. But, she reasoned, if John was worried it was his own fault. She couldn’t confide in him any more, tell him about Myrtle’s. Even when she got back she could tell him where she’d been, but not why. He would be quite likely to tear up the cheque, say he didn’t want her working. Best to leave telling him till Myrtle’s was actually hers.
‘Hey! I’ve just thought of something.’ Bernadette returned with the glasses. ‘How did Cora know who to make the cheque out to?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ Alice took the cheque out of her bag and read it properly for the first time. ‘It ses “Pay Flynn Properties”.’ She read it again, frowning. ‘Flynn Properties’?
Bernadette shrieked, ‘The bitch! Myrtle’s belongs to Horace Flynn. He’s the owner of the property company that awful daughter was on about. Oh, Al! Right now, I bet Cora Lacey’s laughing up her sleeve.’
Myrtle came into the salon wearing a slightly bald astrakhan coat with a brown fur collar, a dusty black hat shaped like a turban and fleece-lined ankle boots. The lace on one of the boots was undone. Alice made her sit under a dryer while she tied it. ‘In case you trip over, like.’ She stroked the creased, bewildered face. ‘Take care, Myrtle, luv. Look after yourself, won’t you? We’re not half going to miss you.’
‘Here, here,’ echoed Florrie Piper who had just arrived for her weekly shampoo and set.
A taxi drew up outside and Olive Cousins came downstairs dragging a large, shabby suitcase. ‘Gerra move on, Mam,’ she snapped. She went pink. ‘I mean, do hurry, Mother.’ She turned to Alice. ‘Good luck with the salon,’ she said shortly. ‘I hope you do better with the place than Mother did. I must say you could have knocked me down with a feather when you turned up this morning with that cheque.’
Mrs Glaister, Myrtle’s friend, appeared. ‘You forgot your handbag, luv,’ she said gently. ‘I’ve put a clean hankie inside and a quarter of mint imperials, your favourite.’
‘Ta.’ Myrtle smiled tremulously at everyone. ‘Can I have a cup of tea?’
‘No, you can’t, Mother. The taxi’s waiting. Say goodbye to your friends.’ Olive roughly dragged the old woman to her feet. She glanced sneeringly around the room. ‘It won’t exactly break my heart not to see this place again.’
The door closed and Myrtle Rimmer left Opal Street for ever. Mrs Glaister burst into tears. ‘It won’t exactly break my heart not to see her again either. Expecting to find Myrtle had saved thousands of pounds, she was, when all she’d saved was hundreds. Mind you, she’s taken every penny.’
‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea to make that cup of tea, Alice,’ Florrie Piper said. ‘Forget about me and me hair for the minute, though I wouldn’t mind a cuppa meself.’
Alice hurried into the dingy back kitchen to put the kettle on, remembering that Olive Cousins had emptied the till last night, but hadn’t thought to pay her. She’d worked four days for nothing. But never mind, from now on she would be paying herself. The sadness she felt for Myrtle was mixed with jubilation. She didn’t care what underhand things Cora might have got up to with the cheque, nor did it matter that Horace Flynn owned the building. She, Alice Lacey, was now the proprietor of a hairdressing salon. Apart from her wedding day and the times she’d had the children, this was the proudest day of her life.
‘That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got on your cheek, luv,’ Florrie Piper remarked when Alice came back.
Alice touched the bruise as if she had forgotten it was there. ‘I walked into a door,’ she explained.
‘You should be more careful.’ Had it been anyone else, Florrie would have taken for granted that the bruise had been administered by her feller, but everyone knew that John Lacey would never lay a finger on his wife.
He hadn’t meant to hit her. He never meant to hurt her, either by word or deed. But she was out such a long time and by the time she got back he was genuinely worried and as mad as hell.
One by one the girls came in. He didn’t see much of them nowadays. They seemed to spend a lot of time in other people’s houses. As soon as they realised their mother wasn’t there they went straight to bed. He could hear them chattering away upstairs, laughing and giggling, and he felt excluded, knowing they were avoiding him, knowing he was the reason why they were out so much and never brought friends home as they used to. It was the same reason why Alice put Cormac to bed so early – so the lad wouldn’t witness the way his dad spoke to his mam.
John went to the bottom of the stairs and listened to his daughters fight over who would sleep in the middle, knowing Maeve would be the loser, always wanting to please. What was needed was an extra bed. It could be squeezed in somehow. A chap at work had told him you could get bunk beds and John wondered if he could make a set, or a pair, or whatever they were called. He liked working with wood, so much more natural than metal. There’d be fights over who’d sleep on top, which was reached by means of a small ladder, but he’d organise a rota. He’d talk it over with Alice.
No, he wouldn’t! With a sound that was almost a sob, John Lacey sat on the bottom of the stairs and buried his monstrous face in his hands. He had forgotten, but he and Alice didn’t talk any more, and it was his fault, not hers. John felt as if he’d lost control of his brain. His brain made him say things, do things, that the real John found despicable and wouldn’t let him do the things he knew were right.
The clock on the sideboard chimed eight, which meant Alice had been away an hour. But she’d said she was only going round Garnet Street to see her dad! John’s lip curled and hot anger welled up in his chest. He’d like to bet she was up against a wall in a back entry with some feller. In fact, he’d go round Garnet Street and check, prove beyond doubt that he’d been right in his suspicions.
‘I’m just going out a minute,’ he shouted upstairs.
Only Maeve deigned to answer. ‘All right, Dad,’ she called.
John grabbed his coat and hurried out into the gaslit streets. It took just a few minutes to reach Garnet Street and even less to establish that there was no one in Danny Mitchell’s house. To make sure, he went round the back and let himself in, but the house was as dark as it was empty.
Afterwards John was never quite sure what happened to his head. There was a glorious feeling of triumph, a quickening of his heart and a shiver ran through his bones at the realisation that he’d been right all along. Now he had a genuine reason to hate her.
He returned home, sat in the chair under the window, tapping his fingers on the wooden arm, waiting for Alice, his slut of a wife, to come home.
It was half past nine when she arrived and by then he was beginning to worry that she’d left him, though common sense told him she would never leave the children – certainly not with him.
He had rarely seen her look so lovely. Any m
an would be suspicious if his wife came in all starry-eyed and pink-cheeked, as if she’d just won a few hundred quid on the pools. It was the way she used to look when they made love. Something must have happened to make her eyes shine like that. Whatever it was, it was nothing to do with her husband.
‘I’m sorry, luv,’ she said in a rush, ‘but after I’d been to me dad’s I decided to drop in on Bernadette because she’s been feeling dead low since Christmas. We had a drop of sherry each and I seemed to lose track of the time.’
‘You’ve been gone two and a half hours,’ John said icily.
‘I know, luv. As I said, I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve been with a feller, I can tell by your face.’ Why, oh why, did he so much want this to be true? It was as if he wanted to wallow in his misery, make it worse.
She sighed. ‘Oh, don’t be silly, John. Go round and ask Bernadette if you don’t believe me.’
‘Do you think I’m daft enough not to know you’ve fixed a story up between you?’
‘Think what you like,’ she said tiredly and went into the kitchen where she put the kettle on. ‘Did the girls have drinks when they came in? I can still hear them talking upstairs. Perhaps they’d like a cup of cocoa.’
Had he been the sensible man that he used to be this would be the time to mention the bunk beds. Instead, the man he had become followed his wife into the kitchen and grabbed her arm. ‘I want to know where you’ve been. I want to know why you’ve got that look on your face. How much did you make? How much have you got in your purse?’ He released her arm. She had hung her handbag on the knob of the kitchen door. It was one of those shoulder things that had become popular during the war. He undid the zip and turned it upside down. A gold enamelled compact smashed on to the tiled floor, followed by her purse, a little comb, two neatly ironed hankies, the stub of a pencil, a couple of tram tickets and a scrap of paper.
‘John! Me dad bought me that compact for me twenty-first. Oh, look, the mirror’s broke.’ She was close to tears, kneeling down, picking up the broken bits of glass. ‘That’s seven years bad luck.’