Laceys Of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  John’s daughters were there purely for their mother’s sake. Alice was a stickler for appearances. It mattered to Mam what people, particularly the neighbours, thought. However, so far, none of the neighbours had guessed that the John Lacey, whose death in a fire in Seaforth was reported in the local paper, was the John Lacey who had once lived in Amber Street.

  Good riddance to bad rubbish, Danny Mitchell thought as the coffin was lowered into the grave. Our Alice should be glad to see the back of him.

  Bernadette Mitchell thought more or less the same.

  Only one piece of paper remained that had belonged to John Lacey. All the rest had been destroyed in the fire, every scrap; the unpaid bills, the files, the audited accounts going back for years, every single letter John had ever received and the carbon copies of those he had sent, the photos of Clare and their children.

  The paper that remained had been lodged in a bank. It was a deed, confirming that John had owned the freehold of the piece of land fronting the corner of Benton Street and Crozier Terrace. Alice, as the lawfully wedded wife of the deceased, was now the legal owner, so the bank informed her in a letter.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ she said with a shudder when she showed the letter to her dad.

  ‘Then get the place cleaned up. It’s bound to be in a mess. And sell it,’ Danny advised.

  What would she do with the money? There was money piling up in the bank from the three salons, but none of her children was prepared to take a penny. Maeve and Martin had refused help with their mortgage, and Micky Lavin had been indignant when she’d offered to buy him and Orla a house. Cormac had lived happily on his grant at university and she had a feeling Fion wouldn’t let her pay for Horace Flynn’s old place to be done up – it was dead shabby and the plumbing made some very peculiar noises.

  Why was she bothering to make all this money when there was nothing to spend it on? She was fed up with her customers wondering aloud why she was still in Amber Street, why she hadn’t bought herself a nicer house in a nicer place.

  ‘Because I’m perfectly happy where I am,’ she would reply. She felt very dull and unimaginative.

  Fion was looking for someone to care for the children so she could go to work. Alice could sell the salons and become a full-time grandma.

  ‘No, I need more than that,’ she told herself. ‘I may well be dull and unimaginative, but I need to be someone, not just a mother or a grandmother, not just a wife. I need to be special in me own way.’

  Since John’s death, Billy Lacey had taken to calling on his sister-in-law on his way home from work. Alice was the closest link to the brother he had lost, found, and finally lost again.

  He couldn’t understand why John had left the house in Garibaldi Road, he said repeatedly. ‘He was in bed when I came home the night before, but gone next morning, without a word of explanation. I thought he was happy there. He seemed happy. Cora liked having him. He could have stayed for ever as far as we were concerned.’

  Alice didn’t mention it was the night before that she’d turned John away. She already blamed herself enough and she didn’t want the burden of Billy’s blame as well.

  ‘Have you ever been to that timber yard place?’ Billy asked.

  ‘Just the once.’

  ‘I should have gone meself. It’s not far. I shouldn’t have let him sink into such a state, me own brother, like.’

  ‘Don’t reproach yourself, Billy. John knew where you lived. It was him who walked out, on all of us, including you. It was up to him to keep in touch, not for you to search him out.’ Alice wished she could take her own sensible advice. She showed Billy the letter from the bank.

  ‘Do you mind if I take a look at the place?’ His face brightened. ‘I’ll tidy it up if you like.’

  He would have been hurt if she’d turned him down. She accepted his offer with a show of gratitude, though she didn’t give a damn what happened to the yard. Billy perked up considerably and decided to go round to Seaforth there and then.

  ‘I’ll call for our Maurice on the way. The two of us can do the job together.’

  At least one good thing had come out of John’s death: Billy and his wayward son were now reunited.

  The iron-barred gate was secured with a padlock and chain. The men peered through the bars at the dismal remains of John’s once thriving business. The building he had lived in had almost completely burnt away. There were no walls and only the skeleton of the roof remained, the beams silhouetted starkly against the livid evening sky – more rain looked inevitable later.

  The yard itself was covered with ash and soot, mixed with other debris, including curls of black tar paper, like apple peelings, from the roof. Pools of black water reflected the angry yellow sky. The few lengths of timber stacked around the walls had been badly singed. There was a rusty van with a flat tyre.

  ‘We’ll have to get a key from somewhere to match the padlock,’ Billy said.

  ‘It’ll be a job and a half, clearing this place up,’ said Maurice.

  ‘You don’t mind though, do you, son? After all, it’s not as if you’ve got anything else to do.’

  ‘I don’t mind and no, I haven’t got anything else to do.’ Maurice’s voice was bitter. A prison record didn’t help when you were looking for a job. Maurice hadn’t worked since he’d come out of Walton jail, though he’d never stopped trying.

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that, son.’

  ‘I know, Dad. I was a fool to break into that newsagent’s. I only did it to impress some girl – I can’t even remember her name. I know I shouldn’t make excuses. I was an adult. I should’ve known better, but her brothers talked me into it.’ Maurice laughed drily. ‘They made it sound so easy.’

  They began to walk back towards Bootle. ‘You know,’ Maurice said after a while, ‘we could do something with that yard.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Remember that place I used to work, the builders’ merchants? Something like that.’

  ‘We’d need money to get started, son.’ Billy jangled the coins in his pocket. They were all he had until he got paid on Friday.

  ‘You can borrow money from the bank to start a business. Not that they’d lend it me,’ Maurice said hastily. ‘Not with my record. But they might lend it you. After all, we’ve already got the premises.’

  ‘Who said we’ve got the premises. Alice wants the place sold.’

  ‘She won’t sell if we tell her our plans,’ Maurice said with utter conviction. ‘Not Auntie Alice. Anyroad, once we get going we’ll pay rent. We might even buy the site off her one day.’

  ‘What plans?’ Billy asked, bewildered.

  ‘The plans you and me have to start our own business. Dad.’ For the second time in a week Maurice placed his arm round his father’s shoulders. ‘I wonder if that van goes?’

  Cormac came into the salon wearing an Afghan coat that looked as if it had been gnawed by a hungry animal, red cotton trousers and open-toed sandals, despite it being November and very cold. His long fair hair was tied back with a ribbon. He looked a sight.

  Alice was torn between the joy of seeing him again and worry that her customers would recognise who he was. She rushed her once-perfect son into the kitchen. ‘Fion said to expect you one day soon.’ She longed to kiss and hug him, but Cormac seemed to have gone off that sort of thing. ‘Are you hungry, luv? Shall we go home and I’ll make you something to eat?’

  ‘I’ve just eaten at Fion’s, thanks.’

  ‘You went to see Fion first?’ Alice felt hurt.

  ‘I wanted to put my stuff there.’ For some reason he refused to meet her eyes. ‘I’ll be living at Fion’s, on the top floor. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Alice minded very much, but didn’t show it. ‘Your room’s always there if you change your mind.’

  ‘The thing is’ – he shuffled his near-naked feet – ‘I’ve brought a girl. We’ll be living together.’

  Alice swallowed and reminded he
rself that young people did this sort of thing nowadays. ‘I hope she’s nice. What’s her name?’

  ‘Pol. She’s very nice. She’s also pregnant.’

  To Alice’s surprise she burst out laughing and at the same time thanked God he hadn’t expected to live in Amber Street with his pregnant girlfriend. ‘What else are you going to tell me, that she’s got two heads?’

  Cormac smiled for the first time. ‘No, just one head, Mam. Fion said to come round tonight so you can meet her.’

  It might have been a mistake, but he’d called her Mam, something else he avoided these days, along with the hugs and kisses.

  Horace Flynn would have turned in his grave if he could have seen the state of his house, which hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years. The few pieces of expensive furniture still remaining were covered in cigarette burns and the scars of too hot cups. Cats – Fion already had two strays –had scratched curves in the legs of the mahogany table, the six chairs that went with it and the lovely sideboard that used to house Horace’s pretty ornaments.

  Fion’s own furniture was cheap stuff, similarly marked with years of wear and tear. Alice suspected it had been bought second-hand.

  She had insisted on paying for the curtains to be cleaned – they were too thick and heavily lined to wash – because they made the rooms smell musty. ‘Regard it as a prezzie,’ she said to Fion. ‘People usually buy each other house-warming presents.’

  The long velvet parlour curtains had emerged from the cleaners in tatters. ‘They were rotten,’ the woman assistant announced when Alice went to collect them. ‘I’m afraid we can’t pay compensation.’

  Alice had bought replacements, but Fion didn’t notice that the curtains that went up in the parlour were different from the ones that came down. Fion seemed oblivious to her surroundings. The shabby furniture didn’t bother her. Neither did the clanky, grumbling plumbing, the ancient bathroom, the tatty carpet on the stairs, the grimy ceilings, the wallpaper peeling in the corners . . .

  And it wasn’t just stray animals Fion had started to collect, but human beings too. Alice had no idea where she found them. The three Littlemores lived on the vast ground floor. On the floor above, in the front bedroom, a Mrs Freda Murphy spent her days knitting unwearable garments for the children.

  ‘Where did she come from, luv?’ Alice asked curiously when Freda first turned up. Fion had scarcely been living in the place a week.

  ‘Her son was all set to throw her out. The thing is, Mam,’ Fion said indignantly, ‘the rent book used to be in her name, but he persuaded her to change it.’

  How had Fion known? Alice didn’t bother to pursue the matter.

  Not long afterwards the Archibalds arrived, Peter and Geoffrey, twin brothers in their thirties, who occupied the bedroom at the back. ‘They’ve been in a mental home, poor things,’ said Fion.

  ‘Are you sure they’re safe, y’know, with the children, like?’ Alice asked nervously.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with them, Mam. They went in the mental home by mistake. Anyroad, it’s only temporary. The corporation have promised to find them a proper house.’

  Now Cormac was moving into the top floor with a pregnant girl called Pol and there were still two bedrooms empty. Alice dreaded who might turn up next.

  Yet the strange thing was that she loved being at Fion’s. The fire in the living room was always lit, the shabby chairs were comfortable, tea was permanently in the pot for anyone to help themselves. The telephone rang non-stop, because Fion, who never used to have a single friend, now seemed to have dozens. Alice discovered she was a member of numerous organisations and charities, and was always in the throes of arranging fund-raising events: jumble sales, coffee mornings, parties, lectures. She had persuaded her mother to help at a Christmas bazaar early in December. A few weeks ago she had taken the children down to London for a CND march.

  ‘What’s CND?’ Alice asked.

  ‘The Campain for Nuclear Disarmament. Honestly, Mam, you’re dead ignorant. All you know about is hairdressing.’

  Alice humbly agreed.

  She felt very nervous the night that she went to meet Cormac’s pregnant girlfriend. She prayed that they would like each other and that Pol would make a suitable wife – she assumed they would get married one day – for Cormac, who was a remarkable lad and would make a wonderful husband.

  Freda Murphy opened the door to Alice’s knock, the long needles of her untidy knitting tucked under her arms. Two strange children were playing in the hall with Colin and Bonnie.

  In the living room a woman with a black eye was talking in a high-pitched, angry voice to Fion.

  ‘Hello, Mam,’ Fion said calmly. ‘This is Jenny. She’s staying with us a while until the police do something about her louse of a husband. Our Cormac’s upstairs with Pol. Tell them to come down in a minute; I’ve made some scouse.’

  ‘You gave birth to an angel when you had that girl,’ Freda remarked when Alice reappeared.

  ‘Did I really?’ She went up two flights of stairs. The top floor was merely one large room with a sloping ceiling and windows at both ends.

  ‘Come in,’ Cormac shouted in answer to her knock.

  Alice took a deep breath, opened the door, and found Cormac and a young girl sitting crossed-legged on the floor, facing each other and holding hands.

  ‘We’re doing breathing exercises,’ Cormac said. ‘We’ve bought a book on what to do when you’re having a baby. This is Pol, by the way. Pol, say hello to . . . to my mother.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Lacey,’ Pol said in a breathless, childish voice. She scrambled to her feet, a rosy-cheeked girl, with guileless eyes and curly brown hair. She wore an ankle-length cotton skirt and a coarse woven top. Her feet, like Cormac’s, were bare. She looked no more than sixteen.

  ‘Call me Alice.’ They shook hands. Pol’s hand was very small and limp. ‘How are you feeling, luv? When’s the baby due?’

  ‘I feel fine. I haven’t been sick or anything. I’m not sure when it’s due.’ She looked vague.

  ‘Well, the doctor should be able to tell,’ Alice said comfortably. ‘He’ll send you to the clinic where they’ll keep an eye on you.’

  Pol gave a tinkling little laugh. ‘Oh, there’s no need for doctors and clinics, Alice. As long as I look after myself, eat properly and do the breathing exercises I shall be OK.’

  ‘I see.’ Alice was horrified. She glanced at her son, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, apparently in a trance. He must approve of Pol’s plans for her pregnancy. Still, she had always made a point of not interfering in her children’s affairs and wasn’t going to start now. ‘Oh, well, but you need to book into hospital, so they’ll be expecting you.’

  ‘There’s no need for that either.’ Pol regarded her pityingly. ‘Cormac’s going to deliver the baby here.’

  ‘He’ll sew you up, will he? If you need stitches, like.’

  ‘She won’t need stitches,’ Cormac said without opening his eyes. ‘She’ll be too relaxed to tear.’

  Jaysus! Alice announced the scouse would be ready soon and escaped downstairs. The pair were crazy, out of this world.

  Fion was alone, stirring pans in the old-fashioned kitchen. A cat watched with interest from its unhygenic position on the draining board. She looked up when her mother came in. ‘What did you think of her?’

  ‘She seems very nice, but awfully young.’

  ‘She’s twenty-one, older than she looks.’

  ‘Has she told you her plans for having the baby? They’re not very sensible, Fion. I’m worried.’

  ‘She’ll change her mind nearer the time.’

  ‘Lord, I hope so. Our Cormac’s a clever lad, but I’m not sure if he’s up to delivering a baby.’

  The Christmas bazaar was to raise funds for an orphanage in Ethiopia. Fion put Alice in charge of the bottle stall. The main prize was a bottle of whisky. Every bottle had a raffle ticket attached, the numbers ending in a nought. People bought tickets for s
ixpence each and if they picked one that matched the number on a bottle it was theirs.

  Naturally, everyone wanted to win the whisky. The trouble was the winning ticket wasn’t in the box. Fion had taken it to put in later when most of the bottles had gone.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ her scandalised mother gasped.

  ‘Of course I can, Mam. If the whisky’s won right at the start, no one will want a go any more. Don’t forget, it’s all in a good cause.’

  Alice had been hoping to enjoy herself. Instead, she felt like a criminal as she tended her colourfully decorated stall. Carols issued from a loudspeaker and their innocent message made her feel even more sinful. She was very busy, always surrounded by a crowd, and the prizes – the bottles of chop sauce, vinegar, shampoo, lemonade, mayonnaise – rapidly diminished as the afternoon progressed. The more they diminished the more the eager participants saw their chance of winning the whisky, which had started to look very lonely, not quite by itself but almost.

  Where the hell was Fion? She couldn’t leave the stall and look for her. Alice began to panic. Any minute, now, someone would guess the ticket for the whisky wasn’t there and she’d be driven from the hall by a justifiably angry crowd. She felt conscious of her burning face, her racing heart.

  ‘Are you all right,’ said a voice. ‘It’s Mrs Lacey, isn’t it? Fion’s mum.’

  She’d noticed the slightly balding man who seemed to be in charge of things. He was about her own age, casually dressed in a black polo-necked jumper and baggy corduroy pants, his craggy face deeply tanned, as if he’d spent many years abroad. He had a slow, gentle, very patient smile.

  ‘No, I’m not all right,’ Alice said in a cracked voice. ‘I need our Fion urgently.’

  ‘I’ll find her for you.’

  Fion arrived seconds later. Alice stared at her accusingly over the heads of the crowd surrounding the stall.

  ‘Can I have a go, Mam?’

  ‘I think you better had.’

  Only Alice noticed the ticket already in Fion’s hand when she dipped it into the box. ‘If she brings it out again and claims the whisky I’ll bloody kill her,’ she vowed. Luckily for Fion, she withdrew a losing ticket. Not long afterwards the whisky was won by a little boy and immediately appropriated by his delighted father. Alice breathed a sigh of relief.