Laceys Of Liverpool

by Maureen Lee

  ‘I could make it my business pretty damn quick.’

  Orla began to push the things back in her bag. She said threateningly, ‘If you say anything to me husband he’ll kill you. He might kill me first, but then he’ll kill you, I promise you that.’

  Vernon laughed again. ‘Oh, I’m shaking in my shoes, I really am.’

  He lay on the bed and watched her leave, and Orla drove back to Bootle like a maniac. It was weeks before she could bring herself to use the car again, and then it was to do some genuine reporting for the Crosby Star.

  She thought the whole horrible experience was over and done with until three months later, when she got the first phone call.

  ‘Hello, it’s me, Vernon. Love in the afternoon, remember?’

  Orla was alone in the house and the hairs prickled on her neck. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To see you. I keep thinking of those happy hours we spent together. I can’t wait for a repeat.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to wait for ever,’ Orla said shortly. She put the phone down.

  It rang again almost immediately. She left the receiver off the hook until the children came home from school.

  The phone calls continued for ten days, usually in the mornings. Perhaps he had too much sense to ring when Micky was home. They stopped for three months and Orla thought she was rid of him, until they started again. He must call when he was in the Liverpool area and he only called to torment her, have some fun. Orla would be reminded of their afternoon together, which Vernon would describe in sickening detail if she held on and tried to plead with him to stop.

  Sometimes he wrote letters: horrible, explicit letters that she burnt immediately, without opening, once she realised who they were from. It was awkward when Micky was home and he picked up the post before she could get to it.

  ‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ he would ask when she stuck the letter on the sideboard, unopened, waiting to be burnt.

  ‘I’ll read it later. It doesn’t look important.’

  One day, not long ago, she’d driven to Crosby to deliver some reports, wondering why a grey Marina stuck to her tail the whole way. When she came out, Vernon had been waiting, smiling, holding out his arms.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Orla had shrieked hysterically. ‘Haven’t you got a job to go to? Why won’t you leave me alone? I never want to see you again.’ She’d got in the Mini and driven away before he could reply, terrified, knowing she was trapped in a situation entirely of her own making and unable to think of a way out.

  Now he’d had the brass cheek to turn up at her daughter’s wedding, to spoil everything, at least for her. He must have seen the announcement in the Bootle Times.

  ‘I’d like you to go,’ she said shakily.

  ‘And I’d like to stay.’ She could tell he enjoyed getting under her skin, hearing her voice shake. ‘I was wondering if I could inveigle my way into the reception.’

  ‘I’d stop wondering if I were you. I’m not the only person who knows exactly who’s been invited.’

  His mouth twisted. ‘That’s a pity.’

  ‘You’re the one who needs the pity. You’re crazy. Anybody sane would have better things to do with their time. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea if I found out where you lived and told your wife what you were up to.’

  ‘I haven’t got a wife.’ His eyes flickered and she knew he was lying. She felt she had got one up on him for a change, but it was useless knowing he was married. There was no way she could discover where he lived.

  ‘Orla!’ Bernadette came round the corner of the church. ‘They’re going to take a photie of everyone together.’ She smiled at Vernon. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, there,’ he said charmingly. ‘’Bye, Orla. See you again one day soon.’

  Cormac and Vicky managed a quick tour of the three Lacey’s salons before sitting down to a ham salad in Hilton’s Restaurant, where the reception was being held and where Cormac had celebrated his twenty-first.

  ‘The salon in Opal Street is a bit off the beaten track, but the other two on main roads will make wonderful showcases for our products,’ Vicky enthused.

  Cormac grinned. ‘Our products! That sounds very grand and businesslike, Vic.’

  Vicky went pink, something she was apt to do very easily, particularly if Cormac was around. ‘I suppose it does, for a business about to be started in my parents’ garage. Still, I think grand and businesslike is what we should aim for, Cormac.’

  ‘I think so too. And “Lacey’s of Liverpool” sounds very grand indeed. You don’t mind your name being left out, do you?’ Cormac said anxiously.

  ‘Not under the circumstances – and I’ve never liked the name Weatherspoon. If our products are associated with an already long-established hairdresser’s it will help get them off the ground.’

  ‘You talk like a business manual, Vic.’

  Vicky tried to discern if there was the faintest hint of flirtatiousness in Cormac’s tone, but decided there wasn’t. She was nearly thirty and Cormac was the first man she had fallen in love with. Not that he knew. Not that he would ever know, because she would never tell him. She might have done had she been as remotely pretty as any one of his three sisters. Even his mother looked gorgeous in a lacy lilac dress and little matching hat. Vicky sighed. If Cormac so much as suspected she was in love with him he’d probably run a mile.

  They’d met three years before when Cormac had started work in the research department of Brooker & Sons, a large company in St Helens where Victoria Weatherspoon had worked since she finished university with a degree in chemistry. Brooker’s, a household name, were primarily the manufacturers of domestic cleansing agents: washing-up liquid, washing powder, scourer, bleach, soap. They were also famous for their baby products and produced a small range of cosmetics, including shampoos and conditioners.

  For most of the three years Cormac and Vicky had done no more than pass the time of day. They had never been involved in the same research project. While Vicky concentrated on ways of making the washing-up liquid more bubbly or the scourer more ruthless, Cormac was involved in different experiments which could lead to the world being rid of every speck of dirt and every known germ.

  Two and a half months ago – Vicky remembered the day precisely, it was January the fourteenth – she and Cormac happened to be working late together. He was sitting on a stool at a table at the far end of the laboratory, writing, presumably a report on his current project. Vicky was using the shaker, a piece of machinery that gripped containers and tossed them about crazily for two minutes so that the contents were thoroughly mixed.

  ‘What’s that you’re doing, Vic?’ Cormac enquired.

  ‘Mixing shampoo for my mother. Sorry, is the noise getting on your nerves?’

  ‘No. I was wondering what the smell was, that’s all.’ Cormac sniffed appreciatively. ‘It’s very nice. What is it?’

  ‘Geranium oil.’

  ‘Do we make geranium oil shampoo?’ He put down his pen and came towards her.

  Vicky felt her heart quicken. ‘No. This is Brooker’s basic mixture before the perfume’s added. I didn’t steal it, Cormac. It’s been paid for, I can assure you.’

  ‘Gracious, Vic. I wouldn’t give a damn if you pinched a ten-ton container. I’m just interested in what you’re doing, that’s all.’ He looked with surprise at the row of plastic bottles on the worktop. ‘There must be enough there to last your mother the rest of her life. Sorry, Vic,’ he said apologetically, putting his hand on her arm. ‘I’m being dead nosy. It’s just that I’m bored witless writing up a report. I was looking for a diversion, that’s all. Even so, I wouldn’t mind knowing what your mother’s going to do with so much shampoo.’

  ‘She sells it, Cormac. She belongs to the Women’s Institute and they have a sale of work every month to raise money for charity. Aromatherapy oils have a heavenly smell. The shampoos go like hot cakes. I usually make a couple of dozen a month, using different fragrances. This time I�
�m using geranium, lavender, lemongrass and rosemary.’ Vicky wondered if her dull, monosyllabic tone was as evident to him as it was to herself. She sounded as if she was reading the lesson at a funeral.

  ‘Aromatherapy oils?’

  ‘The Egyptians first used them, possibly as long ago as 3000 BC. They can be used for massage and, oh, for all sorts of things, as well as making cosmetics.’

  ‘Hmm! Interesting.’ Cormac rocked back on his heels. ‘Fancy a drink when you’ve finished, Vic?’

  Over the next few weeks they went for several more drinks after work. Vicky could hardly believe it when he told her about his life on the road belonging to a group called the Nobodys.

  ‘I must have smoked every known substance. We didn’t know where we were most of the time.’

  ‘I would never have guessed.’ His neat good looks didn’t fit in with the life he’d just described.

  ‘What about you, Vic? What have you been up to since you left university?’

  ‘Working in Brooker’s,’ she confessed, slightly ashamed.

  ‘Ah, an upright, conscientious member of society, unlike myself.’

  ‘I wish I’d been a bit more adventurous, if only in my job. Brooker’s is so . . . so . . .’

  ‘Mindnumbingly dull?’ Cormac suggested, making a face, and she laughed. The more they saw each other, the more relaxed she became.

  ‘I suppose so. I once had visions of doing something as spectacular as splitting the atom.’

  ‘Or discovering penicillin. I know, Vic, me too.’

  A few days later Cormac said, ‘Is there anything unique about Brooker’s shampoos, Vic?’

  ‘No. Most shampoos contain the same basic substances: aqua, sodium laureth sulfate, cocamide, hydroxy-propyltrimonium, glycerine.’

  ‘Wow!’ Cormac looked impressed. ‘Could we mix all those various chemicals ourselves?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Could we buy the cocamide and the glycerine and the other unpronouncable chemicals and make our own shampoo?’

  ‘Of course, Cormac.’ She looked at him wonderingly. ‘You mean you and me? But why should we want to?’

  He answered her question with another. ‘Do you want to stay at Brooker’s for the rest of your life, Vic?’

  ‘Well, no.’ She had always hoped to get married and have children, and Cormac was the person she’d like to achieve this ambition with. Fortunately, they were both Catholics, so religion wouldn’t be an obstacle. The only obstacle was the fact he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in her as a lifelong companion. ‘No, I definitely don’t want to stay at Brooker’s.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ he said with a heartfelt groan. ‘I’ll never get the sort of job I wanted when I was at Cambridge because I didn’t finish the course. I was lucky Brooker’s took me on, but I want more than a career trying to make bleach thicker and whites whiter. I thought we could go into business together making aromatherapy shampoo and conditioner. I was virtually brought up in a hairdresser’s, so I suppose it’s only natural I feel drawn to the idea. I’m not suggesting we give up work. That can wait till things catch on, which might be months or years.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘It could even be never.’

  Had it been anyone else but him, Vicky would have pronounced him mad and walked away. But it was Cormac, whom she loved and who had actually suggested they do something together. She would have preferred it to be something other than starting their own business, but it was better than nothing at all.

  As the weeks went by, however, she began to catch some of his enthusiasm. They would start off with a thousand bottles each of shampoo and conditioner of several different fragrances. His mother was thrilled to bits at the idea and had promised to use them in her salons – providing they were satisfactory – and display them for sale. Vicky still lived at home in Warrington with her parents and her own mother was equally thrilled. She had offered the garage to use as a workshop.

  ‘Daddy won’t mind. He can leave the car outside,’ Mrs Weatherspoon said dismissively – her mother had always worn the trousers in the Weatherspoon household.

  They only needed a small amount of equipment, which was fortunate as they only had a small amount of money between them, a few hundred pounds of savings. Initially there would be a lot of tedious work to do by hand. It should be a simple matter to obtain the formula for Brooker’s shampoo and conditioner, and they would change a few of the basic elements so theirs would be different.

  Sample bottles were ordered, a brand name decided upon: Lacey’s of Liverpool.

  ‘It has a ring to it,’ Cormac mused. ‘A few years ago Liverpool was the most famous city in the galaxy. Lacey’s and Liverpool go perfectly together. It’s not exactly gimmicky, but it’s unusual.’

  ‘We still haven’t decided what colour bottles,’ Cormac reminded her at the wedding as a waitress removed their plates. The best man, a friend of Gareth’s, was nervously studying the speech he had written beforehand.

  ‘I like the opaque white ones best. White with gold lettering.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I don’t prefer the black.’

  ‘Black’s showy, white’s tasteful,’ Vicky said stubbornly. It wasn’t often she got her own way in the enterprise.

  ‘We could have black bottles for the man’s shampoo, the sage.’

  ‘That’s a great idea.’

  He smiled broadly and put his hand over hers. ‘We make great business partners, don’t we, Vic?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Cormac. Great.’

  If you ask me, Sarge,’ the driver of the police car said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘women whose blokes have given them a good hiding have almost certainly asked for it.’

  ‘Shush, Morgan.’

  ‘She can’t hear, Sarge, not with that howling baby and the screaming kids.’

  ‘D’you think they asked for it too, the children?’

  ‘Possibly. I’ve boxed me own kids’ ears before now. Sometimes kids – and wives – need to be shown who’s boss.’

  Sergeant Jerry McKeown glanced over his shoulder at the woman on the back seat who was trying to quieten the baby and soothe two small children at the same time. Her face was covered in blood. ‘Have you ever blacked your wife’s eye and split her lip?’ he asked sarcastically.

  ‘Well, no, Sarge. ’Course not.’

  ‘That’s what’s happened to Connie Mulligan in the back. So, get a move on, Morgan. She needs a doctor quick and afterwards a place to sleep, out of danger, like.’

  ‘The woman who runs this women’s refuge is probably a right ould cow,’ Morgan said derisively. ‘One of them feminists, I bet, and a lesbian too. All they do is run men down and that’s only because they’re too ugly to catch one for their selves.’

  ‘You’re full of worldly wisdom, Morgan. That’s the place, over there. I think it might be a good idea to stop and deliver our passengers safely, not just speed past and chuck ’em on to the pavement.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Sarge.’

  The car stopped. Jerry McKeown jumped out and tenderly helped the injured woman and her terrified children out of the back. ‘You’ll be safe here,’ he assured them. The woman recoiled from his touch and didn’t speak.

  He vaulted up the stone steps and knocked on the front door. It was opened almost immediately by a tall women in black jeans and T-shirt. Her bountiful hair was knotted on top of her head, cascading around her face and neck in feathery tendrils. She had large, beautiful eyes, a strong nose and mouth, and he had never seen anyone look so kind, so concerned, as the woman enfolded Connie Mulligan in her lovely long arms and drew her into the house. ‘Come on, luv. I’ve been expecting you. The police phoned to say you were on your way. There’s tea made and a nice, warm room ready for you. The doctor will be here soon – it’s a woman.’

  She glanced at Jerry McKeown and made to close the door. ‘Thank you, officer,’ she said briefly.

  ‘Can I come in, make sure she’s settled?’ It hadn’t been his intention to go
inside, but he’d quite like to get to know this woman more.

  ‘I’m sorry, but men aren’t allowed on the premises. It’s a rule. I had to put me own brother out not long ago and he was forced to find a bedsit near where he works.’ Another woman had appeared and was taking the injured woman and her children to the back of the house. The tall woman made to close the door again, but Jerry put his foot in the way.

  ‘Can I have your name, please? For the records, like.’

  ‘I thought you already had me name on your records, but never mind. It’s Mrs Littlemore. Mrs Fionnuala Littlemore.’

  ‘Ta.’ Jerry McKeown returned to the car.

  ‘You might like to know, Morgan, that the woman who runs the place isn’t old, isn’t a cow and definitely isn’t ugly. I wasn’t there long enough to establish whether or not she’s a feminist.’ As for Fionnuala Lacey being a lesbian, he very much hoped not.

  He went back to the house early next morning wearing plain clothes. A boy of about ten, with a grave, grown-up expression, opened the door.

  ‘I thought Mrs Lacey said men weren’t allowed on the property,’ Jerry remarked with a smile.

  ‘I’m her son, so she makes an exception.’ The boy didn’t smile back.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Colin.’

  ‘Well, Colin, does your mum make an exception for your dad as well as you?’

  ‘Me dad’s dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that, Colin.’ Jerry had never been so pleased about anything in his whole life.

  ‘Who is it, luv?’ Fionnuala Littlemore came into the hall wearing the same clothes as the night before. ‘What do you want?’ she asked abruptly when she saw the policeman on the step. ‘Connie’s in no position to make a statement yet. Anyroad, she’ll only talk to a women police officer, so you’re wasting your time if you come again.’

  She was looking at him, but not at him. She wasn’t seeing him properly. If they met in the street tomorrow, she wouldn’t recognise him from Adam. But Jerry had come prepared to make her notice him.

  ‘I’ve brought some toys for Connie’s kids. I got them last night in Tesco’s. They close late Fridays.’ He held out a plastic bag. ‘I hope they like them.’