She turned on her heel and stamped up the stairs. After she had made her noisy inspection of the first floor, she yelled down the stairway, ‘There’s not even a gas jet up here, no lighting at all.’
‘That’s why I need white paint,’ I shouted. ‘So that I can read down here under one of the mantles. I’ll get an oil lantern for upstairs.’ My words bounced off the walls, came back to me with their syllables hollowed out and lengthened. It was a hole, but I didn’t care. We could live here, the boys and I, could make our own amusements and mistakes.
Her face was covered in smudges when she reappeared. ‘Cobwebs everywhere. This house hasn’t been occupied for ages – the cabbage smell must come from next door. That’s another thing. What sort of neighbours are you going to have?’
I shrugged in a manner that was probably over-careless. ‘The same sort I’d have in a Bolton slum.’
But she would not be placated. ‘No self-respecting woman could live in such a dump. How can you think of setting up here? And why don’t you get that bloody mother of yours to part with the price of a little semi?’
‘Stop it, Anne. You know I won’t let her win. She owned me once, but never again.’
She came and stood next to me, one hand resting on my hair as she tried to persuade me. ‘There has to be an alternative. I can’t bear this, Laura.’ I heard what she said, remembered that she had uttered the same words when Solomon died. She couldn’t bear me to lose a pet I’d never really owned, couldn’t cope with the idea of me suffering.
‘Well, I can bear it, just as I bore it when Mr Evans’s Solomon died. I’m stronger than you think and I’m staying here. No-one will find me in Liverpool.’
The hand on my head stilled itself. ‘He’s in prison. Why the hell are you afraid of a man behind bars?’
‘He’ll get out. There’s nothing will hold a will as strong as his, nothing man-made, anyway.’
She walked to the grimy window where one small pane had managed to survive despite footballs and stones. ‘It’s a hell-hole,’ she insisted. ‘And look,’ she waved a hand towards the street. ‘Just yards away, new houses, flats, playgrounds. Yet they put you here.’
I didn’t mind. We could be safe in this place, secure, fresh and new. All I needed was white paint. ‘Go and buy gallons of white paint,’ I insisted. ‘Then, when my house is sold, we can get the electricity board in.’
She frowned, chewed her lip. ‘You can’t do that. You can’t improve the place – they’ll put your rent up. And how do you know whether there’s a main in the street? Don’t you need a big underground wire for electricity?’
I forced a grin. ‘Twenty-seven and six is what they want and twenty-seven and six is what they’ll get. And of course there’s a main – how do you think they managed to build flats in 1966 without mains electricity? I’ll just get myself tagged on at the end of their cable.’ I rummaged in my purse for coins, fed the meter, tested the nearest gas-jet. It spat, coughed, exploded, then sent a blue-centred flame towards the ceiling. ‘There,’ I said placidly. ‘All mod cons.’
‘You need a mantle,’ she grumbled.
‘I’ll get some.’
‘Where?’
‘At the mantle shop.’ I would never make her understand, not in a month of Easter Sundays. ‘Anne, get gone for the bloody paint. At this rate, we’ll be here till midnight. And I want to move the boys here next week, get them settled.’
She slammed out of the house, revved the engine to bursting point, shot off in a blaze of temper and oil fumes. Anne was a go-getter, a woman of great ambition, a woman of substance. She didn’t understand my attitude, could not make herself realize that my life’s ambition was simple. All I needed was to be away from two people, and one of those was my mother. There were worries in my head, of course, concerns about money, about keeping three children on an income that was non-existent. But I hadn’t shared my brainwave with Anne, hadn’t told her about the recipe.
I stood in the scullery, left the bucket to fill beneath a tap that seemed to have three speeds – drip, trickle and flood. I opted for trickle, then took the envelope from my pocket. They thanked me for my interest, advised me to read at least thirty True Heart romances. The ingredients were listed below this advice. I was to take two beautiful people, mix them with love and misunderstanding, lace the cocktail with some competition – an anti-hero, perhaps, then deliver both parties to the altar at the end of some 80,000 words. Well, I would have a go. Story-telling had been my forte and I would revive that small slumbering talent, try to make it pay. I lit a cigarette, despising the habit I had picked up while recuperating. It was the last in the packet, would be the last in my mouth. If I smoked, the new baby would be stunted and my boys might become bronchitic. Liza smoked and I thought I knew why. Nicotine alerts the brain, stops the boredom.
After tipping the water into the fireside copper, I started a fire by breaking up the orange box and using it for kindling. How many pages for 80,000 words, I wondered. And I’d need a typewriter, was glad I’d learned to type at McNally’s. A pawnshop might have a portable, then there’d be carbon paper, reams of foolscap or A4, a steady table and … no. I would think about all that some other time. Anne would be back in a minute, then we could carry that small bag of coal from boot to house. ‘No graphic sex, no swear words or blasphemy, no reference to politics or to religion. Our readers expect a well-told story with a happy ending.’ Well, OK. I must plumb the very depths of my soul, find a bit of romance somewhere. My heart lurched as I thought of Frank, who had been my one romantic interlude. For him, for his son and his nephew, I would become a writer. ‘I can do it, Frank,’ I whispered into the dusty air.
I walked to the back door, peered outside, saw the lavatory shed at the bottom of the yard. No, I wouldn’t look in there, not today. I could not take on an army of germs while planning to become a True Hearts writer. A few crumbs of slack coal were scattered about with some sticks of chopped-up furniture, so I scooped up my find on a handleless shovel, dumped the lot on the ailing fire. Anne was right, this was back-breaking labour, especially for one who expected another sort of labour in a few months.
Anne’s cheeks glowed with some emotion or other when she stepped into the front room. ‘Two quid a tin.’ She dumped the paint next to the gas meter. ‘I’ve seen this for one pound fifteen shillings at home. And they talk another language altogether, it’s like double flaming Dutch.’
‘They’re Scousers, a very clever and amusing breed.’
‘Oh, I’m sure. I’m sure they’re very funny once you get through the language barrier. I’d have done better in downtown Calcutta.’ She inhaled a few times, cursed the smell of filth, brought in the coal. ‘Actually, they were quite helpful. They said something about Liverpool Council planning to pull these houses down in a few years. But for now, they’re being let to down-and-outs.’
I decided to take no notice, got busy with tepid water and cloths. She opened the stairway door, sat for a while at the bottom of the flight, then picked up a sponge and started at the other side of the room. Inevitably, our paths crossed under the window. ‘You’re a damned fool,’ she said.
I giggled, pushed the hair from my eyes. ‘I know, but I’m lovable with it.’
Chapter Ten
The Hourigan Farm,
Near Celbridge,
County Kildare,
Eire.
May 12th 1966
Dear Laura,
I don’t know where you are, so I’m sending this via Anne. I am so sorry for what happened, I should never have left you. It even got into the papers over here, which is why I understand your need for a new start. I have spoken to Anne on the telephone, but she will not give out your address, even to me, without your permission. I agree with her wholeheartedly in this matter, though I am hoping that you will begin writing to me very soon. Please try to keep the hatred for Tommo out of your heart. Apart from it being a sin, it’s also very exhausting and time-wasting.
Have you room
for me wherever you are? Just keep the bed aired, because I’ll be a while. My father has taken to drink since my mother took to her bed. He is all the while over to an inn on the Dublin Road and different fellows bring him home every few days. If I’m not careful, the dowry will be used up before I get back to England, as the farm has gone down with neglect. It is a terrible shame for my father, who is a good man, because he scarcely took a drop till Mammy was ill. He cannot bear the thought of life without her, so he is burying himself in whiskey, poor soul.
Eugene has four children now and he doesn’t enjoy being a daddy. I think he wishes he had stuck to his cassock, because a priest’s life would have been easier. They quarrel a lot, all of them, so it’s very noisy when they visit.
Mammy is really ill this time, though the famous cough medicine does take the edge off her pain. There is no hope for her, but she is happy to leave this life, since all her children have been such a bitter disappointment. I’ve five brothers, none of them priests, then my two sisters are married and living in Birmingham. I am the worst of the failures, as I took the veil then ripped it off. She accuses me with her eyes, but voices few opinions these days. Like I said to you all those years ago, life is not about pleasing parents, so I do not feel too guilty.
Laura, please write to me sometimes. I know it must be hard for you to find the time, but I would love to hear from my dearest friend, even if you scribble just a few words on a postcard. I am praying for you every night, so make sure you pray for me.
I was with Tommy-gun when she died peacefully some weeks ago. I visited her while a nurse stayed with Mammy, and Tommy asked about you, but I did not tell her about the piece in the paper. She remembers you as a dear little girl with a terrible loneliness in your face. The funeral was well attended – Agatha came over from England and the church was filled to bursting by Irish nuns and relations of the lovely lady. Now, she was a real nun, because she simply believed and made believing an act of will. Whereas I always asked too many questions, so I finished up sitting here in a draughty kitchen with my mother upstairs waiting for the end, my father down the road drinking himself senseless.
I will be back, Laura, that’s a threat. There’s something I want to do over in England, but I’ll need a barrel of cash to fund it. Still, if it’s God’s will as well as mine, then it will happen.
My fondest love to you, also to Gerald and Edward.
Your friend and sister, Confetti-Goretti.
I placed the letter on the white tablecloth in my white room, picked up my pen, wrote a reply. We had been here for three weeks now, and the boys had settled reasonably well. Yet I was lonely, felt almost as isolated as I had as a child. The shopkeepers were pleasant and helpful, but I had met few other people until today. Today, the house next door had spat out one set of tenants and taken in another family. Two of the children had spoken to me, so I allowed myself to hope for contact from an adult neighbour. I finished the letter, wrote two pages of my embryonic True Hearts romance, made use of the remaining daylight.
When dusk fell, I went into the yard and listened. It had been an interesting and very noisy day so far, and I wasn’t convinced that the excitement was over. A tousle-haired child stared at me, head and neck completely visible above the dividing wall. No child of that age could possibly have legs of such length. ‘What are you standing on?’ I asked.
‘A bucky.’ The locals often left the t off the end of a word. And it must have been one huge bucket. I reached up on tiptoe, peered over the wall, saw that the child was on an upturned dolly-tub.
I studied the dirt-streaked face. ‘Where’s your mother?’
It waved a hand towards the house. ‘She’s lookin’ fer nits. I don’t like it when she looks fer nits. Can I cum in your ’ouse?’
‘I don’t: think so.’
A small, agile woman leapt through the doorway, pounced on the child. ‘Get over here, this minute if not sooner,’ she said, the tone strident and determined. ‘I’ve got to do your head.’
‘I told yer,’ announced the child, directing this accusatory remark at me. ‘She scrapes me ’ead. I ’aven’t got no nits.’
The mother bared her incisors at me. She was tiny, and her hair was bleached not quite to the roots. These were dark brown, almost black, and the lank blonde strands were as lifeless as cotton wool. ‘Hello,’ she said, her accent less pronounced than the child’s. ‘I’m Liddy. Liddy Mansell.’
‘Laura Thompson.’
‘I got moved here today. They put all the social problems in this street. That’s what they call us, social problems. Have you seen any more of these?’ She pointed to the child. ‘Only I’ve six, so they take some keeping up with.’
‘I’ve seen just this one. Oh, I talked to a couple earlier on, but I don’t know where they are now.’
‘Halfway to bloody Manchester, I shouldn’t wonder.’ She dragged the infant down from its perch, pulled a fine-toothed comb through the mousy mop, scrutinized the remaining teeth on the worn plastic weapon. ‘That’s you off the list till next week, then. Where’s the rest of the kids?’
The small body held back the tears, wriggled, escaped, fled into the house. ‘They’ve no patience with nit-combs,’ she said pleasantly. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Bolton. And you?’
‘Halewood. Some buggers down there didn’t like the cut of my jib, so I’ve been shifted. They’ve moved me away from my man, that’s what they’ve done. How can I take this lot down to Halewood, eh? Well, he’ll just have to come here, that’s all.’
This was beyond my comprehension. If Liddy had a loving husband, then why had she been sent to Seaforth without him? ‘They don’t usually split families,’ I ventured.
She stared at me, seemed to be trying to assess my worth. A loud sigh escaped from the small body, seeming to leave her even tinier. ‘He’s their dad, but we’re not married. See.’ She approached me, climbed onto the tub, made it possible for me to flatten my feet, which were aching after being on tip-toe for so long. ‘See, he’s a lodger and I’m not.’
She was not getting through. ‘Oh,’ I answered hopefully.
She glanced over both shoulders, then looked straight ahead, as if she could see right through me. ‘I’m a Catholic.’
‘Ah.’ A dim light dawned. ‘He’s Orange Lodge?’
‘Well, he’s from a lodge family. His ma hates Catholics. So we can’t get wed till she’s dead, because if we did get wed, it would kill her.’
I held back a flippant remark about two birds and one stone, waited for her to continue.
‘Any road, we had all these kids, me and Jimmy. Now, his old girl has had the whole lot of them round to visit her every Sunday, but she’ll not let me past the front gate. It’s like they’ve all been conjured up or born through some immaculate conception thing, because they’re not allowed to have a mother. Truth is, I was quite happy to carry on and wait till she was dead, just have Jimmy on a part-time basis. But’ – again she looked over her shoulder – ‘then I got trouble from the other side as well.’
‘Really?’
She nodded, gave me a better view of the dark roots. ‘The Catholics. They started sending the priest round. Now, I can’t be doing with priests. They walk in your house without knocking and start a conversation about the price of fish, but they always finish up wanting donations for the church fund and a list of your sins. Well, my sins were usually crawling all over the floor and swinging from the priest’s clothes, so I didn’t need confession. Anyway, I took no notice. Till the windows got broke. They didn’t like me going with a Protestant, and they didn’t like me being loose. So they broke me windows.’
Somehow, I knew just by looking at Liddy Mansell that the broken windows were not the end of the story. At 5 feet and very few inches, she was not one to back down. ‘What happened then?’
‘I belted three or four faces. Might have been half a dozen, I can’t remember. I’m bound over to keep the peace, so they shoved me here, right at the other end
of bloody Liverpool. This must be the corporation’s idea of birth control.’
I liked her right from the start. Within ten minutes, she was sitting in my front room, dipping what she referred to as a suggestive biscuit into a mug of tea. ‘Well?’ she asked after sweeping the crumbs from her chest. ‘What have you done to finish up here?’ She jumped up, pinned an ear to the party wall, hammered with her fist. ‘Mary? Stop that lot bloody wingeing, will you? We’re trying to have a conflagration in here.’ She marched back to the chair, winked at me. ‘It’s all right, I say the wrong words on purpose. Or on purple, as my Jimmy calls it. You haven’t answered my question.’
There was no sense of throwing caution to the winds, because I had seen right away that Liddy Mansell was a salt-of-the-earth type of person, too straight for her own good, a pure moralist whose morals would never stand up in the eyes of those Christians whose sight was diminished by dogma. She was ‘loose’ with her favours, loyal to her man, a woman whose ascent into the heavenly firmament would be heralded by a guard of honour comprised of all God’s angels. Liddy was simply good. So I told her.
The little jaw dropped during the tale, hung slack for a few seconds after I’d finished relating the condensed version. She pulled herself together, dug with a spoon for the dregs of biscuit in the base of her mug, ran the other hand through the bleach-murdered hair. ‘It was even in the Echo,’ she said. ‘And the Daily Mirror. You could write all that down and flog it, it’s better than Peyton bloody Place.’ She licked the soggy crumbs out of the spoon.
I smiled at the idea. ‘No, I’m sticking to the True Hearts.’ I told her of my plan, of the painstaking labour I had undertaken. ‘It’s all in longhand.’
‘Jimmy’ll get you a typewriter,’ she volunteered generously. ‘He can get most things, working on the docks.’
‘A typewriter on the docks?’
‘Well, there’s offices, queen. Or he might get his hands on something he could swap for a typewriter.’ The little chest swelled with pride. ‘He can get you an elephant if you want one.’
September Starlings Page 44