‘So?’
‘It’s a bit communist, sharing out your wealth. What will your husband say?’
I think about that. ‘He’ll probably say something about strawberry yoghurt.’ My hand raises itself. ‘No, don’t ask. Just accept my help gracefully.’ She needs occupying, I decide. ‘In return, you can come with me now. Diana, you are going to deal with my mother.’
She stands, walks a few paces, gazes up the stairs. ‘Hang on a bit,’ she says. ‘I’ll just go upstairs and get my crash helmet. Pity we sold the suit of armour.’ One eye winks. ‘These stately homes isn’t wot they was, is they?’
We close the warped door, drive off to Crosby.
Mother is in a high dudgeon. Mother’s dudgeons are loftier than anyone else’s, I’m sure of that. Enthroned on her armchair, she dominates the room, looks like a queen who is quarrelsome about meeting lesser beings. Diana is with me. Diana is not behaving in a way that will suit, because she has already shaken Mother’s hand, has introduced herself to the dragon.
‘What does your father do?’ My mother fixes rheumy but agile eyes on her latest victim.
‘Nothing. He’s dead.’
My heart misses a beat, but I’ve nothing to fear. Diana is rising to the bait, will not be trounced by this wearying crone. Even today, with her father just deceased, Diana has resources that are asking to be plumbed.
‘What did he do, then?’ The ‘Lanky’ has gone missing from the voice, is replaced by one of her awful attempts at ‘poshdom’.
‘He drank.’ Diana sits, though there has been no invitation. I scurry into the kitchen, set the kettle to boil. Diana Hulme and Liza McNally promise to be an explosive combination. Perhaps I should make a gallon to quench the flames. No, there’s an extinguisher on the wall.
‘He drank for a living?’
I cough, rattle the cups.
‘I suppose so. He drank for a living and it killed him.’ Her voice is desolate, but old Liza will choose not to hear the sadness.
I can almost hear my mother bristling. ‘Was he a wine-taster, then?’
No, Laura, you must not laugh. Diana’s dad died last night, this is not the time for hilarity.
‘I reckon he’s tasted most things in his time,’ says Diana. ‘With the possible exception of Harpic.’
The tap drowns my nervous giggling. I wriggle the end of the Addis dishwashing brush in the drain, force breakfast time tea-leaves round the bend. Like Ben, my mother refuses to use tea bags. And that is the only common ground between them, though my husband was always courteous and kind to the nasty creature in the next room. I recall the occasion when Jodie gave Granny an earful some years ago – I was privileged to be present at the time. Mother had palpitations, a severe migraine and two fingers of the best cognac after dinner that day. Will Diana have the same disastrous effect? Tentatively, I turn off the tap.
Diana’s tap is in full flood. ‘… all round the world. You see there’s all these islands that haven’t been discovered properly. He used to go and visit, buy their alcohol, but he could never get the recipes out of these uncivilized people. He used to sniff at it and taste it, but he could never work out how the pygmies made such powerful stuff. It was his life’s work, Mrs McNally. And it killed him in the end.’
‘How sad,’ says my mother.
‘Anyway, we’ve just been sorting things out. My brother’s in fish, so he’s gone to Dover to collect the body. He knows all about temperatures and things, so he’ll keep Dad in good condition in the back of the van.’ She is so strong, yet so pathetic. While she aches for her father, she still hangs on to the reins, remains in control. I know that the humour is for me, to keep me cheerful.
‘And the yacht is lost?’ How interested the old woman sounds!
‘Completely. Went down just as they were coming into port. The coastguards tried their best, but they couldn’t save the crew.’
I am out of the apartment in a flash, am hanging, red-faced and hysterical, over the railing on the balcony. She has lost a father, has gained and lost an ocean-going vessel, has gained the interest of a woman who never listens to anyone. Diana is tough, even tougher than I thought.
We drink our tea. Diana, who has come up in the world, makes much of crooking her little finger. Between ladylike sips, she dabs at her face with a handkerchief, one of mine. Mr Hulme’s boat has acquired a name, the Esmerelda. Her crew consisted of honest Liverpool folk who were culled from the DHSS queue. They had just returned from some remote island when the Esmerelda floundered as she neared Dover.
Mother is moved to speak. ‘The last thing the dear man saw would be that cliff face. It’s so pretty, snow white and very English. Vera Lynn sang about it during the war, you know, kept all our spirits up.’
I cannot look at Diana. She knows that the last thing her father saw was the bottom of the Mersey, and that his spirits must have been far from up when he made that final journey. If I look at her, she might become as hysterical as I was on the balcony a few minutes ago. After all, she is grieving and the wounds are still raw. ‘Would anyone like a biscuit?’ I ask.
Diana shakes her head, moves closer to Mother. ‘Your daughter has sort of adopted me.’ The tone is confidential enough to almost exclude me. ‘She’s a very good woman, a good mother. I can see now why she is a good mother. She learned it from you.’
I cannot stay here. Any minute now, I shall laugh or cry or both.
My young friend jumps up. ‘It was so lovely to meet you. I must go now, as there is a funeral to arrange.’
Mother’s eyes are dim. ‘His work killed him, Diana. Oh, I know how that is. It was the same for my husband, you know. He gave his all to the work, died trying to find comfort for sick people.’
I dive for the door, prepare to escape from my father’s real murderer. ‘I’ll keep in touch, Mother,’ I say, my voice strangled by very mixed emotions. I’m sorry for Diana, delighted that she’s coping so well, amazed that my mother has behaved so appropriately.
Mother waves us out. Her finishing barb catches me from behind, but I manage to close the door on her words. ‘Pity your daughter hasn’t the same manners as Diana, Laura,’ I hear as we stand on the landing.
‘Bloody hell,’ breathes my companion. ‘If that’s your mother, you deserve the Croix de Guerre. Will you take me to the erosion? I want to look at the river.’
‘Yes. I’ll take you.’
We can see the hills of Wales today, rising and dipping in shades of purple, grey and green. A ship is coming in, a lead-coloured merchant that glides silently over a glassy sea. The beach is deserted, the ice-cream man’s van has left its post. Summer is over, the visitors have gone with the tall ships. We shall be peaceful now, except for the screams of the gulls. Even they might desert us as the weather gets colder. In the frost, they often fly inland to look for warmer air. I have watched them hovering over houses, bouncing like balsa-wood gliders over thermals provided by the heat of humankind. They are chattering now, are no doubt excited by the ship’s movement, will be discussing the pros and cons of following the vessel into port.
Diana is quiet, thoughtful, stares for at least ten minutes at the gun-metal depths that claimed her father. ‘You’re all right,’ she says at last. ‘I knew you’d be all right. You don’t even know who I am, but you took me in.’
I decide to leave her to it. After what she’s been through this morning, she needs the stage to herself.
‘The best part of it is that you like me. I can tell you like me, Laura. Don’t say anything, but I’ve been telling you lies.’
I unravel a tube of Polos, take one, offer one, put the rest away as she raises a hand in refusal.
‘Laura, my name isn’t Hulme. It’s nearly Hulme, though. I kept the first two letters the same, so it was only three-fifths of a lie. And I changed my Christian name yonks ago. Diana’s a good name, because Diana hunted for what she wanted and got what she wanted. Even that name’s only two-fifths of a lie. I turned the I and the A round, put
them in reverse order.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Don’t say anything till I’ve finished. Let me get the lot off my chest while we’re not looking at each other. This isn’t the first time you’ve saved my life. You were there when I was born and you were there the night the Catholics clashed with the Orangemen.’
I think I’ve stopped breathing. Everything’s stopped breathing. Even the ship is standing still, is listening to my companion. Forbidden to speak, I concentrate on taking in oxygen and pushing out C02.
‘I was called Daisy,’ she says. ‘And my mam was Liddy Mansell.’
Things remain on hold. The air in the car continues too still to breathe, so I wind down my window, take a gulp of ozone. I hover on the brink of panic, on the edge of joy, blink stupidly while my slowed brain sorts out her words, analyses, computes. For one frozen moment, I am back in that cold, bare cottage and Liddy is at the door. She rushes in, places the baby in my arms. A window breaks, is smashed by drunks who do not approve of Liddy’s ways. The other children are missing, are probably with their father. He lives with his mother at the other end of town, waits for the old woman to die, bathes her, feeds her, works on the docks.
‘They got married after Grandma died,’ she tells me. ‘I was too young to be a bridesmaid.’ She sounds so far away.
‘Daisy,’ I murmur stupidly.
‘A cow’s name,’ she says. ‘I used to paint cows on—’
‘On purple sugar paper.’ Oh, Jimmy. Jimmy, why didn’t you tell me about Liddy? Why didn’t you find me when life became too sad for you to bear alone? I clear the emotion from my throat. ‘We used to meet in town, Liddy and I. We had coffee in a place just off Williamson Square the last time we met. She told me that she was going away, that she’d write when you were all settled.’ I gulp, hang on to the steering wheel as if it might guide me out of this new sorrow. ‘She didn’t write, because she didn’t go away. Did she?’
‘Only to heaven.’ Her tone is soft, careful. She knows that I am hurt, doubly hurt by these twin blows.
‘Now Jimmy …’
‘Yes.’ She takes my hand, has trouble separating my fingers from the steering wheel. ‘Not long before she died, she gave me your address. “If you’re ever in a mess, go to Auntie Laura,” she said. I was in a mess, Laura. I had a rotten landlord, a good degree, no future and a dad who’d gone so far off the rails that he couldn’t find a station.’ She grits her teeth, won’t let the sobs see daylight. ‘My dad was a really good man, you know.’
‘Oh, I do know, Diana. And your mother was … your mother was Liddy. I’ve never met anyone since who was as close a friend to me. Even Ruth … we’re close, but it’s not the same. Liddy and I were mothers together, single parents of young children. When I left …’ I pause, remember that my saviour is in a nursing home five minutes away. ‘I went with Ben, the man I’m married to. There were circumstances … I had to keep Liddy safe, had to make sure none of you would be hurt because of knowing where I was living. After a few years, we met up again. I missed her, Di. How I missed Liddy.’
She nods. ‘He really ruined your life, didn’t he? That first husband of yours, I mean. It’s as if he wanted to take everything away from you. How did you make him stop?’
I didn’t. Ben stopped him. Ben. ‘He just stopped,’ I say lamely. ‘Everything stops if you wait long enough.’ Perhaps Audrey really did recognize me, then. ‘Is Audrey your sister?’
She grimaces, then grins. ‘Yes, but don’t broadcast it. She’s got a bit of a reputation, has our Audrey, never settled down till she got married. And even now, her husband needs eyes in the back of his head. She’s a tart, a tart with a heart.’
‘They all had nicknames,’ I remember aloud.
‘Except our Mary,’ she says. ‘She’s in America, we’ll have to phone her. I suppose you wouldn’t know my family by their proper handles.’ She stops, turns my hand over, looks at the lines. ‘Broken lifeline,’ she remarks. ‘That was your big illness. See, it picks up again here. You’ve a lot of years in front of you.’
I am guilty again. Many years ahead for me, none for Jimmy and Liddy. ‘He was such a hard worker, Di. He looked after his mother, wouldn’t make trouble by marrying Liddy before Mrs Hurst was out of it. And he still managed to hand over enough money to feed all of you. Theirs was a real love story.’
‘Yes.’
The tightness of my grip matches hers. I can feel the little bones of her hand, as tiny and fragile as those in the wings that have been mended by Ben over the years. ‘I’ll do what I can for you, Di. I’m not a mother, wasn’t really cut out for parenthood, but I’ve done my best.’ I carried this child against my chest, gathered my own brood about my skirts, hid in the lavatory shed. Gerald was silent, Edward fought his moans, Jodie stroked this baby’s cheeks. We listened while Liddy made a dash for it, heard her feet slapping on uneven cobbles in the back street. The yelling stopped and the good Christians went away, some in pursuit of my friend and neighbour, others back to their homes to celebrate their hollow victory over the whore.
‘Thank you,’ says this woman-child. ‘Thank you for taking me in that night when the fight was happening.’
Jimmy Hurst was tall and strong, had heart enough to look after all his dependants. I want to cry for him, want to get out of the car and scream with the gulls. He could have come to me, but his baby came instead.
‘They might have killed me, Laura. You saved me.’
I sigh, wonder why I haven’t done more for Liddy’s family, for Liddy herself.
‘What’s it all about, Laura? The religion crap, everybody bowing and scraping, then fighting like cats and dogs?’
‘Don’t ask me, Diana. That’s one of life’s great mysteries.’
She chews a thumb-nail, studies the view for a moment. ‘Can we go home now?’ she asks. ‘I’m starving.’
Chapter Five
We have arranged the funeral by phone. It’s amazing what you can do by proxy these days. As Jimmy is to be cremated, his ornaments will be of imitation brass, a gilded plastic crucifix and a nameplate that will melt away into the ozone layer. It’s more than sad. He used to be a man of honour and great dignity, and he will be dispersed like so much rubbish in a day or two. With the exception of Ben and, perhaps, Robert, I have met few men as gentle and entertaining as Jimmy was. For Liddy, Jimmy even became a Catholic, must have lost so many family friends from the old Lodge days. Diana manages to joke about her dad’s plastic trimmings, says it was the UPVC windows all over again. Like many of us, she makes light of life’s tighter corners. Her levity moves me more than tears would.
She is in the bath. I sit here trying to make sense of VAT. Whoever invented this system must be closely related to Lewis Carroll or Edward Lear, because it makes the most excellent nonsense. People pass money on to me, then I pass it on to Customs and Excise. The Customs and Excise give some of it back to the people who sent it in the first place, and we all get dizzy on the roundabout. And my pen is leaking all over the return, I’ll probably get thrown in prison. It seems that the VAT man can get rid of the key and ask questions later.
The phone rings. My agent wants to know when to expect A Heart Divided. He is not pleased when I mention the turn of the century. Fortunately, someone calls on his other line, and I am cut off to make way for a transatlantic message. I forget the VAT, watch my animals. Handel has taken to Flakey, is teaching her how to catch the drips from the tap. It’s my fault, I lifted the kitten onto the kitchen surface. Even Chewy is in love with our latest resident, has set up home on the mat in front of the sink. The gulls will leave soon. I shall be richer, am running out of sardines and mackerel. Both birds are flapping, revving up, agitating to be off. Tomorrow, I keep saying. Tomorrow, or the next day, they will be strong enough to try their wings.
The door flies open and Robert stalks in, stops abruptly, cocks his head to one side. He’s a good-looking man, but he is always preceded by a smell that is a bit medical, usually wears a quantity of loose hair that
was recently attached to some poor, sick beast. I am not ready for Robert. ‘Go away,’ I tell him.
‘How are you?’ He is doing his best to look nonchalant.
‘The same as I was a few days ago. You can’t stay, because I have a guest.’
He leans against the yawning door, stumbles as it groans and almost closes itself. ‘I’ve seen her,’ he replies. ‘All legs and long hair. Snowflake looks well.’ He watches as the eyes of two felines follow the emissions of a slow-dripping tap. ‘You need a new washer,’ he says.
‘It would deprive my cats of their entertainment. The drip stays.’
Robert is fiddling in the pockets of his waxed jacket. He reminds me of my children when they were young, because he is a collector of ‘interesting’ things. I catch a glimpse of a shell, some pebbles, a fisherman’s float. ‘It’s here somewhere,’ he grumbles. Rubber bands and coins are transferred from one pocket to another, then his attention is taken by a length of tangled string. I tap my toe, wish he would go away. I don’t want to have to explain him to Diana, shouldn’t need to.
About five minutes too late, the dog realizes that we have a visitor. After a woof of welcome, he launches himself upon his victim. Chewy adores Robert, even when the needle is entering tense shoulder muscle. He’s a brave animal, never wails while being protected from distemper, hardpad, Parvo. Robert’s face is getting a thorough wash, though the man isn’t bothered. He has this empathy with animals, is so close to them that no behaviour troubles him. If a scared dog has an accident while in the surgery, Robert wipes up the mess, scatters a bit of disinfectant about, accepts that the animal was disturbed enough to disgrace himself. He’s lovely, is Robert. I wish he’d go away.
‘Found it.’ He rubs at a piece of metal, presents it to me with a flourish. ‘Your earring, madam.’
‘Thanks.’ He probably found this in his Land Rover. His Land Rover is where we last made love, on some very rough sacks in the back. I remember the scent in that vehicle, leathery, doggy with a hint of anaesthetic.
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