The House By Princes Park

by Maureen Lee

‘I could keep it till winter, sis.’

  ‘But it’s only got short sleeves!’

  ‘Oh, all right.’ Greta abandoned the jumper and made for a rack of blouses. ‘These are pretty. Oh, see! They’ve got lace panels down the front. They’d go nice with your suit.’

  ‘Mmm!’ Heather frowned and began to pull out the various colours. Buying a blouse, buying clothes of any sort, was a serious matter, demanding total concentration. ‘I wouldn’t mind the black. I tell you what, let’s keep these in mind and perhaps come back later. We haven’t been to Lewis’s yet, nor T. J. Hughes, and you still haven’t seen a frock you like.’

  ‘Shall we go for a coffee? We can think about the blouses and that white handbag I saw earlier.’

  ‘That’s a good idea! There’s a new coffee bar at the top of Bold Street.’

  On the way, they earnestly discussed the things they’d seen. If Greta bought the white bag, she would need white sandals to match. Heather wondered if diamanté earrings would be too dressy for work.

  ‘You wear a diamanté brooch,’ Greta pointed out.

  ‘Yes, but earrings are different.’

  They ordered coffees and took them to a table in the window, too embroiled in their own concerns to show interest in the people passing by. They’d led a cosseted, sheltered life, the O’Hagan girls. Foster Court had made no impression on their young minds. Their memories stretched back only as far as living cosily with Arthur in the coal yard. Lack of a father had never bothered them. A man had always been around; first Arthur, then Charles, then Mam’s lodgers, to make a fuss of them. Other children, not just Jake, had been there to play with, in a house that was always full of people. They’d never felt lonely or unloved. So far, neither had been called upon to take a decision about anything remotely important apart from what clothes to buy or whether to go out with a particular young man.

  Last night, Peter King had asked Greta for a date but, on Heather’s advice, she had turned him down. Whenever possible, they went out in a foursome, because they enjoyed each other’s company as much as they did that of the various young men. Greta, more so than Heather, knew that one day this would change, that a man would appear she would want to spend the rest of her life with to the exclusion of everyone else, including her sister. Heather couldn’t imagine Greta coping with marriage, and certainly not motherhood, without her unwavering support. Sometimes, she wondered if she should remain unmarried, become a spinster, so that she would always be available for Greta.

  ‘I think I’ll buy something for Mam,’ Greta said. ‘A sort of “thank you” for the party.’

  ‘I’ll go halves,’ offered Heather. ‘What shall we get?’

  ‘I was thinking about a scarf, a nice georgette one.’

  ‘How about a scarf and a scarf ring?’

  ‘Perfect.’ They smiled at each other, imagining the way Mam’s eyes would light up when she was given the presents. They loved Mam with all their hearts.

  At first, neither saw the two young men outside the coffee bar window, waving their arms, pressing their faces against the glass, in an attempt to make themselves noticed. Greta gave a tiny scream when she became aware of a squashed nose and staring eyes only inches away. She burst out laughing, and the young man leapt back, did a thumbs up sign, said something to his equally contorted friend, and they made for the door.

  ‘They’re coming in!’ Heather cried, aghast. ‘Do you know them?’

  ‘Not from Adam.’

  ‘Then you shouldn’t have laughed. ‘Oh, look, they’re coming to sit by us!’

  The young men joined them at the table. ‘Good afternoon, ladies,’ said one. ‘I’m Larry, and this is Rob. We’ve been looking everywhere for you two.’

  Heather scowled. ‘Don’t talk soft.’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Rob, looking hurt. ‘I said to Larry earlier, “This avvy, we’ll find the two best-looking girls in Liverpool and take them to the pics.” We’ve been searching for ages and had almost given up when we saw you.’

  ‘Gary Cooper and Grace Kelly are on at the Futurist in High Noon.’ Larry sniffed pathetically. ‘We couldn’t possibly go on our own. We need someone to hold our hands.’

  ‘I can’t think why,’ Heather snapped. ‘Anyroad, we’ve already seen it and it’s not the least bit frightening.’

  ‘How about Bride of the Gorilla?’ suggested Rob. ‘It’s on the Scala. You can hide your head on me shoulder during the scary bits. I won’t mind.’

  ‘It sounds a load of rubbish.’

  ‘Oh, Heather, it sounds fun.’ To Heather’s annoyance, Greta was smiling broadly at the intruders, whom she had to concede seemed quite harmless, even faintly funny, not to mention very good-looking. They were remarkably similar in appearance; fresh-faced, wholesome, well-built, almost six feet tall, with the same coloured hair, a sort of mid-brown, though Rob’s was curly and Larry’s straight. Both were nicely dressed in flannels, open-necked shirts, and tweed jackets.

  ‘Are you brothers?’ she enquired.

  ‘Almost,’ replied Rob. ‘Our mams had us on the same night in the same hospital. They were in the next bed to each other. We’ve been best friends ever since and so have our mams.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice, isn’t it, sis?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Heather grudgingly agreed.

  ‘You’re sisters!’ Larry gaped. ‘I’d never have guessed. You’re not a bit like each other.’

  ‘I take after me dad, and Heather’s the image of our mam.’

  ‘If that’s Heather, who are you?’

  ‘Greta.’

  Larry inched his chair closer. ‘Greta’s always been me favourite name for a woman.’

  ‘Liar!’ Greta laughed.

  ‘Me, I’ve always preferred Heather.’ Rob grinned at Heather, and she could have kicked herself, because although she didn’t mean to, she couldn’t help but grin back.

  ‘Now, about the pics...’ Larry began.

  ‘We’ve got shopping to do first,’ Greta said. ‘And we’ll have to ring Mam, tell her we’ll be late.’

  ‘We’ll come shopping with you. Would you like another coffee before we go?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ the girls said together.

  Ruby was sitting with her feet up, listening to the wireless, and wondering if she could afford a television, when her daughters turned up with two extremely pleasant, polite young men who looked like identical twins, yet weren’t even related. One was called Larry Donovan, the other Rob White. They owned a car between them, a Volkswagen Beetle, and had given the girls a lift home. She understood they’d been to the pictures that afternoon to see Bride of the Gorilla, which had given them a good laugh.

  Heather, usually so sober, had gone all girlish and coy, having paired off with an obviously smitten Rob. Greta and Larry couldn’t take their starry eyes off each other.

  After making something to eat, Ruby stayed in the kitchen, where she drank a glass of the wine left over from the night before and listened to the giggles and whisperings from the next room. It was one of the rare occasions she wished she had a husband so that when the time came he could sternly demand what Larry and Rob’s intentions were towards his daughters. She had a feeling they were already serious. She’d noticed how Larry had managed to slip in the reassuring fact that they were Catholics.

  Something miraculous had happened; two inseparable couples had met and fallen in love.

  She felt herself go cold. She’d known it was inevitable that one day her girls would get married. Indeed, she had prayed they would settle down, have children, be happy. But now, when it seemed that this might happen, Ruby found it impossible to visualise life without them. She had fashioned her life around her daughters. They were always at the forefront of her mind whenever she made a decision, no matter how trivial. Virtually everything she had done had been done for her girls.

  Imagine the house without music, without the wireless on too loud, no bright young voices, arguing, laughing, sometimes crying, shouting
‘Tara, Mam,’ or ‘Mam, we’re home’? There’d only be the lodgers who made hardly any noise at all except where Iris Mulligan was concerned.

  Rubbish! Ruby drained the glass and returned it to the table with a thump. Without the girls, she could do all sorts of things. Give up being a landlady, for one. There would be no need for a house big enough for three, and she could afford to buy something smaller. Matthew Doyle could have his house back, though she’d be sad to leave. She’d get a job, doing something, she wasn’t sure what, but she’d go to night school like Martha, learn a trade; book-keeping or typing. Or she could start her own business – she remembered she’d once thought of becoming a painter and decorator.

  For the first time since she was a child she would have no ties. She could do anything she pleased.

  Oh, but she would always miss her girls!

  Sunday, the girls went to Southport for the day in Larry and Rob’s car. They returned late, with the rest of the week already mapped out; Monday, the pictures to see Carousel with Gordon MacRae and Shirley Jones, Tuesday the Locarno, Wednesday a club called the Cavern that hadn’t long opened and played New Orleans jazz, Thursday somewhere else...

  Ruby lost track of the arrangements. The boys didn’t seem short of money, both were toolmakers at the English Electric. When they’d gone, she wondered if she should offer some motherly advice, but couldn’t think of any. ‘Don’t rush things,’ perhaps, but doubted if the girls would take any notice – she wouldn’t have. Years ago, she’d told them the facts of life and felt sure they were still virgins – at least they had been until that morning. It was best not to interfere. They’d go their own way whatever she said. Young people were very perverse and inclined to regard opposition as encouragement.

  She got things off her chest in a letter to Beth. On rereading it, she thought the weekend’s developments sounded rather nice, a bit touching, and felt very pleased for her girls.

  On Friday, just after she’d changed the beds upstairs and had four sets of sheets and pillowslips to wash, Matthew Doyle paid his monthly visit to collect the rent. It had crept up over the years to fifteen pounds a week. Ruby had raised her lodgers’ terms accordingly.

  He always breezed in, without an invitation, made himself at home in the kitchen and expected a cup of tea and a long chat as if, Ruby thought nastily, he found it necessary to emphasise the property was his. She found it incredible that a man in his position should still collect his own rents, and detested him as much now as when they’d first met. It riled her that she had to be nice to him, and she worried that one of these days he’d remember that the house had been bought as an investment with a view to having it knocked down and something else put in its place.

  Nowadays, he was unrecognisable as the young man she’d met twelve years ago. Gone were the shabby clothes, the boots, the moustache. Today he wore a slick, grey suit over a sparkling white shirt, a silk tie. His expensive black shoes were highly polished and he carried a leather briefcase. It wasn’t just his appearance that had changed, but his bearing – he exuded an airy, good-humoured confidence that she found highly irritating, and his accent had lost its rough edge.

  Matthew Doyle had become a very rich man with a finger in all sorts of pies. It was Doyle Construction who were responsible for the block of flats being built in Crosby which had been the subject of much controversy – residents in the houses behind had thought they’d have a view of the River Mersey from their front windows for the rest of their lives. He had been elected to Liverpool City Council and his photo was frequently in the Echo, attending a charity function or a civic event with his pretty wife who was the daughter of another business tycoon. They lived in an old manor house in Aughton.

  ‘I’ve brought Greta a present,’ he announced, settling himself in the kitchen. He took a box out of the briefcase.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Her birthday, of course. It’s a bit late, but I’m afraid I couldn’t get here before.’

  ‘How did you know it was her birthday?’

  ‘She told me last month.’

  Greta actually liked him, as did Tiger, who had exerted himself sufficiently to rub against his legs. Matthew reached down and tickled his chin.

  ‘Thanks for the present. I’m sure Greta will love whatever it is.’

  ‘It’s scent, good stuff. Made in France. Chanel something.’ He was sprawled on a wooden chair, long legs stretched in front of him, very elegant.

  Ruby turned away to put the kettle on when an excited little shiver made her spine tingle. It happened every time they met, as if her body wasn’t listening to her brain. Damn the man!

  ‘You don’t think much of me, do you?’ He was looking at her, laughter in his brown eyes, making fun of her. Lately, she could have sworn he’d started to flirt. Today she thought he seemed a bit edgy, unusual for him.

  ‘You’re all right,’ she said grudgingly.

  ‘You’ve never liked me from the moment we first met.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘I would. You were thinking what a creep I was, making a few bob when most men of my age were in the Forces.’

  ‘It happened to be true,’ Ruby pointed out. ‘And it wasn’t exactly “a few bob”, either.’

  He nodded. ‘You’re right, ’cept when we met I was up to me ears in debt to the bank. I was desperate for ready cash. When I first looked over this place, I intended letting out the rooms meself, making a bomb.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ She wondered where this was leading.

  ‘You turned up, didn’t you? Your need seemed greater than mine. I let you have the place for eight quid a week when I could have got twice as much.’

  ‘I’m very grateful,’ Ruby said stiffly. She hadn’t asked for special treatment and wondered why he was telling her twelve years after the event.

  He grinned. ‘You might be grateful, but you still don’t think much of me.’

  Sometimes, she found it very difficult to be nice. She slammed a cup of tea in front of him. ‘I think you’re wonderful, will that do? Anyway, what’s brought this on? Why is it suddenly so important that I like you after all this time?’

  ‘Because I like you,’ he said simply.

  ‘And you’ve only just realised?’

  ‘No, I’ve liked you since the day you walked through the front door covered in paint.’ He shrugged. ‘Being rich has its drawbacks.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’ Now what was he on about?

  ‘You lose contact with your roots,’ he said forlornly. ‘You never meet people who’ve been as poor as you were yourself. Everyone thinks you’ve always lived in a mansion and driven a Rolls-Royce.’

  ‘Aah!’ Ruby said with mock sympathy.

  ‘It’s got to me lately,’ he went on, ignoring the interruption. ‘I feel lonely, suffocated. I want to talk to someone from the same background as meself, remind meself of who I am, as it were.’

  ‘There’s plenty around.’

  ‘Including you.’

  ‘What makes you think we’re from the same background?’

  ‘We both lived in Foster Court.’

  She gasped. ‘I don’t remember you.’

  ‘I lived in number five with me gran.’ He smiled, as if the memory wasn’t totally unpleasant. ‘I never went out, that’s why you don’t remember me. I used to sit in the window and watch the world go by. I’d see you every day, leaving number two in your shawl with your kids in a pram. Gran said you were the pawnshop runner.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go out?’ She suspected he was like Jacob, set on avoiding a proper job of work.

  ‘Because I had TB,’ he said simply.

  ‘Tuberculosis!’ No wonder he hadn’t joined the Forces. ‘Are you better now?’

  ‘Well, I’m not likely to cough up blood on your nice kitchen table, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

  ‘I wasn’t worried about any such thing,’ Ruby said sharply.

  ‘Sorry!’ He raised his hands and ba
cked away.

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ she demanded irritably. ‘You’ve never mentioned Foster Court before.’

  ‘I’m playing on your sympathies,’ he said with a grin. ‘I told you, I need someone to talk to. Someone who won’t slag off the working classes and argue over the quality of various wines. I’m sick of discussing contracts and arranging deals.’

  Ruby folded her arms on the table. ‘OK, so talk.’

  ‘I’d prefer to do it over dinner,’ he said slyly.

  ‘You’ve got a cheek!’ she cried indignantly. ‘You’ve also got a wife.’

  ‘Caroline’s in the South of France, holidaying on daddy’s yacht.’

  ‘I don’t care if she’s holidaying on the moon. I’m not going out with a married man.’

  ‘It would be entirely above-board. We’d sit in a restaurant with about fifty other people and talk, that’s all.’

  ‘No!’ Ruby said flatly.

  He got up and went over to the window. ‘I’d forgotten how big this garden is. It must be at least a hundred and fifty feet deep and half as wide. I reckon I could get two pairs of semis on this plot, no problem.’ He turned to face her. ‘D’you know how much a semi goes for these days, Ruby?’ He shook his head incredulously. ‘Over two thousand quid.’

  At this, Ruby felt so angry that she half expected a cloud of steam to emerge from her mouth. ‘Are you trying to blackmail me?’ she hissed.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it hasn’t worked. The answer’s still “No”.’

  Ruby had been invited to tea to meet Larry and Rob’s parents and sundry other relatives. She had her hair set and bought a new frock; red cotton to match Heather’s cast-off shoes. It had a plain round neck, cap sleeves, and a swirling circular skirt. The boys took her in the car, squashed on the back seat between Greta and Heather, both reeking of Matthew Doyle’s Chanel No 5.

  She felt unusually nervous, expecting to feel out of things without a husband, a relative, even a friend to take with her in support, but found herself warmly welcomed into the bosoms of both families; the mams and dads, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, various grandparents, all crammed into the large Victorian terraced house in Orrell Park. Without exception, they made her feel very special, as if no one in the entire history of the world had given birth to two such outstandingly pretty daughters, such charming, old-fashioned girls, real bobby-dazzlers. Though it wasn’t surprising, she was something of an eye-catcher herself, and could easily have been taken for their elder sister. What a pity their dad hadn’t been around to see them grow up. He would have been dead proud. And what a struggle she must have had, bringing them up all on her own. Well, all they could say was, no one could possibly have done it better.