by Maureen Lee
It was Fritz’s laundry where Flo had worked; Mr and Mrs Hofmannsthal had spent a weekend on the Isle of Man every month for over twenty years.
“Oh, Flo!” I whispered. I went over and picked up the snapshot taken outside the laundry nearly sixty years before; Flo, with her wondrous smile, Mr Fritz’s arm around her slim waist.
I had no idea why I should want to cry, but I was finding it hard to hold back the tears. I felt as if I knew everything there was to know about Flo Clancy: the lover lost on the Thetis, the baby who had gone to another woman, the servicemen she’d made love to in this very flat. Now Mr Fritz . . .
Yet the more I knew, the more mysterious Flo became. I wanted to get under her skin, know how she felt about all the tragedies and romances in her life, but it was too late, far too late. Not even Bel knew the things that I did about her lifelong friend. I’m glad it was me who went through her papers, I thought. I’ll never tell another soul about all this.
Of course, I’d have to tell someone about the money and the property. It dawned on me that, under the circumstances, Flo would almost certainly have made a will.
Curious, I was about to go back to the bureau, when the front door opened and Tom O’Mara came in, his face, as usual, sombre and unsmiling, and looking like a dark, sinister angel in a long black mac.
I caught my breath, and half lifted my arms towards him as he stood staring at me from just inside the door.
“I’m neglecting the club because of you,” he said accusingly, “neglecting me family. You’re on me mind every minute of every day.” He removed his coat and threw it on the settee. “You’re driving me fucking crazy.”
“I’ll be finished here soon, then I’ll be back in Blundellsands.
You won’t want to come all that way to see me.”
“I’d come the length of the country to be with you.”
I wanted him to stop talking, to take me in his arms so that we could make love. I forgot about James, about Flo, Stock Masterton. All I wanted, more than anything on earth, was for Tom O’Mara to bury himself inside me.
Tom shook himself, gracefully, like a cat. “I think I’m in love with you, but I don’t want to be.” He wiped his wet brow with his hand. “I feel as if I’m under a spell. I want to keep away from you, but I can’t.”
“I know,” I murmured. I didn’t like him, I couldn’t talk to him, he was hard, unsympathetic, a crook. But I felt drawn to him as I’d been drawn to no man before.
We made love in a frenzy, without tenderness, but with a passion that left us both speechless and exhausted.
When I woke up next morning, Tom was still asleep, his arm around my waist. I wanted to slip away, escape, because I was frightened. Instead, I turned over and stroked his face. His green eyes opened and stared into mine and he began to touch me. We were locked into each other. There was no escape.
Flo
1962
Sally and Jock’s son, Ian, died as he had lived; quietly and bravely and without a fuss. He was sixteen. The funeral took place on a suffocatingly hot day in July and the crematorium chapel was packed. The mourners stood and knelt when they were told, their movements slow and lethargic, a sheen of perspiration on their faces, their clothes damp. There were flowers everywhere, their scent sweet and sickly, overpowering.
Flo was at the back, fanning herself with a hymn book.
She hated funerals, but who in their right mind didn’t?
The last one she’d been to was for Joanna and Jennifer Holbrook. Joanna had passed away peacefully in her sleep, and the following night her sister had joined her.
But at least the twins had managed more than four score years on this earth, whereas Ian . . . She averted her eyes from the coffin with its crucifix of red and white roses.
The coffin was tiny, because he’d grown no bigger than a ten-year-old and every time she looked at it she wanted to burst into tears.
She wished she’d asked Mr Fritz or Bel to come with her. She knew hardly anyone except Sally and Jock.
Grace, their daughter, was a cold, aloof girl, who’d always resented the care and attention bestowed upon her invalid brother. She was in the front pew next to her dad, looking bored and not the least upset. She wasn’t even wearing dark clothes, but a pink summer frock with a drawstring neck.
The woman on Grace’s other side, who was kneeling, her head buried in her hands, must be melting in that black, long-sleeved woollen frock, she thought. Then the woman lifted her head and whispered something to the girl.
Martha.
Oh, Lord! She looked like an ould woman, her face all wizened and sour. She might well have achieved the coveted title of Mrs before her name and a lovely daughter but, if her expression was anything to go by, it had done nothing to make her happy. Or the nice new flat in Kirkby that she’d moved into a few years ago when Elsa Cameron had stuck her head in the gas oven and ended her tragic life. Perhaps happiness was in the soul, part of you, and it didn’t matter what events took place outside. Some people, Martha was one, were born to be miserable.
“I’m happy,” Flo told herself. “At least on the surface. I make the best of things. I’m happy with Mr Fritz, and me and Bel still have a dead good time, even though we’re both gone forty—but I don’t half wish we were twenty years younger. I’d love to go to the Cavern, I really would, and see them Beatles lads in the flesh.”
She was vaguely aware of someone genuflecting at the end of the pew. Then the person knelt beside her and whispered, “Hello, Flo.”
“Hugh!” She flushed with pleasure and patted his ami.
He was twenty-three and, as far as Flo was concerned, the finest-looking young man on the planet: tall, slender, with a gentle face, gentle eyes and the sweetest smile she’d ever seen. His hair had grown darker and was now a dusky brown, only a shade lighter than his father’s, though it wasn’t curly like Tommy’s. He was mad about music and haunted the Cavern; she always listened to the charts on the wireless so she could talk to him on equal terms.
“I thought you couldn’t get off work?” she said softly.
He’d served an apprenticeship as an electrician and worked for a small firm in Anfield.
“I told them it was a funeral. They couldn’t very well refuse. Ian was me friend, he taught me to play chess.
Anyroad, I promised Kate I’d come.” He nodded towards the front of the church, and a girl in the row behind Sally and Jock turned round as if she’d sensed someone was talking about her. She had the Clancys” green eyes and silvery hair, and Flo had the strangest feeling she was looking at her younger self in a mirror.
So, this was Kate Colquitt. She’d been at St Theresa’s Junior and Infants’ school when Flo last saw her, that hulking great lad, Norman Cameron, never far from her side. Sally was right to say she’d grown into a beautiful young woman. Kate twitched her lips at Hugh, almost, but not quite, in a smile, because this was, after all, a funeral. The man kneeling next to her must have noticed the movement. He twisted round and gave Hugh a look that made Flo’s blood curdle, a look of hate, full of threats, as if he resented his companion even acknowledging another man’s existence.
Norman Cameron, still watching over Kate like an evil guardian of the night.
Everyone stood to sing a hymn: “Oh, Mary, we crown thee with blossoms today, Queen of the Angels and Queen of the May.” It wasn’t May and wasn’t appropriate, but it had been Ian’s favourite.
Flo saw Norman Cameron find the page for Kate, as if she was incapable of finding it for herself. She felt concerned for the girl, although she hardly knew her. Sally said Norman wanted them to get married and Martha, anxious as ever to meddle in other people’s lives, was all for it. Kate had managed so far to hold out. She was working at Walton hospital as an auxiliary and wanted to become a state registered nurse.
“Norman’s had a terrible life,” Sally had said, only a few weeks ago. “No one could have had a worse mam than Elsa, yet the poor lad was inconsolable when she topped herse
lf. I feel dead sorry for him. But he makes me flesh creep, and he’s so much in love with Kate it’s unhealthy.
You’d think he owned her or something.”
“She should find herself another boyfriend,” Flo said spiritedly. “Try and break away.”
“I reckon Norman would kill any man who dared lay a finger on her.”
“Lord Almighty!” Flo gasped.
The hymn finished, the priest entered the pulpit and began to speak about Ian. He must have known him well because his words were full of feeling: a bright, happy lad who’d borne his illness with the patience of a saint and had almost made it to adulthood due to the selfless commitment of his parents. The world would be a sadder and emptier place without Ian Wilson. Heaven, though, would be enriched by the presence of such a pure, unsullied soul . . .
Flo switched off. Any minute now, he’d start telling Sally and Jock that they should feel privileged their child was dead and had gone to a better place, where he was, even now, safely in the arms of God.
The priest finished. Flo buried her head in her hands when it was time for them to pray. The soft whisper of the organ came from the grille in the wall, the sound gradually growing louder, but not enough to hide a slight whirring noise. Flo peeped through her fingers and saw the curtains behind the altar open slowly and the coffin slide out of sight. The curtains closed and there was an agonised gasp from Sally as her son disappeared for ever.
Jock put an arm around her shoulders, and Flo imagined the little curling red and blue flames licking the coffin, spreading, meeting, then devouring it and its precious contents, until only the ashes remained.
“Don’t cry, Flo.” Hugh offered her his hanky.
“I didn’t realise I was.” She pushed the hanky away.
“You look as if you might need it yourself The service over, they went outside, where the heat was almost as great as it had been in church. When everyone stood round the display of flowers, which were laid out on the parched grass, the blooms wilting rapidly in the hot sunshine, Flo kept to the back. She could see her own wreath, irises and white roses, and would have liked to look for the flowers that Bel and Mr Fritz had sent, but didn’t want to come up against Martha, particularly not today.
Hugh was talking to the bereaved parents. He shook hands with Jock and kissed Sally’s cheek, very grownup, very gentlemanly. Nancy O’Mara had raised him well. If she’d been there, she would have felt as proud as Flo. He came over. “I have to be getting back to work.”
“I’ll be going meself in a minute, after I’ve had a word with our Sally.”
He looked surprised. “I thought you’d be going back to the house.”
“You’re not the only one who has to be at work.”
“In that case,” he said, trying to sound casual, “I’ll give you a lift part of the way.” He had a car, his pride and joy, a little blue Ford Popular.
“That’d be nice, luv. Ta.”
What was she supposed to say to Sally? “I’m dead sorry, Sal. I feel terrible for you. He was a lovely lad. I don’t know how you’ll cope without him.” After a few stumbling phrases, she threw her arms around her sister. “Oh, Lord, Sal, you know what I mean.”
“I know, girl.” Sally nodded bleakly, then grabbed Flo’s arm. “Sis, I want you to do something for me.”
“I’ll do anything, Sal, you know that.”
“Make things up with our Martha.” She shook Flo’s arm impatiently. “There’s enough misery in the world without adding to it when there’s no need. Martha would be overjoyed if you two were friends again.”
Flo glanced at Martha, who was talking to her daughter, Norman Cameron a dark shadow by her side. They weren’t exactly a happy family group, but the mother and daughter relationship was there for all to see. Then she looked at Hugh, waiting, hands in pockets, for his “friend”
Flo, and she felt a sense of loss as vivid and painful as the morning she’d woken up and discovered her son had been taken away. Martha hadn’t just stolen her son, she’d stolen her life.
Very gently, she removed her sister’s hand. “Anything but that, Sal,” she said.
“I’ll miss Ian,” Hugh said, when they were in the car. He smiled shyly. “I’ll miss Kate, too. She was often there when I went to see him. It was the only place she went without Norman Cameron in tow.”
“D’you fancy her, luv?” They would make a perfect couple, Flo thought excitedly. The Catholic Church forbade relationships between cousins, though marriage might be possible with a dispensation. But as neither Hugh nor Kate were aware that they were related, there would be no need for the Church to become involved.
His pale cheeks went pink. “She’s okay.” He’d had several girlfriends, all of whom Nancy had disliked on sight. “You’d think I was royalty or something,” he’d grumbled to Flo. “She doesn’t think any girl I bring home is good enough for me.”
Flo was inclined to agree, though where Nancy was concerned she always kept her opinions to herself.
Hugh dropped her off in Lime Street. “See you soon, Flo, perhaps tomorrer.”
It was too nice a day to sit on a bus and Flo decided to walk home. She was in no hurry. Although she’d told Hugh she should be at work, her shift didn’t start until two. A few years ago, when launderettes had sprung up all over the place and White’s Laundry saw their work trickle away to almost nothing, Mr Fritz had closed the place down. Then he had opened a chain of launderettes, six in all, and put Flo in charge of the biggest, an ex-chandler’s shop in Smithdown Road, less than a mile from William Square.
“Hello, gorgeous!” A man, quite good-looking, was standing in front, blocking her way.
“Hello . . . ”
She stared at him, frowning, before realising that he was a stranger trying to pick her up. “I thought I knew you,” she said, exasperated.
“You could, very easily. I’d certainly like to know you.”
“Get lost,” she said, but smiled as she dodged past. It was flattering to think that at forty-two she could still attract men. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the windows as she walked up Mount Pleasant. She never wore black, apart from skirts, and Bel had loaned her a frock for the funeral; very fine cotton with short sleeves and a sunray-pleated skirt. The wide belt made her already slim waist look tiny. She hadn’t put on an ounce of weight with age. When they went on their regular visits to the Isle of Man, Mr Fritz complained that she looked no more than thirty. People would think he was spending a dirty weekend with his secretary.
“We’re not married, so it is a dirty weekend.” Flo giggled.
He looked horrified. “Flo! Our weekends together have been the most beautiful times of my life. Nevertheless,” he grumbled, “all the other guests probably think they’re dirty.”
Flo offered to dye her hair grey and draw wrinkles on her face, but he said that wouldn’t do either. “I rather enjoy getting envious glances from other men.” There was no pleasing him, she said.
She passed the women’s hospital where Nancy O’Mara had recently had a hysterectomy. Hugh, the dutiful son, had gone to see her after work every night.
On the way home, he sometimes called in at the launderette.
He usually popped in at least once a week.
“How’s Mrs O’Mara?” she asked. It sounded silly, but she could never bring herself to refer to Nancy as his mam.
“Progressing normally, according to the doctor.”
During the time he’d been at secondary modern school, she’d thought she’d lost him. Until then, he’d got into the habit of sticking his head round the door of the laundry on his way home from St Theresa’s, just to say hello. When he changed schools, she had the good sense not to wait for him outside when she went to the bank on Fridays, reckoning an eleven-goingontwelveyear-old in long trousers wouldn’t be seen dead playing ball in the Mystery with a woman almost twenty years his senior.
“Where’s your little friend?” Mr Fritz asked, after Hugh hadn’t shown his
face in months.
“He’s at a different school and comes home a different way,” Flo explained, doing her best not to appear as cut up as she felt about it.
“That’s a shame. I’d grown quite fond of him.” He gave Flo a look full of sympathy and understanding, as if he’d guessed the truth a long time ago.
The months became years. She saw Hugh once when he was fourteen. He was on his way home with a crowd of lads who were kicking a tin can to each other on the other side of the road. She was glad his collar was undone, his tie crooked, that he looked an untidy mess. She was even glad about the tin can. Nancy might not like it, but he’d found his place, he’d made friends, he was one of the lads. She felt a tug at her heart as she melted into a shop doorway out of sight. If only he was coming home to me!
Although Flo had a great time in the launderette—the customers came in with so many funny stories that her sides still hurt with laughter when she went home—she could never get her son out of her mind. She heard through Sally that he’d left school and begun an apprenticeship as an electrician. It wasn’t what she would have chosen for him: she would have liked him to become something grander, perhaps even go to university.
It wasn’t until almost five years ago, Christmas 1957, that she had seen Hugh again. The launderette was festooned with decorations, drooping in the damp. All afternoon she’d been pressing homemade mince pies and sherry on her “ladies”, as she called them—a few had even returned with more washing they’d scraped together because they’d had such a good time. The bench was full of women waiting for the machines to finish, and Flo was slightly tipsy, having drunk too many people’s health when she wished them merry Christmas. Mr Fritz usually toured his six establishments daily to ensure that the automatic machines were working properly and not in need of his expert attention, but always ended up at Flo’s because it had the nicest atmosphere. His brown eyes twinkled as he accused her of being in charge of a launderette while under the influence of alcohol. Just then the door opened for the hundredth time that day and he said, “Why, look who’s here!”