But. Ah yes, there was the word. But if he moved out or showed signs of discontent, she could force him to buy her out. ‘Maybe I should,’ he said under his breath. ‘Get a loan, open another kind of shop – or extend into number three – live above number three.’ He swallowed hard. There had to be a way. Valda’s suggestion might not be as daft as it had first sounded. Two rotten eggs in one carton could be part of the answer.
He stood at the door and looked out onto a beautiful summer evening. Father Walsh was gardening, and a group of children played near the stocks on the green. Stone cottages looked particularly lovely at this time of day, when the sun was nearing its nadir. It was as if Earth’s star threw out a last blaze of life before starting to dip towards the west. ‘Rose-coloured specs,’ he murmured. He knew he couldn’t leave Eagleton. After being raised in the back streets of Bolton, he had fallen in love with the countryside. Everything he needed was here – farms, woods, shop, books, plenty to eat.
Sighing, he turned round and prepared to return to the woman upstairs. If he wasn’t careful, she would win. He was eating too much, too often. He was eating the wrong stuff. The chances of living long enough to bury her were as slim as he ought to be. She might well outlive him. He wasn’t far away from fifty. She was a mere twenty-two years older. ‘It’s about staying alive. I have to stay alive.’ In order to do that, Dave Barker would need to take his future and hang on to it – otherwise, all his efforts would count for nothing.
He needed to diet; he needed to get rid of as much aggravation as possible. Kill her? Lovely dream, but not worth the probable consequences. Eat less, get out. It was time to change.
They were shutting the shop when Philomena Gallagher arrived. ‘Sorry, love,’ said Maurice. ‘I know we say appointment not always necessary, but we’re doing a gig tonight. Paul needs so much make-up it takes hours and a builder’s trowel. We’re going to invest in an industrial paint-sprayer.’
Paul sniggered. ‘Take no notice. He’s always in a filthy mood when he knows he’s got to wear his corsets.’
Philly didn’t know where to look. She had never been in Pour Les Dames before, and she knew that the owners of the business were . . . different. It was best not to think about the details of their relationship, but she couldn’t help herself. Red in the face, she passed Maurice a leaflet. ‘Father Walsh asked me to do this,’ she explained. ‘There’s a group being set up in the school hall. Amateur drama.’
Paul struck a pose. ‘Oh, but we’re pros, sweetheart. Aren’t we, ducky?’ He touched Maurice’s arm.
Maurice refused to laugh. Paul always went a step too far when in the presence of a bigot. He’d taken a few beatings from homophobes for it, but he still wouldn’t help himself. ‘Take no notice,’ Maurice advised. ‘We’ll think about it.’ He stared at the visitor. ‘Who does your hair?’ As always, the senior partner in the business put the shop first. This was a potential client. Furthermore, she needed help immediately, and he loved a challenge.
Philly’s colour deepened. ‘Nobody.’ A hand flew up defensively and she placed trembling fingers on her head. ‘I do it.’
Maurice nodded. ‘We could help you with that,’ he said. ‘Given a decent style, you’d be quite pretty. It’s needing shape, you see. A bit of feathering, a touch of my genius, and you’ll feel brand new.’
Philly swallowed. It was a case of give and take, she supposed. But would she be able to bear these men touching her head after they had . . . done whatever they did to each other? ‘Right,’ she answered lamely.
‘Shall we say half two tomorrow? After you’ve finished at Dave’s?’
She nodded.
‘We’ll put you in the book. Paul?’
‘Yes, master?’
‘Cut and blow for a start. We’ll look at the colour next time.’
‘I don’t want to be blonde,’ she managed after a sizeable pause. What would everybody at church think if she turned up to Mass with platinum hair?
Paul shook his head vigorously. ‘Oh, no. Blonde would never suit you, darling. You’ll need something a lot more subtle. Low lights with a touch of warm chestnut.’ Philly flinched as he touched her hair. ‘Good quality stuff, is that,’ he announced. ‘And plenty of it. Dave’d give a fortune for a sixth of it – wouldn’t he, Mo?’
Maurice nodded. ‘I dare say. Now, come on, Paul. Get the cement rendering and we’ll try to make you look nearly human.’
Philly left the shop at speed.
Maurice turned the sign to CLOSED, then rounded on Paul. ‘You could see she was uncomfortable. Years I’ve tried to drum this into you – button your gob when they don’t know you. I can guarantee she’ll be telling us her innermost secrets if you behave.’
‘Women like a gay hairdresser.’
‘Well, of course they do. With a gay, a woman isn’t a sex object, is she? She opens up after a while – if you treat her right. Some of them have to be handled with care, that’s all. Leave her to me. She’s terrified.’
Paul sniffed. ‘It’s her hair that’s bloody terrifying. We should have left her alone.’
Maurice shook his head in despair. ‘Look – they talk to us and we keep their secrets. That’s why we decided on separate cubicles – remember? We listen and we keep quiet. That’s as important as any hair treatment or manicure. We look after the whole person – hair’s incidental.’
‘What are we? Psychiatrists? Vicars? Hair stylists?’
‘All of the above, and don’t you forget it. Now, come on. We’re due at the Rose and Crown in just under two hours. I’ve got to wax my arms.’
‘Ouch.’ Paul grimaced. ‘So glad I’m not an ape.’
Maurice looked him up and down. ‘Rather an ape than a bitch. So, move it pronto.’
Paul knew there was only one real boss, so he moved it. Pronto.
Philly sat on a stone wall at the edge of the village green. Her face had cooled down, but her heart seemed to have remained in top gear. She should have posted the wretched flyer through the letterbox, then she wouldn’t have needed to talk to them, listen to them, think about them. Some children were playing with a long skipping rope. It was good to see them outside. Philly didn’t approve of computers, and she wondered why Dave had bothered. Didn’t folk spend enough time locked indoors? Some of those screen games were vicious, too. It was a shame; it was a pity that human nature forced people into pushing back boundaries all the time.
Nobody worried about gays any more. Homosexuality was openly accepted – they could even go through a form of marriage if they so desired. It was all wrong. Men and women were meant to get together in order to make children. But the process of child-making had become an amusement, a pastime in which people overindulged. Like drink, it got a hold on them. Like drugs, the habit became hard to break. Now, same-sex couples almost flaunted their status. Gay pride? Well, pride always came before a fall.
A car pulled into the slip road that fronted the five shops. It stopped outside the florist’s, and a small woman got out. Lily Latimer received her with open arms before lifting a child from the back seat. Squeals of childish delight fought with the sound of adult laughter while the three greeted each other.
The trio disappeared into the building, and Philly watched as Father Walsh flung down his garden fork and leapt across the road. He pulled boxes and bags out of the car and placed them inside the shop. But he didn’t stay, probably decided not to interfere. He walked back to the presbytery, picked up the fork and started working again. But he glanced across the road from time to time. Was he trying to convert the florist?
Looking up, Philly saw the pair of women at the front window of the upstairs flat. The florist was pointing towards the presbytery, while the other woman, child in her arms, nodded and smiled. Was Lily Latimer going to buy the priest’s house? Such a shame that it had to go, that Father Walsh was forced to go from pillar to post in order to provide services for the few. And they were a few. Mam and Grandma had talked about the walks, days when Catholics f
rom Bolton and its satellite villages walked through the town to display their faith. The one true faith.
She stood up. The walks didn’t happen any more. It was said that they had stopped in the early sixties when the first signs of rot had set in. Little girls in white dresses had been replaced by creatures whose clothes were the same as their mothers’, who played with make-up given free with magazines, who wore bikini tops although they had nothing to hide. They were too . . . too aware. Innocence was now a luxury enjoyed by very few.
Philly walked into her little cottage and switched the kettle on to boil. Her movements were automatic as she put vegetables to cook in the microwave, grilled her lonely chop and a single sausage, set one place at the kitchen table. She had never expected to receive anything in life, so she had not been disappointed. But she wished with all her heart that Dave Barker had been born Catholic, because he was a nice man and would have been good company. Her single status did not exactly upset her, but the evenings were extremely lonely. She finished her meal and went to make coffee. He was a lovely man. It was a shame.
Excitement died a natural death after an hour or so, as both Babs and the child were exhausted. Cassie fell asleep in the small spare bed in her mother’s room, and the two women sat down with a bottle of Crozes Hermitage.
Babs yawned. ‘Oh, let me at the wine – get me a bucketful. God, that was a bloody long drive,’ she said. ‘And Cassie hated the hotel. She was asking for you all the time – I finally got her to call you Auntie Lily.’
‘Yes, it’s a long way.’ Lily slid down into the comfort of an oversized armchair. ‘Thanks for coming. It’s been a bit stressful on my own.’
‘I’ll bet. Are the natives civilized?’
Lily grinned. ‘Fairly. There’s a dreadful old woman next door, but she stays upstairs. Rumour has it that her son keeps her caged because she bites. On the other side, we have a pair of gay hairdressers and their lodger, Sally Byrne. She does manicures, waxing and so forth. The shop at the far end is run by our landlord – he’s from Liverpool, as is his wife. Lovely rough diamonds, they are. They have a son called Derek who’s an accountant.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘No, there’s a whole village of them. New estates all over the place, smaller villages dotted about – it gets quite lively sometimes. They keep threatening to build a supermarket, but the natives have managed to beat off the developers so far. It’s only a matter of time, though.’
Babs stared into the near distance. ‘I can’t believe what we’ve done, Lee. Sorry – Lily. To come so far and live among strangers—’
‘We had no choice. And if you want to call me Lee, that’s OK. I chose Lily because if you slip up, it’s near enough to be a nickname. I honestly think we had no alternative. We both need a completely clean slate.’
‘Yes. Yes, I think you’re right. In fact, I know it. This way, we get a chance to start again, but we can’t pretend it never happened, can we? It’s not going to come out of the washing machine brilliant white.’
Lily shook her head slowly. ‘None of our yesterdays can be bleached away, Babs. You didn’t tell anyone you were coming up here?’
‘No, of course not. Being an orphan made it a bit easier, I suppose, but it was still an awful wrench.’ She nodded in the direction of her bedroom. ‘Thank goodness she’s young enough for it not to matter. Anyway, I told everyone we were going on holiday to Cornwall, so people saw us leave. It made it a bit less stressful, though I did feel mean – I had lovely neighbours. So Cassie and I are on holiday. We just won’t return, that’s all. Had to leave the dolls’ house. Had to leave everything but clothes.’
Lily stretched her legs in front of her. ‘We’ll get her a new dolls’ house. It’s OK here. I promise you, it’ll be fine. There’s no one who will connect us with what happened, and that’s the main thing. We aren’t front-page news any more—’
‘But we may be when someone reports us missing.’
Lily had thought about that. ‘You have to do one thing, Babs. I’ve already done it.’ She sat up again and leaned forward. ‘Tell the Bolton police where you are. You have the right to live wherever you like and you have the right to privacy. But yes, folk at home may well report us as having disappeared, though because I have property on the market my absence will be labelled deliberate. You’re mother to a young child, so go to the cops and let them know you’re both alive. If you choose not to be found, your wish will be respected. After that, it should be plain sailing.’
‘Better be.’ Babs stood up. ‘Is it all right if I go to bed now? I’m absolutely worn out.’
On her own again, Lily watched the priest as he finished his gardening. She wondered briefly about Bright Eyes with his purple ear, hoped he was recovering from the ordeal. Father Walsh had probably brought in the luggage from the car. Or it could have been Dave Barker. Whatever, they were good people and she would settle. So would Babs. As for Cassie, she didn’t care as long as she had Mummy and her auntie Leanne, who was now Lily or Lee.
It would never be completely safe, though. Even emigration might have failed to conceal the real truth behind the changes in three lives. Yet it had to be worth the effort, at least. The hardest part was being unable to concentrate sufficiently to read a book, or watch TV, or listen to the radio. The music she had loved had begun to remind her of a time she would never completely forget, and she wanted no prompting. It took a great deal of effort to run the shop, but she was managing that. ‘Baby steps and carpe diem,’ she whispered.
He was going inside now. If she ever needed to unburden herself, he was the man on whom she might impose. Father Michael Walsh’s promise to keep quiet referred not only to Catholics, not only to Christians, but to every soul who chose to confess or disclose. Strangely, it was the rabbit that had convinced her. Any person who would do all that for an animal, who would drag in a near-stranger to help, had to be intrinsically good.
Lily found herself smiling. ‘The bugger bit me.’ That had been quite funny, especially coming from a man of God. She had always imagined the representatives of Rome to be strict and humourless – he was hardly either of those. With hair as untidy as that, it might be hard for him to be taken seriously. He reminded her of the chap who played Darcy to Jennifer Ehle’s Elizabeth. Lily had always thought that the hair of the bloke in that serialization belonged elsewhere, since it made a bloody-minded and self-absorbed man completely childlike on the outside.
He had gone. He had gone, and she felt colder. ‘Don’t,’ she advised herself. ‘For God’s sake – literally.’ That said, she took herself off to bed.
‘There’s a kiddy next door now,’ grumbled Enid Barker. ‘There’ll be noise – you mark my words.’
Dave placed breakfast on the side table from which she ate. Although she blamed melegs for her inability to reach the dining area, the real reason for her chosen position in life was her need to stay by the window. When she required the bathroom, she moved at considerable speed, shooting back to her chair within a minute of finishing her ablutions. She was a fraud – and worse.
‘Is there no eggs?’ she asked.
‘Your cholesterol,’ he answered. ‘Remember? More in one egg than in a pound of liver? Three a week is your maximum.’
Enid snorted. ‘Bloody doctors. What do they know?’
‘Enough,’ he replied smartly.
She eyed her son. He seemed to be developing a bit of backbone. Pity about his great big belly, then. He was bringing her a visitor, had announced that she needed the company. Valda Turnbull’s mother-in-law was coming to tea. They were Catholics, though Mary wasn’t sure what she believed in any more. ‘I don’t want anybody coming here,’ Enid said.
‘Tough. Because she’s coming – end of.’
This was starting to be vaguely interesting. Dave had never answered back, had always allowed her the last word. In recent days, he’d tried coming over all clever, as if he might just be a man after all. ‘I’ll bolt the door,’ she threatened
.
‘Then we’ll break it down. After all, we can’t leave an old diabetic who could be in a coma.’
‘I’ll be shouting. So you’ll know I’m awake.’
Dave nodded sagely. ‘If your sugar gets too low, you go quiet and confused. If it goes through the roof, you shout and get confused.’
She didn’t know the truth of the matter, so she offered no reply. She’d had hypos, but no hypers, and was not in a position to comment. Should she call his bluff, eat a quarter of butterscotch and see what happened? He was winning. Just because she had become an old and dependent woman, he was taking advantage. ‘More tea,’ she snapped.
He brought the pot and a milk jug. If he’d had any sense at all, he would have remembered the arsenic. ‘There you are, Mother dearest.’
Sarcasm now! This game promised to become interesting, because she could close that bloody shop, and he knew it. How far was he prepared to go? ‘I’m getting on that phone to Chas Boswell, to ask about Madam next door subletting.’
‘The precedent’s set,’ Dave replied. ‘Sally Byrne at the hairdressers’ – she has the spare room.’
‘Bloody poofs,’ she snarled. ‘Shouldn’t be allowed.’
‘True.’ He poured in the milk. ‘We could put them in the stocks one at a time and throw tomatoes at them. I suppose tinned ones would do. They’d get concussion and brain damage, so that would be all right, eh?’
Enid blinked. He was up to something. The proverbial worm was definitely on the turn, and she would put a stop to it. ‘I can get you out of that bloody shop like that.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Don’t you forget it.’
Dave reined himself in. ‘I’ve got some savings,’ he advised her. ‘And a clean credit rating.’ His heart was working overtime. He really must diet and try to get a bit of exercise. But he failed to stop himself. ‘Mam?’ He took a deep breath. ‘I think it’s time I filed for divorce. Do what you like – I’ll manage.’
The Reading Room Page 5