The Reading Room

by Ruth Hamilton

  At that very moment, Sally dashed in from the back of the shop, thrust a bulky envelope into Mo’s hands, then ran out again, a handkerchief pressed to her nose and mouth.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Mo went into the store room. He opened the package, dropped its contents, picked up an item from the floor. A grin spread itself across his face as he stared down at the article resting on his palm. With no thought for anything but the matter that was literally in hand, he dashed upstairs, where he found Sally in near-hysterics. ‘Calm down,’ he begged. ‘Come on, you’re doing yourself no good. This is wonderful news, so kindly treat it as such, madam.’ He placed the positive pregnancy test on the coffee table.

  Sally continued to weep. ‘But they’ll find out. And they’ll think we’re both horrible people, that you’re bisexual or something. You shouldn’t have listened to Paul, and I shouldn’t have listened to either of you.’

  Mo laughed. ‘We come clean. You’re pregnant, I’m the father – oh, and I happen to be your husband. What’s to worry about?’

  ‘The lie we’ve all lived,’ she sobbed. ‘Pretending I’m the lodger, while it’s really him. Carrying on as if you were gay just to get more customers.’

  He sat next to her on the sofa, a hand across her shoulders. It had seemed a fairly good idea at the time. Gay hairdressers did well, and he and Paul were certainly partners on the entertainment front. People had assumed that they were a couple in their private life as well, and no one had bothered to put them right. The fact was that Paul had the small bedroom, while Mo and Sally slept in the larger room. ‘I’ll sort it out, love,’ he said.

  ‘Then there’s all my manicuring and waxing – how am I going to manage Indian head massage when my belly’s halfway across the road? And he’ll have to go.’

  She meant Paul, of course. Mo agreed, and not just because of his partner’s vicious tongue. Paul was vying for joint ownership. And, worse still, he came on to Mo in front of customers, clearly enjoying himself by displaying affection and a closeness that did not truly exist – or, if it did, that travelled in one direction only.

  ‘He’s in love with you,’ Sally added.

  Mo suspected that she was right. ‘Can I leave you for ten minutes?’ he asked.

  Sally nodded. ‘I’m turning the stopwatch on,’ she warned.

  Mo dashed through the shop like a cat with its tail on fire. Paul, who was up to his ears in Mo’s customers as well as his own, failed to stop him.

  Mo arrived in Lily’s shop. ‘Every flower you have,’ he gasped. ‘No, I’ll have to be sensible. Just loads of flowers. We’re pregnant.’

  Lily closed her mouth sharply, came round the counter and guided the hairdresser to the customers’ bench. ‘Breathe,’ she ordered.

  He breathed. ‘Me and Sally,’ he said eventually. ‘Baby.’

  Lily had heard of this sort of thing. It usually involved close friends and an implement whose primary function was to baste roasting meats, but she didn’t want to start asking detailed questions. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked after a few seconds.

  He nodded. ‘I’m not gay,’ he advised her. ‘Paul is, I’m not. Sally and I were married last year, and Paul hated it.’

  ‘Does he love you?’

  ‘No idea,’ Mo lied. ‘He loves himself, and he loves us performing our stage act, so that false closeness was allowed to become part of our other business. For a laugh, and for improved takings, I went along with it, but Sally was always in two minds.’ He paused for breath. ‘Women having their hair done actually like homosexuals. They don’t feel challenged or judged by a gay man, you see. But I’ve got to tell everybody now. It’s not going to be a walk in the park, Lily.’

  Lily scratched her head. ‘Right.’

  ‘A notice on the window – I’m serious, honestly. A notice saying that Sally and I are married to each other and that we expect a happy event. I don’t want her thinking about abortion just for the sake of the business and the drag act.’ He stood up. ‘Deliver flowers in abundance to my wife immediately. Are you any good at writing?’

  ‘Calligraphy? Yes, I did a course.’ It had been in another life and under a different name, but it was the truth. ‘Listen. There’s no need for a notice pinned to the window, lad. How many customers at present?’

  He couldn’t remember. His head was full of joy, trepidation and love for little Sally, who was to be a mother. ‘A few.’

  ‘More than two?’

  ‘Six. Five, at least. She’s upstairs having the screaming ab-dabs in case people start thinking I’m ambidextrous.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Bisexual.’

  Lily stood in front of him and held his hands tightly. ‘Maurice, the only people that really matter are children. I have none, and I’m telling you now, I’d give my eye teeth for a baby. Now, you want people to know, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then go back in there and say it. The bush telegraph will spread the news for you. By midnight, there won’t be a soul in the five villages who doesn’t know. Let the customers do the work for you. Go in. Face him and them. Say it, then get rid of him, because you’ll need that little bedroom for a nursery.’

  ‘I’m scared, Lily.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’ll be there in five minutes with the Chelsea Flower Show in a wheelbarrow. OK?’

  He left. Lily stood for a while and wondered whether she had pointed him in the right direction. If the selfish Paul decided to make a scene, it might all backfire and put poor Mo in a very bad light. ‘Come on,’ she told herself as she started grabbing flowers. ‘Colour scheme, plenty of greenery and a big smile.’

  Minutes later, in Pour Les Dames, she found half a dozen silent customers. Paul wasn’t silent, though. He was ranting and raving about how he had given up his life for Mo, how he had stood by him, how Mo had cheated on him with Sally.

  Lily placed the flowers on the reception desk. ‘Shut up,’ she shouted. ‘Mo isn’t gay, and he never was. He married the woman he loves last year, and you found that a bitter pill to swallow, because no one but you should be loved. You’ve always wanted him, and you can’t have him.’

  ‘What do you know?’ he screamed. ‘Bloody southerner, moving up here and telling us all what’s what.’

  ‘But she doesn’t,’ said a customer whose head was covered in foil wraps. ‘If Mo says he’s not gay, then he’s not. He might be a good hairdresser and a bit camp, but he’s a married man with a kiddy on board. So leave them alone.’

  Paul was genuinely upset. As long as he’d had a foot in Mo’s life, he’d been in with a chance. The intention to turn Maurice had been his raison d’être for as long as he could remember. Their drag act was the best on the circuit, while they made a formidable team when it came to hair. ‘I’ll move out then,’ he announced, lower lip trembling. ‘But I’m not quitting Pour Les Dames. If he wants rid of me, it’s two verbals, then a written warning.’ He flounced out of the salon. After a few seconds, he was back. ‘Plus, I’m a partner. Let him put that in his pregnancy test and smoke it.’ With his nose in the air, he stamped out again.

  The babbling began. One woman said she’d been under the dryer since about 1947, while a second worried that her hair would be bleached silver if the wraps didn’t come off. Another customer, whose hair had not yet been touched, rushed out of the shop. With any luck, the news would be spreading already, Lily hoped.

  Instinct drove Lily the rest of the way. She tore off foils, rinsed hair, began to blow-dry. The woman whose life had been spent under hot air was given a basket into which she might put her rollers. It took an hour, but everyone was very pleased with the results.

  ‘Have you done this before, love?’ asked Valda Turnbull.

  ‘Yes,’ gasped Lily. ‘Let me catch my breath.’ She inhaled deeply for a few seconds. ‘Babs is a hairdresser. I’ve helped her when staff let her down on odd occasions. I’m no expert, but I cope.’ She smiled when the clients gave her a standing ovation. Then she remembered the flowers. �
�Bugger,’ she said before gathering them up in her arms. ‘I don’t think Mo will mind if we don’t charge for your hair today. Go and drink the health of these two people and their baby. Use your hair money.’ She went upstairs.

  Sally was asleep in her husband’s arms. Small noises from the other bedroom betrayed the fact that Paul was packing his bags.

  ‘Customers?’ asked Mo.

  ‘All gone. I did what I could, and I didn’t charge them. Paul left after I said what needed saying. The news is spreading like an oil slick in the English Channel. It’ll be OK.’

  Mo’s eyes were wet. ‘Thanks, love.’

  She understood why people thought he was gay, because he was a beautiful man. He probably looked fabulous in drag. ‘Babs is a hairdresser,’ she told him. ‘The little I know I was taught by her.’

  ‘Specialty?’

  ‘Babs?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes. We all have a favourite area – mine’s cutting.’

  ‘So’s hers, Mo. But I know she loved colouring as well.’

  His mind was working overtime. If Babs could get a sitter, she could take Paul’s place. Paul would not leave quietly, but he might be disturbed by the sudden arrival of a third hairdresser. Mo would have a word with Babs as soon as possible.

  Lily put the flowers in three vases.

  ‘Lovely,’ said Mo.

  Lily left. The nice thing about her new job was the pleasure people took from receiving a bunch of flowers. There was also the joy she got when delivering. All in all, life was beginning to improve.

  I don’t know what they expected me to do with the shit they delivered this lunchtime. You never know who’s peed or spat in it when it comes to us in isolation.

  There were all sorts on my previous landing. Paedophiles, serial killers, a nurse who killed more than he saved. Should be in the nuthouse, something called Munchausen’s by proxy. Bollocks. He’s just another bad bugger.

  Dan came to see me last week. No prison record, though I have enough on him to put him away pronto and for a long time. So now I’m thinking in here and he’s thinking out there. Two heads? I know a lot more than two people who’d kill a granny for a few quid . . .

  Four

  He would come back. She knew he’d come back, because he had nowhere else to go. Staying with Philomena Gallagher? That would never last – Philly Gallagher was a Roman, all rosary beads, prayer books, choir practice and Holy Days of Obligation. As for the rest of the village – who would want a fat, balding idiot to become part of the household? Enid smiled. He’d be back, red-faced and begging, before the week was out.

  He’d taken the rest of his stuff, had used bin bags because Enid hadn’t allowed him to borrow the suitcases. After his little tantrum – and even that had been quiet – he had gone about the business of leaving in silent mode, never answering a question, refusing to react whenever she had railed at him. She was all alone now. Except for Mary Turnbull, of course. Valda’s mother-in-law came in on a daily basis. She cooked and did basic cleaning; best of all, she liked a good old natter. Without realizing it, Enid was in danger of becoming dependent on another Roman, albeit a lapsed one.

  Enid Barker adjusted her reading glasses. The Daily Mail wasn’t much fun these days, since she was alone in the mornings until Mary arrived, so there was no one with whom she might discuss the contents of the paper. Philly came up to give her her breakfast, but Enid would have nothing to do with her, and stayed put in her bedroom until she had left. Let the bloody woman interfere in her son’s life if she wanted to, but there would be no blessing from this quarter. As for the idea of discussing the situation with Dave’s landlady – Enid would sooner eat worms on toast.

  She went to sit at the window, taking her usual commanding role in the village. And that was another thing: Philly Gallagher was going around inventing FADS, which was short for St Faith’s Amateur Dramatic Society, but with the word ‘saint’ left out. Dave had joined. Enid tried to picture him as the hero in something Shakespearean, but she failed to manage it. They’d keep him behind the scenes where he could do least damage. If they had any sense, that was. She sniffed. Catholicism and sense didn’t belong in the same sentence.

  Lily Latimer was still rushing back and forth across the road at least once a day. She’d bought the priest’s house, so her common sense wasn’t up to the mark. A great rambling place like that for just one person? Daft. Perhaps her friend and the kiddy would move in with her, though it was widely believed that Babs meant to stay in the flat above the florist’s shop. Even with three potential occupants, the house would be empty.

  Babs had started going out with a man. She’d been half an hour in Lancashire, and she was already on the make. The child was blonde, which fact proved that some people had good luck, as her mother was a redhead and redheads weren’t everyone’s cup of arsenic. God alone knew who the father was . . .

  Enid shifted uncomfortably in the chair. Her own son had called her a whore, and after all she’d done for him. There’d be no stupid shop without her, no safety net for her well-read but ill-qualified son. He knew she wouldn’t sell; he knew she needed the income. He knew other things, too. Yes, she’d had male friends, yes, some of them had been generous with their money, but what had the alternative been? Give him up for adoption and work full time? Enid had been a martyr to that kid, and this was how he repaid her generosity.

  It was true that she was unable to name his father, because she had enjoyed the company of several grateful friends at the time of his conception, but she had not been a prostitute. Prostitutes did it every night, sometimes during the days as well. They were dirty and careless, often had teeth missing and were forced to sell themselves cheaply. She had brought her friends home and had never worked the streets.

  A whore, indeed. What did he know about it? He was probably still a virgin, with no idea about life. Oh yes, he’d be back. But did she want him back? Could she stand the sight of his face etched so deeply with patience while he dealt with her needs? Did she need the company of a man who was wading through War and Peace for the second or third time? He believed himself to be a cut above his own mother, but he certainly wasn’t. Had he been half a man, he would have done something about his appearance long before now.

  The door flew inward to reveal a breathless Mary Turnbull. ‘Enid,’ gasped the newcomer.

  ‘What? Get yourself in, woman. Are you ill?’

  The grey head shook. ‘No, love, I’m all right. But Sally Byrne isn’t.’

  Enid’s ears pricked up. ‘Why? What’s up with her? Isn’t she the one who does hands, feet and whoops-a-daisies in the hairdressers’?’

  ‘Aye.’ Mary was still struggling to regain a degree of composure. She wasn’t completely sure about the ‘whoops-a-daisies’, but she had a vague idea that it might be a euphemism for bikini waxing. ‘Pregnant.’

  ‘And?’ The pregnancy of an unwed woman was normal in the twenty-first century; had been unremarkable for years.

  ‘The dad is the one they call Mo. Maurice Jones.’

  ‘Eh?’

  Mary sat down. ‘I’ve got some yellow fish and eggs for our dinner. Nice bit of haddock with a poached egg—’

  ‘Never mind that. Isn’t he queer?’

  Mary shrugged her shoulders. ‘Hard to tell these days. Some of them swing both ways, some are what they call gay, but they still have babies.’

  Enid had read about this kind of carry-on in the newspapers. ‘Should be ashamed,’ she pronounced.

  Mary said nothing. She’d heard something of Enid’s past, so she had to be careful not to go too far.

  ‘They use like a syringe thingy, don’t they?’ Enid went on. ‘I suppose they look at photos of naked men, then bingo – here come the kids. They must put it in a cup or something like—’

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ said Mary. ‘Or I’ll never be able to have coffee in that place again when I go to get my hair done. Anyway, there’s more to it. Pin your lug’oles back, kid.’ She went on to tell the full
tale. ‘You see,’ she concluded, ‘with you being sat up here like this, you see it all, but you hear nowt. Time you had another go at being outside, love. I’ll help you if you like.’

  ‘I’m all right where I am, ta.’ Still, perhaps Mary had a point.

  ‘There’s more,’ continued Enid’s new companion. ‘That florist.’

  ‘Oh aye? Her with the pretty face that manages to look like a smacked bum?’

  ‘That’s the one. Buying St Faith’s presbytery—’

  ‘I knew that.’

  Mary smiled knowingly. ‘Yes, but I bet you never knew that Father Walsh will be living there and all.’

  Enid’s jaw dropped. ‘With her?’

  ‘Yup. He’s got a church house in one of the other villages, but he’ll be handy for St Faith’s when he needs to be if he sleeps here part of the week. Now.’ She looked from side to side as if half expecting to be overheard by some invisible presence. ‘I heard Valda talking to our Tom. She said the priest looks at Lily Latimer in a funny way.’

  ‘Funny? What sort of funny?’

  ‘Not funny ha-ha for a kick-off. More like funny isn’t-she-gorgeous. And she gives him free altar flowers. And they sit talking in the back garden for hours on end. And he’s going very easy on penances. If you go to confession, he’ll give you five Hail Marys, not a sign of an Our Father. You could go in and say you’d set fire to the village, but you’d get just the same penance. He’s not listening.’

  That had been a lot of ands. ‘How do you know?’

  Mary snorted. ‘Not first-hand, that’s for sure. I’ve not been near since 1992, but I know folk who do go. Like my daughter-in-law.’

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  The visitor snorted again. ‘Pretty young woman, handsome young man. He might be a priest, but he’s still human. They often had live-in housekeepers in the old days, but they were always ancient and ugly. She’s not old, is she?’