Philly nodded, and a watery smile appeared on her lips. ‘I’m stronger now.’ She didn’t know why she was suddenly confident, though she nursed a suspicion that her new status owed something to the fact that she now considered herself a complete woman. ‘We won’t be here tomorrow.’
‘I know.’
‘So I’m going to fetch Valda now.’ Philly raised her hand. ‘She won’t be in bed yet. The meeting finished only just over half an hour ago. Don’t try to stop me, because I’ve made up my mind.’ She left an open-mouthed Mary with a cup of tea and no company except for Skippy, who was begging for food again.
Until Dave came down. When she saw her master, the dog laid herself across the hearth rug. There were no biscuits anyway, so she might as well pretend to be obedient.
‘Where’s Philly gone?’ Dave asked.
‘For Valda.’
‘That’s the ticket. I’ll get myself some cocoa.’ He went into the kitchen.
Before he returned with his drink, Philly and Valda arrived. The latter approached her mother-in-law without any hesitation. ‘You’re coming home,’ she said. ‘I know we haven’t always got along, but we’re going to – and that’s a threat, madam. Your son loves you and wants to look after you. When we’ve finished the extension, you’ll share our kitchen, but you’ll have your own bedsit and bathroom. You’ll be able to bring friends home to your own part of the house, and the kids won’t come into your bit unless you say so.’
Mary burst into tears. She didn’t deserve it. She’d been a bad mother, too possessive, and she’d been horrible to Valda. These statements emerged crippled by tears.
‘Oh, shut up,’ Valda said. ‘You’re coming back with me, and that’s an end to it. If you start being difficult, we’ll lock you in the shed with a crossword and a pot of tea. Every mother thinks no woman is good enough for her son. God alone knows what I’ll be like when my kids start bringing folk home. I’ll be on to Babs Cookson’s policeman to ask if any of them have criminal records. Just get back to our house and stop whingeing.’
‘What now?’ Philly asked when she and Dave were alone.
Dave raised his shoulders and spread out his hands. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never known what to do about a mother who switched from prostitute to saint as soon as her looks went. Not a Catholic saint, mind. She’d have to be a Methodist one.’
‘Are there any? I think most saints are Catholic, created by a pope.’
Dave was suddenly deep in thought. ‘The problem is, we have an ageing diabetic who needs help. Everybody’s sick to the back teeth with her, but the fact remains that I’m her son. As she has alienated just about everyone within a ten-mile radius, who’s going to want to help her?’
Philly swallowed hard. ‘I’ll do it. You’ll do it. We’ll do it together.’
‘But what—’
‘Never mind that what-ing and iffing. It has to be done. Since . . . since you and I got together, I’ve changed. I can do the water-off-a-duck’s-back thing. She’ll not frighten me. Now, if she’s ill while we’re at the shop, she can ring a bell – get an electric one fitted. If we’re at home, it’s only a couple of minutes away, and she has a phone.’
Relief made him smile. ‘Thanks, Philly.’
‘You’re welcome. Now, off to bed with you. I’ve never been to Birmingham before. What shall I wear?’
‘Clothes?’
‘Ha-ha.’
‘All right. Clogs and shawl, then they’ll know where we come from . . .’
Eve Boswell was in her element. Rose Cottage was theirs, though the mortgage was considerable – and she was going to have a party before moving in. She had invited so many people that caterers were involved, and there would be no furniture to speak of until after the celebration. She’d no intention of filling the house with nice stuff just for people to abuse it while drunk.
‘Where will they all sit?’ Chas asked.
‘A sensible question for once,’ Eve said. ‘They can bring deckchairs, garden seats, tea chests, bean bags – three-piece suites – I don’t care. They’re not messing it up with booze and food after I’ve decorated and furnished. And it’s a massive garden. If the weather holds, I might let you loose with a bit of charcoal and a packet of sausages. Tomato sauce, too, if you behave.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ was the enthusiastic reply. Chas wasn’t keen on the garden. He called it the Devil’s Jungle, and had been overheard on many occasions stating his determination that he wasn’t going out there alone, as there might be tigers and other large beasts secreted within its depths. Whenever gardening was mentioned, he said he wanted a guide, a gun, a compass and a tent.
As far as the inside of the house was concerned, Chas quite liked the oak beams, though he expressed a desire to skim over the rough plasterwork. He survived the ensuing barrage from his wife, who accused him of planning quite deliberately to be obtuse, ignorant and downright daft, though he knew she could tell from his face that he understood the value of Rose Cottage’s original features. ‘Can we have some proper glass in the windows? The world out there’s distorted,’ was another cause for argument, so he stopped teasing her, because Eve had a swarm of bees in her bonnet when it came to history and conservation.
‘That glass was hand-made in a sweatshop hundreds of years ago, probably by children.’
‘No,’ he contradicted her. ‘The kids were all up chimneys, weren’t they?’ However, if he heard her yelling once more, ‘It’s seventeenth century, you soft lad,’ he might well get a headache, so he tried not to mention draughts, bumpy walls, uneven floors and doors that didn’t quite fill the gaps for which they had been constructed.
The party was to be a double celebration, because the engagement of Philomena Gallagher and Dave Barker was to be announced. Dave’s mother had been invited. She had neither accepted nor declined, but no one expected her to turn up. ‘She’d put the best of us off our vols-au-vent, anyway,’ said Derek.
Derek, who had taken a liking to Rose Cottage, had changed his mind about remaining in the flat over the shop, to the consternation of his father, as Chas had wanted Derek to keep an eye on things at number one. Now he would have to make do with Paul Smith, the hairdresser who had gone mobile in a big purple van. Nobody seemed to like Paul, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Chas was desperate, as was Paul, so that was an end of the matter. The importation of illicit goods for special customers might well have to cease.
The trees nearest the house were decked out in fairy lights of many colours. As the weather held, food was spread on trestle tables on a paved area outside the dining room. Philly, who had been a great help, fussed about with various covers in an effort to keep insects away. She overused her left hand, smiling when the half-carat diamond reflected light from the decorated trees.
Dave arrived by her side. ‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Spitting bile, as usual. Going on about Valda swapping sex for clothes. And that’s coming from somebody who bartered with her body until I was about ten years old. She’s got this wonderfully selective memory. Her life started the day she put on a dowdy coat and walked down to the Methodist chapel. Everything before that never happened. I think she’s had her hard drive surgically removed.’
Philly shook her head. ‘She’s not coming.’ It was not a question.
‘No. And when I explained to her that Tommy and Valda had always wanted a big family, and that he buys her an outfit once her pregnancy’s confirmed, she shut down. She didn’t shut up, though. Wanted the price of your ring and to know had we bought anything else. When I told her about the matching wedding ring, she went a funny colour. But at least poor Valda got a rest for a while.’
Philly stopped messing about with food for a few minutes. ‘I think you should stay away for a week or so. Let me deal with her.’
Dave stared blankly at his fiancée for a few seconds. ‘She’ll eat you alive. You know how rotten she was with you when you took up her elevenses. Philly, you’re too nice for her.’
&nb
sp; She smiled. ‘Am I? Watch this space, David. Just you wait. She’s seventy, and I’m a stripling of only forty-three. Anyway, I’m different now.’
It was his turn to grin. ‘I wonder why?’
People began to arrive in serious numbers, many in possession of fold-away chairs, large cushions, stools and, of course, the obligatory bottle. As most of the booze had been bought from Chas’s shop, he decided to enjoy himself after all. Although he wasn’t exactly built to specification for al fresco parties, he threw himself into the event quite literally, and was dragged out of a small pond by villagers who were finding the occasion every bit as hilarious as they had expected. Scousers were guaranteed to be amusing, and Chas was certainly up to standard.
He stood there dripping. When the laughter faded, Eve approached him with a small paper napkin. ‘Dry yourself,’ she ordered as she handed him the flimsy item. ‘And don’t forget behind your ears, you big wet nelly.’
‘What’s a wet nelly?’ Valda asked.
‘Him,’ replied Eve. ‘It’s also yesterday’s cake gone stale. It sits in the shop window, only drenched in syrup to jazz it up a bit. You serve it with custard.’ She cast a disdainful eye over her beloved husband. ‘Yes. Looks a lot like that,’ she said before stepping away to see to her guests.
Chas walked home to change his clothes. He squelched across the road and almost collided with Babs Cookson and her policeman boyfriend. ‘Oh. Hiya,’ he managed. ‘I fell in the pond.’
‘We’d never have guessed, would we, Pete?’
‘I’d have to look at the evidence and get forensics on to it.’
Chas was allergic to policemen, so he walked on. Babs shouted, ‘Is Lily there yet?’
‘No.’
Pete and Babs stopped at the gate to Rose Cottage. ‘I’m going to have a look at her,’ Babs announced. ‘Sorry, but I need to know if she’s OK.’
‘What if she’s not ready? What if she doesn’t want to be in a crowd? Babs, think of what she’s been through. People take different lengths of time to recover.’
‘Wait there. I know what I’m doing.’ The determined little woman marched off past the church to Lily’s house. At the front door, she paused and waited for a while. There were voices coming from within, and she didn’t know whether to listen or make a hasty retreat. The voices became clearer. ‘You can’t hide in here.’ It was the priest.
‘Mike, leave me alone. I’ll come along when I’m ready.’
There followed a long pause during which Babs pinned her ear against the letter box.
‘You have to talk to me.’ The man’s voice rose in pitch. ‘Whatever has happened to you, unburden yourself and leave it all in the past where it belongs. Allow this village to keep you safe. It’s that kind of place – we’ll help you.’
The door was not locked. Babs walked into the house, stood with hands on hips in front of Father Walsh, and gave him both barrels. ‘Listen, you,’ she said, her colour heightening. ‘I don’t care who you are – priest, rabbi, vicar or some lunatic sitting in a nappy on top of a hill until he dies. Leave her alone. You’ve no idea what she’s been through, no knowledge of what she suffered. Pete’s a cop, and he knows enough to leave it be. If she wants to come to the party, she’ll come. It’s nothing to do with you, so bugger off.’
He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and buggered off as ordered.
Lily sank into a chair. ‘Babs, you shouldn’t have done that.’
‘Why? Have you not had enough browbeating from a bloke who thought he knew better than the rest? Just tell him to sod off, Lee. Pick up speed when you’re ready. Stay in, or go out when you want to, not when someone pushes you.’
‘It’s just—’
‘It’s just in case somebody who saw you on TV recognizes you. You don’t do crowds. If you don’t do crowds, stay where you are. And there’s the vet and Derek sniffing after you, so make up your own mind. Don’t be listening to him just because he sometimes wears his shirt collar back to front.’
Lily shook her head. At the ripe old age of twenty-seven, Babs sometimes managed to sound like somebody’s grandmother. She was wise and silly at the same time, was a good friend in spite of the inauspicious way in which the two of them had met. ‘He’s a nice man, Babs. He means well.’
Babs threw herself onto a stool. ‘They’re all after you, missus – even the priest. There’s that Derek – far too young—’
‘Four years,’ said Lily. ‘I’m twenty-eight, he’s twenty-four—’
‘A middle-aged vet, that man who delivers flowers, the milkman, the postman, even the priest.’ She shook her head in mock-despair. ‘Look, stay here if you want to. I’ll get back to Pete.’ She waited for a few beats of time to pass. ‘I’ll stop here with you if you want, my lover.’
Lily bowed her head and sighed. ‘I’m tired, Babs. I’ve been tired ever since it happened, and I’m sick of trying to grow eyes in the back of my head.’ She groaned softly. ‘They’ve moved him to Walton jail in Liverpool.’
‘Where Charlie Bronson threw all the tiles off the roof?’
‘I don’t know. Probably.’ Lily stood up. ‘Only forty-odd miles away. Sometimes, I think I can hear him breathing in the next room. His asthma often gave him away.’
‘And the cops know you’re here?’
Lily nodded.
‘But they still . . . Where’s the sense? Look what you’ve given up, from a job that paid a fortune to your beautiful hair. When will they learn? I’ll talk to Pete about this. Something’s got to be done.’
‘No.’ There was vehemence in Lily’s tone. ‘Look, I trust Pete and I know you do, but who will he talk to? Leave it, Babs. Promise me you’ll do nothing. Pete can’t change this – he can only make it worse by inadvertently talking to a bent cop or probation officer. Silence is best.’
Babs ran a hand through a tangle of dark auburn curls. After all their efforts to leave the past behind, it was following them. Would they have to move again?
Lily answered the unspoken question. ‘No more running. We stay, and we keep quiet. All right?’
Babs nodded. ‘It’s Cassie I worry about.’
‘Me too.’
‘Are you coming to this party or not? He’s not even drunk yet, but Chas Boswell’s already managed to baptize himself in that ornamental pond. Lily, if you’re scared, I understand. But you run a shop. People come and go in there all week, and there’s easily as much danger of you getting recognized while you’re behind the counter as there is at a party. A party’s just all the customers coming at the same time and refusing to form an orderly queue.’
‘He’ll be there.’
‘Who?’
‘Mike. He won’t let me call him Father. I can’t look at him. It’s as if I owe him a confession, a list of sins. He looks straight through me.’
Babs tutted her impatience. ‘He’s a man, babe. You are still one extraordinarily good-looking woman. Remember that chap from the telly? He was going to leave his job, his wife, his kids and his brain behind just to sit at your feet. And now that the light’s started to come back in your eyes, you’re giving out signals without knowing it. Pete reckons you should be in Hollywood.’
Lily shook her head. ‘If I went to California, he’d find me, or get someone else to do it for him.’
‘We’re not talking about Father Wotsisname or Pete now?’
‘Of course not. Babs, Clive’s got money hidden at his mother’s house. He’s got friends on the outside. The planet ain’t big enough.’
Babs sat for a while, then excused herself to go off and find Pete. Her babysitter, a young girl from a nearby estate, had to be home by midnight, so Babs would need to leave the celebrations relatively early. And Pete didn’t deserve to be left standing for too long.
Lily stared into an empty grate. Although she was enjoying doing the work on Hope House, she could never be completely happy while Clive Chalmers lived. Everything had been spoilt or killed by him, the man in whom she had pla
ced all trust. Forty miles away, he would be on a landing or a wing with men who, like him, had attacked the most vulnerable members of society. His companions, with whom he might never mix, would be paedophiles, child-killers and rapists. If he was still on 43, that was. Should he be moved to an ordinary wing, he’d be meeting all kinds of people who— No. She mustn’t think about him employing someone to make matters worse. Lily sighed. Wormwood Scrubs had seemed far enough away, but it hadn’t been. Mars might have been OK, but only just.
Why had they moved him, though? And why up here? His mother, who had been completely shocked and incredulous when he had been arrested, would have difficulty travelling to see him, and that was a shame, because she was a nice woman. Perhaps that was the reason; perhaps the authorities were moving him to a place where he would have few contacts.
But she knew him. There was an evil streak in him, broad as a motorway, complicated as Spaghetti Junction, and he would find her. It would be by proxy, because it would have to be, but there was no real hiding place.
It was nine o’clock. She checked her make-up to be sure that her mascara hadn’t taken a trip down her cheeks, dragged a comb through her blonde, carefully streaked hair, and walked down the hall. In spite of all she was going through, she smiled when she remembered Maurice Jones and the advice he had given. ‘Don’t be all blonde, sweetheart. Let’s throw in some low-lights. After all, we need to be convincing, don’t we?’
What had he meant by that, she wondered as she locked her front door. It didn’t matter, because Maurice was a gentleman, which was more than could be said for his ex-partner. Paul was doing his best to pull the rug from under the feet of Mo and Sally by undercutting them, by trying to blacken Mo’s name, by working twelve hours a day. Lily knew how it felt when the ground became unsteady, when a person to whom one had been close suddenly turned into a monster.
She reached Rose Cottage, took a deep breath, then walked round to the back of the house. It was chaos. Chas was playing the mouth organ very badly, while Derek, who had probably been commandeered against his better judgement, accompanied his father on the spoons. Eve, having taken rather a large amount of Chardonnay, could not find the right notes on her accordion. The resulting noise had sent most of the party fleeing to the far end of the garden. Only the stalwarts and the tone deaf had the guts to remain and face this poor excuse for music.
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