The Reading Room

by Ruth Hamilton

  The little Liverpool woman placed a hand on Lily’s arm. ‘The segregated can be dealt with – remember the Yorkshire Ripper lost an eye? What you went through, babe, was just beyond anything normal. He should be bloody well shot. I’m supposed to be a good Catholic, but I’d kill him as soon as look at him. Christ, I’m angry.’

  Lily nodded. ‘As was I. I’m still angry, I suppose. For a while, the anger turned inward, because I should have got away before the situation became so horrible. The depression was awful.’

  ‘Must have been, love. Look, I won’t say a word.’

  Lily smiled. ‘You can tell Chas, because I know this is too big a thing to keep inside. You’re so close to him, and I’d rather he knew what’s affecting your mood. I know it must hurt, because we’ve become good friends.’

  ‘We have,’ said Eve emphatically.

  ‘But don’t tell Derek. It’s not a matter of trust, it’s that I can’t stand to be pitied. Pity is painful to receive.’

  Eve lost interest in interior decor. She pushed away the files and drank her cooling tea. ‘Lily?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You frightened?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s ways,’ Eve said. ‘Say the word, and I’ll do my best to get him dealt with. You wouldn’t be afraid if he got killed.’

  Lily nodded thoughtfully. ‘The difference between me and Chalmers is that I can’t commit murder. I couldn’t help anyone else do it, either. Leave it, Eve. Tell Chas the same. And if your parish priest asks about me, say nothing.’

  ‘He’s taken a shine to you, hasn’t he?’ Eve noticed a slight flush on Lily’s cheeks after the words had been delivered.

  ‘He’s a friend, Eve.’

  Eve, having been raised in a city full of life, bustle, gossip and interesting characters, was astute when it came to instinct. Father Walsh had a way of looking at Lily that gave him away. Sometimes, he didn’t look at her. Those were the occasions on which he thoroughly betrayed himself, because he could not bear to expose his true feelings. So. Eve cleared her throat. So it looked as if Madam here had gone from frying pan to fire. No, he wasn’t a fire, he was just a bloke in a dog collar. But was Lily moving from one impossible situation into another? ‘Lily?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you told him nothing?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Our parish priest, that’s who. I’m a good judge of character, love. You have to be when you live among vagabonds like my Chas’s lot. And there’s something.’

  Lily shrugged. ‘Eve, no way.’

  ‘What do you mean by no way? Did you never see that programme about the Irish priest who had a kid by his housekeeper?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The priest’s dead, the housekeeper’s dead, and the kid’s out in the cold, because nobody wants him. His dad was forever on The Late Show about contraception and should priests marry – he was famous. He was there when the Pope arrived in Ireland, there when somebody wanted him to sing. And all the time, this bloke the Irish worshipped was having his leg over. They do have relationships.’

  ‘Not in my house.’

  Something in Lily’s tone made her visitor quiet. There was still an air of authority about her, a small remnant left behind by the woman who had chased decorators across the television screen, who had put together impossible marriages of colour and made them work, who had changed the nation’s ideas on home decor. ‘Hey, Lily?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you remember the chap who reckoned to know everything about ergonomic furniture?’

  Lily smiled. ‘God, yes – that pompous prat.’

  ‘And you told him his 1950s retro chair was good for hitting him on the head with?’

  ‘And he walked off the set?’ Lily giggled. ‘You meet some fools in that game, Eve. I mean, I’m all for retro stuff – we should mark every development in architecture and furniture by keeping or imitating great examples. But I wasn’t having a lump of red plastic in a room filled with French pieces.’

  Eve was laughing. ‘And you said about bringing the garden into the house, so they played a trick on you.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Ten rolls of turf carpeting a conservatory – that was funny.’

  ‘You miss it. You miss the tricks they played most of all.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘I do.’

  Eve gazed at her new-found friend. ‘You’d still have all that if it wasn’t for him.’

  ‘I’d have a lot more,’ Lily said. ‘I’d have everything.’

  Eve burst into tears again. She was determined to go to the central library and read the newspapers on microfiche. The framework was still in her mind, but she’d forgotten some of the details and she needed to know. To ask Lily to fill in the blanks would be cruel, so— ‘What are they for?’ She fixed her eyes on two items Lily had just placed on the table in front of her.

  Lily sat down. ‘If you’re going all watery, you can peel my onions.’

  Sometimes, thought Eve, Leanne Chalmers came back. She peeled the onions.

  Sergeant Peter Haywood sat in his car outside the flower shop. Lily was tidying up in preparation for closing, while Babs and Cassie had gone upstairs to the flat. Peter had seen the mess at the back of Pour Les Dames and was waiting now for the alleged perpetrator to come home in his purple van. Babs’s boss didn’t want to go to court. His wife was pregnant, and he was worried about how far Paul Smith was prepared to go in his search for revenge.

  Pete sucked on a Polo mint. He didn’t like being involved at this level, as he believed that matters should be dealt with in a proper fashion – forensics, statements, court – but he would do just about anything for Babs. She was a character. She pulled no punches, was humorous, affectionate and devoted to her daughter, so Pete was about to break his own mould, and that worried the policeman in him.

  The beautician arrived eventually. His purple van swung left behind the row of shops, presumably to be stored in the alarmed garage at the rear of the off-licence. Pete waited for five minutes, then locked up his car and went to ring the bell at the back of number one. The garage was closed, so Paul Smith was probably inside the flat.

  The door to the private stairs was flung open, and Paul presented himself. He carried a rolling pin, and was clearly ready to do battle with the man whose premises he had burgled the night before. ‘Oh.’ The weapon was suddenly hidden behind his back. ‘Aren’t you . . . ?’

  ‘I’m Sergeant Peter Haywood, Greater Manchester Police.’

  Paul tried and failed to produce a convincing smile. ‘No uniform?’

  ‘Not today. I thought you’d rather I did this in mufti. We need to talk. May I come in?’

  Paul led the way up to the flat. He was still living out of boxes and bags, and he was forced to move a few items so that his visitor could sit. ‘Well?’

  Pete cleared his throat. ‘There was a break-in at the hairdresser’s,’ he said. ‘Someone destroyed everything Sally Jones needs to do her job. They know it was your way of punishing Mo.’

  Paul gulped audibly. ‘They know wrong, then, because it wasn’t me. You’ve no right to go about maligning—’

  ‘Who were you expecting just now?’ Pete asked. ‘You seemed to be looking for trouble with your rolling pin – what was all that about? I can’t see any pastry hanging about waiting to be rolled. Were you expecting Maurice Jones to come round and give you a good hiding for upsetting his pregnant wife? He won’t descend to that level, mate. So. Come on – I’m waiting. Why answer the door with a rolling pin in your hand?’

  ‘Well – I just thought—’

  ‘You just thought you’d arm yourself for the fun of it? Now, listen to me. I’m doing you a favour by volunteering to come here. My colleagues have been to the shop,’ he lied, ‘and they found prints. Forensic evidence seldom lies.’

  ‘I was in and out of there every day for months on end—’

  ‘Fresh prints. Where the window was forced.’

  Paul sco
ffed. ‘Rubbish, because I was wear . . .’ His voice died.

  ‘Wearing gloves?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t there. I didn’t do it.’

  The large policeman leaned back in his chair. ‘If this comes to court, you’d be better pleading guilty. If you say not guilty and are found guilty, it could mean a custodial sentence.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what Maurice wants is reassurance that you won’t do anything like this again. If you give me that reassurance, there is a possibility that charges may not be brought.’

  Paul Smith was fed up to the back teeth. Even when Maurice had married that girl, Paul had still clung to the hope that the man would appreciate that Paul loved him more than any woman possibly could. Then, when Mo had stood by Sally, Paul’s fairy tale had fallen apart at the seams.

  Happy ending? The van had cost an arm and a leg, beauty equipment wasn’t cheap these days, and the circumstances in which he worked were often far from ideal. Doing a set of acrylic nails took an hour, and he dared not charge more than twenty-five quid. Then there was the petrol—

  ‘Well?’ Pete was losing patience.

  ‘All right.’

  A corner of Pete’s mind felt sorry for the lad. He was clearly gay, was jealous of Sally and Mo, and was out on his ear. He would probably have loved to be in the pantomime, too. ‘Why don’t you go to the next FADS meeting? Mo isn’t the type to bear a grudge, and that daft priest is having to play the other ugly sister. You and Mo could do your drag act. Between the two of you, you might well turn that panto into something the village would never forget.’

  Paul shrugged. He and Mo could have done ‘Big Spender’. And ‘Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend’. They’d have stolen the show between them.

  ‘Swallow your pride, lad. Pride’s worth nowt a pound. You’ll meet somebody soon enough. And Babs can only do part time at Pour Les Dames. You could do the other part and still have your own customers for Impressions.’

  Paul eyed his supposed adversary. ‘I’m not crawling.’

  ‘No. But I can get Mo to come and visit you.’

  ‘After . . . after what’s happened?’

  Pete shrugged. ‘What do you have to lose apart from stubborn pride, Paul? The job you’re doing isn’t easy.’

  ‘No.’ The beautician pictured himself at some old lady’s kitchen sink, the only rinsing implement available a Pyrex jug, the only certainty to hand the knowledge that he was already half an hour late for his next client. ‘I work in difficult conditions.’ The word impossible would have been nearer the mark.

  Pete thought for a moment. ‘How do you feel about elderly folk?’

  The younger man smiled. ‘They make me laugh and I enjoy helping them feel good. And I enjoy their stories and their memories. But it’s difficult. They tend not to have the right facilities.’

  ‘It would be different under contract to an old people’s home with a proper room for hairdressing.’

  ‘It would.’

  ‘Leave it with me. I have a relative involved in caring for the aged. And I’m going to send Mo to see you.’ The policeman smiled. ‘I know what it’s like to be thwarted in love, mate. We all feel pain, gay or hetero.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Listen. It’s one thing being a gay hairdresser – imagine what a homosexual cop has to face. Even in this age of protected minorities and positive discrimination, comments are made. Cheer up and stop hurting folk. At the end of the line, it’s yourself that gets damaged.’

  When Pete had left, Paul stood at the window and looked out. Dave and Philly were running across the road again. They’d been knocking at Lily Latimer’s door for a while. He wondered where the fire was, before going to grill a few fish fingers and warm a can of beans.

  He shouldn’t have done it. Mo would never love him. Even if the marriage broke down, Mo would be looking for female company. ‘The bloody wedding nearly killed me,’ he told the grill pan. ‘Best man? I was a spare part.’ To Maurice, he would never be more than another well-trained hair stylist, a partner on stage, a bloke who could dance in five-inch heels and a strappy frock. The dream had never been more than that, just a fantasy, one-sided and doomed to die.

  The fish fingers were overdone, while the baked beans were cool. In number seven, he, Sally and Mo had shared the cooking. Yes, there had been some strange meals, but there had been company and laughter and fun. And the greatest of those had been fun. ‘Right,’ he told the mess on his plate. ‘Canal Street, here I come.’

  Lily brought them into the house. They had been back and forth all day like a pair of ping-pong balls involved in a bizarre doubles match, twin spheres under pressure, their consciences acting as the bats that drove them over the net with a frequency that had become monotonous. ‘Sit,’ she ordered.

  They sat on a sofa, clutching each other’s hand. ‘Are you sure he’s in Eagleton tonight, Lily?’ Dave asked. ‘Only she’s getting herself in a right state here. I mean, I don’t know what he can do to hurry things up, because we’re a mixed marriage and there are things—’

  ‘Protocols,’ interposed Philly. ‘But I have to tell him.’

  ‘She has to tell him,’ said Dave.

  Lily had prepared a few nibbles, because she knew the couple would be back. She set these offerings and a pot of coffee on a low table in front of the sofa. ‘Help yourselves. Nobody refuses coffee out of my Susie Cooper original pot. I save this for special people.’

  ‘All matching,’ remarked Philly. ‘And a different colour inside each cup. Where is he?’ The question was added seamlessly to the previous remark.

  ‘Funeral in Edgworth,’ replied Lily. ‘Huge Irish family. The relatives have invaded, so it’ll probably go on until quite late. But you can wait.’ God forbid that she should be the one to send them home to a sleepless and worried night. ‘I don’t mind – honestly. But I want to say that you’re lucky. Some people try for years and never have a child.’

  ‘Just the once for us.’ Dave’s cheeks were stained with embarrassment. ‘But we have to get married, Lily. And it has to be in the Catholic church, otherwise it doesn’t count.’

  ‘Doesn’t count,’ Philly echoed.

  Lily covered a smile and left the room. They were already behaving like a long-married couple, one repeating what the other said, each aware of the other’s ways, both open, simple in the best sense of the word, and very honest. Where was he? She’d waited until the service would have been over then phoned him on his mobile, had left a message that the business in hand was not urgent, though it was important.

  She was learning that Mike was not just a priest. He was a man who liked people, who loved a good laugh, who was at his best in company. If what she had heard about Irish wakes was true, the event he was attending might well go on until about Thursday. Or did they have the wake before the burial? Wasn’t there something about having the deceased present in an open coffin? Lily shivered. The idea of a corpse being guest of honour was hardly palatable.

  She used her phone again. He was sorry that he could not take her call at the moment, but if she left a message, he would contact her at the earliest opportunity. ‘Mike,’ she snapped. ‘This is becoming ridiculous. I’ve two people here waiting for you. If this carries on much longer, I’ll get on my broomstick and fly round till I find you.’

  Lily sat in an armchair and thought about Eve. Scousers were supposed to be alert, and Eve had gone a long way towards proving the legend. It was inevitable that she must pass on to Chas all she had learned about Lily, because they shared everything, and Eve’s new knowledge was too burdensome to be kept inside. Lily kept it hidden, and therein lurked the danger. Perhaps she should speak to Dr Clarke about getting some more help. She was managing in the physical sense, but her nerves were beginning to fray slightly.

  They were whispering in the next room. Lily closed her eyes and pictured them clinging together for dear life. It must be wonderful to have someone dependable like Dave. He wasn’t the best-looking
man in the world, but he cared. He would work hard for his wife and child; he would even make sure that his terrible mother would be safe and fed.

  Where was Mike? She felt like the proverbial wife waiting behind the door on a Saturday night, poker in hand, list of questions printed in upper case on the front of her mind. Where have you been? Are you drunk again? Who is she? Why are you never here when I need you?

  Giving up smoking had seemed a good idea at the time, but Lily found herself longing for just one drag on a Superking – low tar, of course. For how much longer could a two-o’clock funeral last? Why wouldn’t he answer his phone? He seldom obeyed orders, was still at odds with the hierarchy about contraception, hadn’t even had his hair cut. He was probably considered to be something of a maverick, but she was glad about the hair. It was the tatty head that made him human, she had decided.

  She closed her eyes and tried to relax. Mr Darcy, with his square chin, fierce eyes and proud expression, had been completely let down by his hair. How could Elizabeth Bennet have taken seriously the supposed coldness of a man whose hair had been that of an unruly child? Mike had Firth hair. No matter what he did with it, the stuff went its own way, and to hell with whatever the world thought. With short hair, Colin Firth wasn’t as pretty. With short hair, Mike would look too . . . ordinary.

  It would soon be ten o’clock. She had an early start tomorrow: flowers to be received at seven, shop to be spick and span by nine, another wedding to organize, contracts to fulfill for shops in Bolton. A grand place called the Last Drop wanted quotes for guest bedrooms, public areas and restaurants that needed fresh blooms arranged and delivered on a regular basis. Even as a florist, she was becoming famous locally.

  Five minutes to ten. Were they building a mausoleum? Had guests been merry enough to fall into the grave with the coffin? Worse still, had Mike been involved in an accident? She shifted in the chair. The thought of him lying in a hospital bed was horrible. The idea of life without him was a killer. Life with him? If she stole a priest from a number of parishes, would she ever be forgiven? He wanted her. She wanted him. For the moment, she needed him to act normally, switch on his bloody phone and re-join the human race. It was OK to cut oneself off from the world during a Requiem, but the service had to have been over hours ago. Even allowing time for burial and ham sandwiches, he should have been back by six at the latest.