Anyway, the solicitor’s clerk, who remains anonymous, traced the money through his employer’s records. She’s a florist in a place called Eagleton, pronounced Eggleton. All her mail goes to the shop, but she doesn’t live there. Seems she bought a house across the road. Calling herself Lily Latimer, bloody daft name.
Taunton and Liverpool are in cahoots. Money’s come from Taunton, but the workers up here will be paid. She has it coming. Right from the start, wherever she went, men’s eyes lit up and followed her every move. What did she do? She went on TV so that more of them could ogle her. Makeover Madness? Lunacy, more like. Even pregnancy didn’t stop her. If anything, she was more beautiful when carrying the kid, though I never fancied her then, did I?
It’ll be soon. I suppose they’ll have someone keeping watch while it happens. Can’t be done in the shop, has to be in the house. Seems she’s doing well enough with her buttercups and daisies. There’ll be men after her, but that won’t last, because she’ll be either dead or disfigured – I hope she’ll be dead. When I know she’s not out there showing herself off, I’ll be OK.
And all I have to do is lie here and wait . . .
Nine
Mike’s idea of a romantic evening was, at best, hilarious. Lily was beginning to grow used to his sense of adventure, so she was hardly surprised when she found herself in the Canal Street district of Manchester. Here, the gay community lived its life to the full, and Mike was clearly no stranger to the area, since he was on first-name terms with many of the people who sought entertainment in the bars and clubs. ‘They need spiritual guidance just like everyone else,’ he told Lily. ‘And there’s still a lot of prejudice. Apart from all of which, they cook the best food in England, so that’s as good a reason as any to come here. I do enjoy a well-presented meal.’
They finished their tour in a restaurant cum nightclub named Sisters. Their dinner was superb and they were served by cross-dressers. All waitresses were men; all waiters were women; and, on the whole, they were a handsome crowd. A band played, and several people were making use of the dance floor.
‘We’re here for a reason,’ Mike announced as they ate a delicious crème caramel. ‘Mo and Po are performing tonight, and I wanted you to see how good they are. I asked them what they were doing, and it’s quite a mixture. You should know that your hairdressers are a great deal more than simple crimpers. They are stars in the making. As long as Paul hangs on to sense and doesn’t collapse into one of those black holes. He does love Maurice, you know. It’s sad when love is one-sided, but there’s nothing can be done. I always thought they were daft for not telling the truth in the first place.’
‘Right.’
‘The real reason we’re here is because I have decided to go very PC with the panto. It’s time certain social problems were addressed. No more of the same old same-old. It’s time for the revolution.’
‘Oh, yes? Shall I make a banner?’
He smiled benignly and, for a moment or two, looked rather like a priest. ‘Why Cinderella?’ he asked. ‘Every damned fool seems to worry about her with her rags and her sweeping brush and her hard life. What kind of a role model is she for today’s women? The concept of a human female accepting such treatment is positively Victorian. We must move on.’
‘I thought her poverty and ill-treatment were the point of the story. Virtue reaps its own reward and all that jazz.’
He drained his glass and ordered another double orange juice on the rocks. As he was driving, he could not drink wine, but he still liked to display the air of a man living dangerously. He was living dangerously. She was lovely, she was his, and she was definitely forbidden fruit. ‘Cinderella’s got the looks, kid,’ he said. ‘And we all know that a pretty woman has a head start in life. Why the hell did suffragettes bother throwing themselves under horses, chaining themselves to railings and getting force-fed in jail if Cinders is going to carry on unliberated in the hearth every winter? What about her two unfortunate stepsisters? Has no one ever given a thought to their situation?’
‘They’re ugly,’ said Lily.
‘Exactly. Ugly and in the bin just because of unfortunate faces. Now, why should they suffer because they look like the back of a crashed bus? Just picture this. Buttons is a surgeon. OK? All in white, even has to sing through a mask.’
‘I’m trying to imagine that. It’s not easy.’
He motored on. ‘So Salmonella and Pneumonia are as ugly as mortal sin: warts, bottle-bottom spectacles, manky hair, big feet and fat bellies. They’re so hideous that no man will ever give them a second glance – or a first, for that matter. People have dropped dead of heart attacks after looking at these two.’
‘And they’re played by Mo and Po? They’re working together again, so I guess they’ll play together.’
‘Yup.’
Lily leaned forward, as the place was becoming noisy. ‘They’re beautiful men, Maurice and Paul. You’ll never make them ugly.’
‘We can soon change that. I’ll duff them up behind the bike sheds – I was a terrible bully at school, so I know how to break a man’s nose. And we’ll have a makeup box, of course.’
Lily laughed. He was in his element.
‘The Fairy Godmother is on their side, because she’s a Communist and all for the underdog. And believe me, they are definitely dogs. So the uglies get the tickets to the ball – plus a special offer of reduced-rate facelifts as long as they buy four hundred boxes of cornflakes. Oh, and there’s liposuction available at sale prices via the Daily Mail. Fairy Godmother’s also Mafia, therefore she can be bribed, so all that wand-waving will serve to iron out any residual wrinkles after the fat has been hoovered off. You see? I cover every eventuality. Buttons does the plastic surgery, then Salmonella and Pneumonia cop off with a couple of princes and—’
‘Where’s Cinderella?’ she asked through laughter. Could a Communist be a member of the Mafia? Weren’t Mafia folk Catholics? But Lily kept these questions to herself, because Mike was in full flood.
‘Cinders is a theatre nurse. We all know how much surgeons make, so Buttons will do for her. See? It all dovetails together wonderfully. This fairy tale has been waiting to be written.’
Lily thought about it. ‘Buttons?’ she asked.
‘What about him?’
‘I hope he used stitches and staples instead—’
‘Instead of buttons? I am ahead of you, girl. When the ugly sisters first appear, they’ll be ghastly. We’ll need vomit buckets for the first few rows of audience. Then two pretty girls in similar clothes will come out of the wings and meet their bridegrooms once the swellings have died down. Damage from surgery, I mean. A much better story, isn’t it?’
Lily wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter what she said – he would go ahead anyway. Loving him was so easy. He had the imagination of a child and the brains of a professor, so he was a rare creature. On the brink of leaving a career for which he had endured years of training, his main aim in life seemed to be to replace himself, thereby saving the bishop a job. He had a friend returning from Africa, and he would suggest him to the bishop as a suitable candidate to take over the parishes. Mike wasn’t giving up; he was moving on.
‘I’m not an ugly sister any more,’ was his next line. ‘Not a priest, not an ugly sister – there’s no place for me.’
‘You should carry on being a priest.’
‘With a mistress?’
‘Possibly.’
It wasn’t just her. He needed to get out anyway before he exploded, before he lost his patience and took issue with the bishop, the cardinal, even the Pope. If the Church didn’t grow up, it would die in its cradle. Two thousand years was a relatively short lifespan, and there would be no chance of resuscitation once the grass roots had stopped providing oxygen. Places of worship were emptying; people congregated instead at football and concerts, raising their voices to heaven in praise of a team or a pop group. If Catholicism was not prepared to get real, it would cease to exist.
‘You’ve gone quiet
,’ Lily complained.
‘Enjoy. It happens very rarely.’
She studied him. He was an amazing man with excellent looks and a way with people – any people. His charm could probably get him just about anywhere, yet he seemed to have chosen a florist from a small shop in a large village. ‘Mike?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t give up the priesthood for me, will you?’
‘No. You’re just one face on the dice, Lily. There are at least five others, all stamped with a reason for me to quit. Stop worrying. You’re not guilty, whatever the outcome.’
A fanfare ripped through the air and the MC, a very butch girl in top hat and tails, announced Maurice et Paul. The latter was dressed as a very handsome woman. His costume was Spanish and red all the way from patent shoes right up to the scarlet mantilla and comb. A recording of traditional Spanish music was played, and Paul danced as well as any female performer of flamenco. He played the castanets, executed brilliantly the steps made famous by gypsies of Andalucia, and took away the corporate breath of a very large audience.
Maurice emerged with his cape. It was red on one side, gold on the other. Like Paul, he was a true professional, and his body was the perfect vessel from which to pour the passion expressed in a matador’s cloak. ‘Nice bum,’ whispered Lily to Mike.
‘It’ll be a good pantomime,’ was the quiet reply. ‘What a pity he’ll be wearing a skirt. With a backside like that, he’d certainly please the ladies.’
The set ended with a standing ovation, and the pair of triumphant performers left the stage to prepare for their next piece. In the meantime, a small jazz band filled the gap, and Mike ordered coffee. ‘There’s true talent in those two,’ he pronounced. ‘They don’t need me. They don’t need anyone, because they could fill the school hall ten times over. But I’ll write the script.’
‘You’d better. No one else would think of something so original. What’s the title?’
‘Never Mind Cinderella, What About the Rest?’ he suggested.
‘Bad title. Too wordy.’
‘Then you choose one. I didn’t realize I was going to marry my chief critic.’
Several beats of time passed before Lily absorbed what he had just said. Her hand shook when she picked up the coffee cup. It had been like this last time. Clive had made all the decisions, and she had found herself engaged, then married. This man was nothing like Clive, yet the speed at which he travelled still managed to frighten her. Did she want to re-marry? Did she need to? It occurred to her that she might feel safer in an alliance with a priest, as there could never be a marriage while he remained in his post.
‘Lily?’
She looked at him. ‘I may not want to be married,’ she said.
‘Then we shall live in glorious sin. Over the brush, they call it in these parts.’ He knew he shouldn’t have said anything, but it wasn’t the type of statement that could be changed easily into an amusing aside. He wondered whether she understood that she had been a final decider, certainly not a catalyst or a vehicle to transport him out of the clergy. ‘Lily, it doesn’t matter what we do afterwards.’ He paused. ‘That’s not true, because I’d like to marry you. But I was going to quit anyway. Although I’ve received absolution from my father confessors, the way I treat my parishioners is not in line with many of the edicts emerging from Rome. I am not forgivable.’
‘You are,’ she replied. ‘And that’s the problem – my problem. But you must realize that I have fallen head over heels in the past and the relationship didn’t work out. In fact, it was damaging. I’ve known you just a few weeks—’
‘A couple of months.’
‘All right, a couple of months. And you’re wonderful. You make me laugh, you’re clever and handsome and very beguiling. It all terrifies me. Speed frightens me, Mike.’
‘Then I’ll slow down.’
A smile played on her lips. Slow down? He had several speeds, and the lowest was overdrive, while the fastest broke the sound barrier. Mike didn’t know how to go slowly, except in a car. Strangely, his quickness was one of the main factors that contributed to his charm. He had not allowed adulthood to contaminate the inner child, had never permitted sense to interfere with his goals. Yet he remained one of the cleverest people she had met in her life. And oh, how tempted she was!
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘It’s OK. As long as you don’t take me for granted, Mike. Remember, I’ve been through . . . hell.’
‘How can I remember what you won’t tell me?’
‘I’ll tell you when I’m ready.’
The MC was back.
This time, Mo and Po had a bash at the overdone piece ‘I Will Survive’. But this was survival with a difference, because it ended with a punch-up that involved flying wigs and torn dresses out of which false breasts fell to litter the small stage. The MC rang a bell, the contestants retired to their corners, seconds appeared, gum shields were inserted, and boxing gloves entered the fray. As did towels when both were counted out. At the end, Mo and Po were carried off on a pair of stretchers, lifeless hands trailing on the boards.
Lily found herself weeping with laughter. She stood with the rest of the audience to salute a performance in which timing had been perfect, singing excellent until punches had landed, and costumes glorious. It was no wonder that they were going up for Britain’s Got Talent. They had the special magic born of true individuality.
‘Shall we go?’ Mike asked.
‘All right.’ She was feeling tired. This was her first real night out since she had recovered, and the exhaustion she experienced was almost total. Something called ME had been mentioned after a blood test, but she had ignored it. No way was her working life going to finish when she was not yet thirty. In Lily’s opinion, sixty was rather young for retirement.
He drove slowly, and that was another point in his favour. And he didn’t return to Eagleton right away, because he wanted to show Lily more of the beauty that belonged to Lancashire. They went up hills and down dales, past remote farms and tiny hamlets, while the route became steeper. ‘This is the way to the Pennines,’ he said. ‘The backbone of England. It’s stunning on this side, but we must go to Yorkshire at some stage, because West Yorkshire is nothing short of magnificent.’ Even in near-darkness, the landscape was amazing.
After another drive, they landed at the foot of Rivington Pike, where Mike delivered a lecture on history. This was not the Sermon on the Mount, he explained; this was the sermon before the mount was climbed. The pike, he told her, was twelve hundred feet above sea level, and on a clear day, landmarks for miles around were visible. ‘You can see the Isle of Man, Blackpool Tower, the hills of Wales and the Cumbrian fells. You could see Ashurst Beacon, which was lit as a warning during wars, but they’ve moved it now to the Last Drop Village.’
‘I do the flowers for that place.’
‘Good for you. They use only the best.’
‘Of course. What was Rivington Pike for?’ she asked.
He told her about hunting parties using the tower, about roaring fires and mulled wine. ‘But it’s no longer enjoyed. All boarded up, no windows, no way in. Sad. Everything of note has to be protected from the very people who are supposed to appreciate it.’
‘They’re too busy collecting ASBOs to take an interest in an eighteenth-century folly,’ said Lily. ‘Do you mind if I ask to go home? It’s been my first night out since . . . since my last night out.’
‘Which was a long time ago?’
She nodded. ‘A couple of years. But I’ve enjoyed myself. Thanks for Manchester and thanks for this lovely countryside.’
‘Thank God, not me,’ he answered. ‘He made this lot. Mind you,’ the car came to life, ‘I’m not sure He made Manchester. No, we mustn’t blame Him for that . . .’ Before taking off the handbrake, he stroked her cheek. ‘Keep me on the list, Lily.’
‘List? What list?’
‘Of potential suitors.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ she promis
ed.
Skippy wouldn’t settle. They tried her downstairs, upstairs, on the landing, even at the foot of their bed. ‘She wouldn’t fit in with us, anyway,’ moaned Philly. ‘This is only a three-quarter bed, and you take up two-thirds of it.’
‘Is that a complaint?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then do it in triplicate and send it to management.’
‘Who’s management?’
‘The dog is,’ he replied wearily. He sat up. ‘It’s no good, I’ll have to take her out again. I can’t sleep, anyway. I keep seeing that poor woman every time I close my eyes.’
Philly agreed. She hadn’t seen Eve in the kitchen, but the memory of her almost lifeless body on the stretcher was enough. Poor Dave had been witness to everything. ‘We may as well give up and get dressed,’ she said.
‘You’re pregnant,’ he protested. ‘You can’t be running about half the night.’
‘Pregnant, but not ill,’ she reminded him. ‘And I’m stopping nowhere on my own while there’s somebody out there attacking folk.’
‘You heard my mam, Philly. What she saw more or less proves that Eve was targeted. They’ll be miles away by this time – it’s coming up eleven o’clock. Stay where you are.’
‘No. I won’t,’ she replied. ‘I feel safer with you and Skippy. That’s a compliment, in case you hadn’t noticed. Till we get over this – if we ever get over it – we stick together.’
‘Yes, Sarge.’ Dave performed a comical salute.
Once outside, the dog dragged Dave along until she was almost choking. She displayed no interest in Rose Cottage, preferring to struggle onward past Fullers Walk until she reached the end of the block. She stopped suddenly, and Dave managed, only just, not to fall over her. ‘She’s got good brakes,’ he said. ‘Nearly had me on the floor then.’
Philly took a torch from her pocket and shone it on the tarmac that led to the rear of the shops and all the garages. ‘Dave?’
‘What?’
‘I can’t be sure, but I think it’s these two cigarette ends.’ She shone the light on Skippy’s spine. ‘See? She’s got her hackles up.’
The Reading Room Page 21