‘That’s Eve,’ said the two women in unison before laughing out loud.
He read out a list of all who missed them, reminding them that their presence at the wedding of Dave and Philly was compulsory and that Mo and Paul wanted Babs back. ‘They say it’s too much without you and there’s nothing to laugh at,’ he concluded.
Lily went to make the promised tea.
Babs asked about Pete and was told he was well, though unhappy. She shot a quick look over her shoulder. ‘What about Father Walsh?’ she murmured.
Alan too made sure that Lily was not within earshot. ‘He’s going to marry Dave and Philly, then he’ll tell the congregation on the following Sunday that he’s opting out. He wants her back. If you could see the state of him – he worships the ground she stands on.’
‘Oh, bugger,’ whispered Babs.
‘She’s not the reason,’ he said. ‘I was asked to stress that if you accosted me. It’s all tied up with human rights and contraception and other stuff. But he’s resigning whether she’ll have him or not.’
Lily came in with the tea. ‘You can sleep on the sofa tonight,’ she told him. ‘And we can’t come straight home, because I promised Cassie she could see the funny fishes at some stage. We’ll leave tomorrow afternoon.’
Alan Burke stirred his tea. ‘Is Cassie Clive Chalmers’s child?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ snapped Babs. ‘Charming Chalmers fooled me into believing he was a single man. Then I met Lily, and she marked my card for me. We’ve been close ever since he . . . ever since what happened to her.’
Alan Burke looked at Lily and wondered at her calm facade. After all that had happened, he would not have been surprised if she’d finished up in a psychiatric unit. ‘It’s good that you have each other, and better still that I don’t have to sleep in that car. Thank you, ladies.’
They put him right on that one, because they weren’t ladies, they were women. He was invited to eat anything he could find that didn’t smell strange, and then Lily and Babs went off to bed. It was early, but tomorrow would be busy.
Lily was settled with a book when Babs came in. She listened while Babs told her about Mike’s intentions, about how he needed Lily by his side. ‘He’s doing it whatever you say,’ Babs concluded.
‘I know. Good night, then.’
Alone, Lily turned to the wall and waited for sleep to come. ‘I know,’ she had said so glibly, so easily. But was he sure? Or was Lily a part of the mix that had finally made him decide to give up, to stop looking after Catholics in three or four parishes?
The real worry about what the villagers might say was compounded by the fact that she was an incomer, a stranger from a part of England many of them had never seen. It might all be blamed on her, and she would need to be strong.
‘Am I recovered enough for that?’ she asked the darkening room. She didn’t know the answer, wasn’t even sure of the question, because the kind of decision he was making might well stretch her beyond anything she had experienced so far. He was a good priest . . . It would take a very special kind of strength, but she would find it. Wouldn’t she?
Whatever, Babs was right. Two women and a child could not run for ever. Cassie needed stability, while her mother should be working in order to gain a degree of independence. And the flower shop was important; perhaps, given time, the business could become part of a wedding-planning consortium. There was even a chance that Leanne Chalmers might return to her old job, the career she had really loved. Could Makeover Madness ride again? Could Clive be contained in a unit so solitary that he would never meet another soul?
Lily gave up after an hour and crept into the kitchen. To her surprise, she met Alan Burke, who was making cocoa. ‘Want some?’ he asked.
‘Yes, please.’
They sat on the sofa that had become his makeshift bed. ‘Lily?’
‘What?’
‘Eve Boswell needs you.’
‘Oh?’
He nodded sadly. ‘She’s all right, and she begged me not to tell you, but I think I should. She had a fit the day she came home. Because she pleaded and cried when it was over, Chas let her stay at home, though he spoke to the doctor when she was asleep. The doc said it could be a one-off. But then the second one happened. Eve has epilepsy. Chas is selling the off-licence and hanging over her all the time. She wants you to take him in hand.’
‘Right. Bit of a mess, isn’t it?’
Alan sighed. ‘Yes, but better to go home and face the music.’
Eve was sick to the back teeth, and she made sure that everyone in her household was aware of it. She got her new wigs, was indulged completely by her doting husband, was forced to have daily help in the house, and was generally treated like a total invalid. The tablets were great. As long as she remembered to take them, she was perfectly all right except for the odd headache and slightly blurred vision. But she was fed up with Chas, and was tired of telling him to go away and leave a bit of oxygen just for herself. ‘I can’t breathe,’ she told him accusingly. ‘You keep panicking. If you panic, I panic, and we all know what might happen if I end up in bits. So go away, buzz off, make yourself scarce, because you are ruining my nerves and I can’t take any more!’
Chas stood his ground. He was getting rid of the off-licence, and that was the end of it. She could mither till the cows, goats, hens and geese came home, but her working life was over, as was his. ‘Do as you’re told,’ he said.
She folded her arms and straightened her spine. ‘I’m not in my dotage yet, Chas, and if you think I’m—’
‘Don’t get worked up. The doc says you haven’t to get worked up.’
Her foot tapped the floor. ‘Not get worked up? With you hanging round me twenty-four hours a day? Impossible. If I sneeze wrong, you’re like an old mother hen hovering over me, do I feel all right, should you get a cushion, do I need the doctor? I can’t be me any more! Now bugger off and take that shop off the market before I do us both some damage.’ The foot tapped again. ‘I mean it, Chas. This is the closest I’ve come to wishing I could be single again. You’ve got our Derek daft as well – he keeps looking at me to make sure my head’s not fallen off. The bloody village grinds to a halt every time I step out. I was thinking of getting some squirty cream and putting it round my mouth so they can all say they saw me in a fit and get it over with. After all, I’m the cabaret and we don’t want to disappoint our neighbours, do we?’
Chas ran a hand through already tousled hair. ‘I’m trying to be sensible.’
‘Well, there’s a novel idea if ever I heard one. Charles Boswell and sense? That’s a new partnership. Please, please don’t go all sensible on me. I’m alive. Yes, there’s a bit of brain damage, a loose wire or something, but these pills will stop it, Chas. Once they’ve found the right dosage, I’ll be fine. Go to the shop. Don’t sell it. If I don’t have a fit for two years, they might even let me drive again. The best way to put me back on my feet is to bugger off and let me be.’ She nodded angrily. ‘Sell the shop, and I’ll leave you. I’ll go and live with our Vera.’
‘You can’t stand your Vera since she moved to Crosby and started putting her aitches in the wrong places.’
‘Blundellsands,’ said Eve. ‘I have to correct you there, because our Vera’s living on the bit where the posh Vikings landed, the ones who took off their horned helmets before raping and pillaging. It’s nice up there. Like the seaside.’
‘It’s the River bloody Mersey.’
‘I like the bloody Mersey – it runs in my veins. Lovely bungalow on Mariners Road, stand at the front gate when the tall ships come and go – did I tell you the river’s visible from our Vera’s gate?’
‘Only about three hundred times, yes.’
‘And the kiddies come past to go to the swimming baths or play on the beach – it’s great. Hi shall heven put my haitches where they hought to be. Just because hit’s Blundellsands, like.’
Chas left the room. It was difficult to know what to do for the best, as he could
never tell when she was serious. They’d been engaged three times because she’d kept saying she was joking. Now, she was having epileptic fits, and he was flummoxed. He loved his shop. Even these days, when he was turning down cheap booze and other ill-gotten goods, he made a fair living. And he would miss it, since he enjoyed the comings and goings, looked forward to meeting people and forging friendships across the counter.
She didn’t like having a home help, didn’t like not being allowed to drive, was fed up with being watched and cared for. The trouble with females these days was that they didn’t know how to lean on a bloke, had no idea of how to make him feel needed.
As he perched on the end of the marital bed, he admitted to himself that he probably needed her more than she needed him. Epilepsy could cause added damage with each episode, and therefore the fits had to be stopped, because he couldn’t face the concept of life without her. The tablets could go some way towards achieving that goal, but Eve needed to be calm. She wasn’t calm with him around. It had never been a peaceful marriage, because it had been filled with laughter, rows, practical jokes and some hard work. He and Eve ignited each other even now, after all these years of wedlock. Chas grinned. Would he swap her? Would he hell as like.
Compromise. That was a big word. Eve needed to be forced to accept help in the house, yet had to be allowed to continue planning and decorating the place. He had to watch over her, but he must keep the shop in case the selling of it upset her too much. ‘I’ve heard of folk going to some lengths to get their own way,’ he told the wall, ‘but she’s in a class of her own.’
He would give in to her yet again. It was the easiest course, as it involved little or no decision making and no effort whatsoever. If she had a lot of fits, he would set his foot in concrete and there’d be no discussion about the matter. Yes. If she carried on having bad attacks, he would . . . Would what? He was kidding himself all over again. Unless she went completely doolally, Eve was always going to win. That had been the unspoken arrangement from the very start.
He stood up and took a deep breath. Northern women were a tough breed. If fielded in the arena of battle, they would be tanks with huge guns in their turrets. Yorkshire and Lancashire had produced a legion of war mares that were supposed to have died out a century ago, but no. They were here, they were well and they were cunning. As for the females from Liverpool – they defied description. And he had married one.
Downstairs, Eve was experiencing a similar period of introspection. She was scared, but she daren’t let him see it. The loss of control had terrified her, and she didn’t like the idea of waking repeatedly after a fit with no idea of what had happened to her, no concept of what those around her had seen. The doc had been positive enough. Epilepsy like hers, which had happened after trauma to the brain, was potentially manageable. He had ordered her to rest, just as she had already been told by the hospital, and to give her grey matter time to settle. ‘It could all stop of its own accord,’ he had said. ‘But, to be on the safe side, I’ll write a prescription . . .’
She had the pills. She had her son, and she had her wonderful husband. But Chas was useless when in the vicinity of illness. He fussed too much, worried himself halfway to death, couldn’t control his fear. Chas needed to go back to work, while she wanted to tackle her situation in her own way. Her own way. She would have it, or he would suffer . . .
Like many other villages, Eagleton was in possession of a process whereby gossip travelled silently, because no one would ever admit to starting the process. When Lily and Babs had been gone just a few days, a form of osmosis took over, and messages were passed chemically, almost of their own accord.
Father Walsh was giving up the priesthood. Father Walsh loved Lily Latimer. Father Walsh had already been struggling with his conscience long before Lily had moved to the village. He believed in contraception and the right of individuals to make decisions regarding their own bodily functions. He had absolved people of sin when he should not have done so; his relationship with God was too personal to be affected by the dictates of Rome. So he disagreed with the Pope, and he had to leave. He would remain Catholic, as the faith was closest to his basic beliefs, but he would no longer be a member of the clergy. It seemed fair enough, and all but a few rigidly bigoted people remained on his side.
Pour Les Dames had metamorphosed into a whispering gallery. Paul, who was lighter of foot since meeting a new man at Sisters, wanted to scream and tell them to mind their own business, but he managed, just about, to keep his counsel. People should be left alone to get on with life, and he longed to yell that message until he learned, from the little he overheard, that most folk were supportive of the prospective changes.
Today, the gossip was audible, since Mo had announced to a fascinated audience that a new client would be arriving at any moment.
Valda almost dropped her cup. She couldn’t wait to rush back and tell her mother-in-law what was happening. Things were much better now that she and Mary had made their peace. Mary watched the kids while Valda had a break, and today’s break was special, because everyone was getting hair styled for the forthcoming wedding of Philly and Dave. ‘Never,’ said Valda after saving her coffee. ‘Can Sally do my nails in here, Mo?’ She didn’t want to miss anything.
‘Sorry,’ replied Mo. ‘Standing room only in the salon, and you’re nearly done. But you can leave the door open if you like when you go through for your manicure.’
The congregation stilled itself when the door was thrown inward. ‘Well?’ shouted the newcomer. ‘Are you going to help me in or not?’
Paul rushed to handle the unwieldy contraption. He wheeled in Enid Barker and helped her across to one of the sinks. She leaned heavily, and he was almost gasping for air when he deposited her in position. ‘I’ll . . . I’ll get you a gown,’ he said.
Enid looked at all the silent people while Mo pushed her wheelchair out of the way. ‘What’s up with you lot?’ she asked. ‘Never seen the mother of the groom coming to get her hair done? Paul would have done it at home, but I fancied a trip out.’ She knew what they thought of her, but they were just a little bit wrong this time, because she was trying her best to be decent. Ever since poor Eve Boswell’s tragedy, Enid had kept her mouth shut. Well, nearly shut. She still went on a bit when her son was around, but that was an old habit that would take some murdering.
‘I want a bit of colour,’ she told Paul. ‘And cut it. It’s neither one thing nor the other at this length.’ She looked at all the starers. ‘You can put your eyes back in your heads, because I only talk behind your backs, not to your faces.’ She winked at Paul. ‘Oh, there is one thing, though. Lily and her friend are on their way back. I found that out this morning when I trolleyed over to see Eve. She won’t let him get rid of the business, by the way. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m getting my hair done.’
The room buzzed once more and, for the first time, most people were glad that Enid was among them. Because of melegs, she missed nothing, and everyone listened carefully when she told them about the night of the attack. ‘Two of them were big bruisers,’ she said. The fact was that Eve’s attackers grew several inches with each telling of the tale. ‘But it was a little fellow that was watching. He wasn’t what you might call a dwarf, because he was all in proportion, just shorter than any man I’ve seen. He smoked a lot. Happen that stunted his growth.’
‘That’s a clever dog,’ said Valda as she made her way towards the rear room. ‘Skippy – she’s bright.’
‘My Dave’s clever and all,’ answered Enid. ‘I know he does himself down, but he reads a lot, doesn’t need a fancy degree and letters at the back of his name. He’ll have that dog trained to deliver the newspapers soon.’
There followed a short silence while the audience digested that, as Enid was known for giving her son a hard time.
‘What’s Philly wearing?’ enquired Paul.
Enid laughed. ‘Don’t ask, because I’m sworn to secrecy. There was near blue murder before I came, becau
se he came into my flat without knocking and she had to dive behind the sofa so’s he wouldn’t see her suit. Still, never mind. It’ll all be over tomorrow.’
Paul went out to the back in order to pick up some products for Enid’s hair. Sally was doubled over behind the door when he and Valda went in. ‘Bloody hell,’ said Mo’s wife. ‘Who’s been cheering her up?’
Paul put a finger to his lips. ‘Sally, miracles happen,’ he whispered. ‘Shut up, or we might frighten her away.’
But Enid was clearly in her element. She was speaking to a small crowd. People were listening to her at last.
Philly was what Dave termed ‘in a tizz’, because getting married had proved to be slightly more complicated than she had at first expected. Dave, who was of the opinion that new suits and two witnesses were enough, had been forced to give in to Philly’s wishes, and the whole thing had escalated beyond even her expectations.
Everyone wanted to come. Both bride and groom were well respected, and people from Eagleton and several of the smaller satellite villages had promised to come to the church, many protesting that they didn’t expect to be fed. ‘We just want to be there for you,’ was the statement made by most. ‘What you and Dave have done for us all – that Reading Room – is brilliant. It’s somewhere to go for a cuppa, and it’s nice for the old folk since our libraries got closed. Oh, we’ll be there.’
Philly had been cooking and baking for days. Every freezer in Eagleton was full, because she was parking her food wherever she could, and lists were getting out of hand. As the school was closed for the summer holidays, Father Walsh and a few other men had turned the hall into a reception area with full-sized tables and chairs. Philly had hired glassware, cutlery and crockery, but the guest lists were in such a muddle that the seating plan had to be scrapped. Now, she had a huge hall with tables against walls, and the whole thing was a confused sort of buffet with a dance floor in the centre.
Philly and Dave stood in the middle of chaos. ‘Where’s the cake going?’ he asked. Philly had made her own wedding cake. It had two layers and no chance of feeding all the guests unless some didn’t mind just a few crumbs and a bit of icing. ‘And people have to sit somewhere,’ he added. So they pulled out the tables and began the task of lining the walls with chairs. ‘They’ll be stuck behind the tables now,’ he protested.
The Reading Room Page 27