Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  A muffled laugh reached their ears, and they turned to find John and Phil in a bedroom doorway. Don introduced himself and shook their hands. ‘That was Mad Murdoch,’ he explained, ‘and I suppose you can see why the word mad is used to describe him. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ Phil replied. ‘John’s a bit nervous, so his stammer’s worse today. We don’t know where we’re going to be put, you see, sir.’

  ‘Well, if it’s anything to do with me and Gordy, you’ll be in Dove Cottage with him or here with me, Babs and Sally. It all depends on welfare and what the police say, though you’ve committed no crime beyond stealing essentials. There’s a decent school within walking distance, and Mr Macey usually gets what he wants. Oh, and you can help with the animals.’

  ‘Th-thanks,’ John managed.

  ‘I didn’t know a horse could climb upstairs and go down again,’ Phil said.

  Don chuckled.

  ‘Neither did the bloody horse,’ Babs told them, ‘but he’s a quick learner, especially when he wants to be naughty.’

  Don sat on a ladder-backed chair. He had saved geese, starving mongrels, battery hens, ill-treated donkeys and two near-feral cats. He had rescued Murdoch’s mother and changed her name to Murma. It was time to help some young humans, preferably of the male variety. He remembered the struggle while the cruelly contained chickens had learned to walk for the first time. They were now a coven of feathered witches with a metaphorical and actual pecking order in place, the biggest being in charge for much of the time – until the smaller ones formed a posse and bit her legs. These lads needed to learn to live, and they would require support. ‘I’ve got some good shoes down in the laundry room,’ he told them. ‘Babs will find each of you a pair to fit. Go down and wait for Mr Macey.’

  The boys and girls left Don to himself while he considered a philanthropic future, though he wasn’t alone in his room for long. ‘Oh, bugger,’ he heard Babs muttering as she ascended the staircase.

  She burst into the room, and she was rather breathless. ‘He’s done another one,’ she blurted out. ‘It’s on the radio. Shirley Evans was her name, a working girl from Liverpool, though they never said which part. Strangled with wire, she was, and left where she dropped. We thought he’d stopped. Well, we hoped. It has to be the same man, because he always uses the same wire.’

  ‘Shit!’ Don cursed. ‘What’s wrong with this world is that some people won’t make room for others. What harm are the women doing? It’s the world’s oldest profession for a reason. I’m sure there is true love and happy-ever-after marriage, but not always, and men need a release valve. Going with a whore’s better than knocking the wife about.’

  Babs agreed. ‘Then there’s women who marry for money. The only difference between them and prozzies is that they have only the one client.’

  Don chuckled. ‘I know – I’ve seen them. They’re in the winner’s enclosure with the digs, all fur coats, jewellery and h’aitches where there h’are none. It’s a mad world, baby girl.’

  ‘With a mad horse in it.’

  Don laughed again. ‘Go and wait for Lippy, my love. I’ll come down before he gets here; oh, and send Sally to help me get dressed.’

  In the kitchen, Gordy and Ian had joined the party. Ian smiled at Babs. ‘Where’s Sally?’ he asked rather too casually.

  ‘Helping Mr Crawford to get dressed. He’s got a bad heart, so me and Sal look after him and the house.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Ian was blushing.

  Babs sat down. Ian was nearly fifteen, while Sally would soon be eighteen. It wasn’t too much of a gap, she decided. By the time one was twenty and the other twenty-three, nobody would notice the difference. The sweet, gentle love between the two girls was just a stepping stone; after several discussions, they were agreed on that subject. Both wanted the normal life. What was the normal life? Husband, children, bills and worry? And who decided what was normal? The government, the Pope, God? Questions, questions. But the most immediate was what was going to happen to the boys?

  Sally entered with her right arm supporting her employer. She sat him in a comfortable chair near the range, then looked straight into Ian’s eyes.

  Babs smiled. She was right, and she loved being right. She was right about Gordy, too, because he was working at the opposite end of the scale by looking everywhere except in her direction.

  According to Don’s will, Wordsworth House would belong to the RSPCA after his death, but she and Sally could live out their lives here rent free. There was ample room for two families, and Babs would own outright the gatehouse, Dove Cottage. She smiled at Don. He was an eccentric old man with a bad heart that was really a good heart. She intended to look after him as best she could manage, because he had done more for her and Sally than anyone else in the world had bothered to try. Eve had always seen what she termed ‘bad’ in him, but Babs knew differently. He was a bit senile sometimes, but he did his best.

  ‘I hope they’re on their way,’ Sally said almost to herself.

  The camper van rolled audibly through shingle and parked outside the kitchen window. ‘Right,’ Don ordered, ‘drawing room, everyone. He seems to have brought half of Southport with him.’

  Everyone sighed, and the boys looked fearful.

  ‘It’ll be all right, Ian,’ Sally promised.

  They transferred to the best room, a rather grand place with two walls of crammed bookshelves, a massive fireplace, four sofas, several armchairs and a baby grand piano from whose lid Murdoch’s spittle had recently been removed. All new arrivals introduced themselves briefly before disappearing. The three boys were taken upstairs to be examined by a police doctor and interviewed by two plain clothes detectives, one of each gender, and a psychologist.

  Mr Macey’s remaining retinue comprised three welfare workers and Mr Macey’s wife, Lillian. She and the welfare people followed Gordy to his cottage in order to size up the accommodation and to judge his character. As Dr Macey already knew him, Gordy stood a good chance of being found appropriate as temporary guardian.

  Only Don, Babs, Sally and Lippy Macey were left in the drawing room.

  ‘We could have stayed in the kitchen,’ Babs said.

  Don tapped the side of his nose. ‘The stammerer plays the piano,’ he said. ‘And he sings. When he sings, the stammer disappears. I’m within yards of the gatehouse and I have a baby grand. They’ll notice that, and it’s a point in our favour.’

  ‘Sorted,’ Babs finished for him.

  Sally grinned; Ian would be living nearby. She returned a cheeky wink from Babs. Life was getting better all the time.

  Within the hour, everyone but the boys and the psychologist had returned to the drawing room. It was time for cups of tea all round, and everyone was given one of Sally’s butterfly cakes with real cream, light as duck down and very moreish. The cake stand was empty within a few minutes. Silence ruled while the company enjoyed the offerings.

  ‘You can bake for me any time.’ Lippy glanced at his wife. ‘Lillian’s too busy to bake, aren’t you, my love? She has to cure the stomach pains of all whose wives can’t cook properly.’

  Wisely, the good doctor offered no reply.

  They talked about the weather, the unbelievable cost of living, the beauty of Wordsworth House and Don Crawford’s love of poetry.

  The psychologist entered. ‘Remarkable boys,’ was his first comment before he looked at the denuded cake stand and asked who had eaten his.

  ‘I saved some,’ Sally announced. ‘I’ll just make a fresh pot of tea.’

  ‘Well?’ Don asked.

  A female welfare officer spoke. ‘There’ll be a meeting held in camera, just the professionals involved. It’s something that has to happen, especially when children or young people have suffered abuse.’

  Psychology stepped into the conversation. ‘They all expressed fondness for Babs and Sally. Female influence is vital for boys of this age.’

  Babs felt heat arriving in her cheeks. ‘Yes, we w
ere staying with friends in a house not too far from the hut.’ What would these folk say if they knew the truth about her and Sally?

  ‘Will you please go away?’ These shouted words arrived from the kitchen.

  Murdoch, who hated to be left out of anything, entered the drawing room, closely followed by Sally. Jaws dropped as if choreographed to perform simultaneously. The horse made a beeline for Babs and shoved his nose in her hair. Sally stood in the doorway, arms akimbo. ‘He’s ate two cakes,’ she pronounced angrily. ‘I was making the tea, and he pinched two of me fairy butterflies. Should horses eat double cream?’

  Gordy rose to his feet. ‘Out, Murdoch,’ he said quietly.

  The horse moved his head away from Babs and stared at the trainer.

  ‘Out,’ Gordy repeated.

  After neighing loudly, the animal turned.

  Ian stood in the doorway. ‘Come here, Mad Murdoch,’ he ordered.

  Murdoch pondered. There were too many people in this room, and a young one was summoning him. Young ones tended to be interesting. He walked towards Ian, who stroked his nose before taking hold of his mane. ‘Let’s go outside, shall we?’ Ian coaxed.

  Horse and boy, pursued by gales of laughter, left the scene.

  The psychologist looked at the doctor who had performed the physical examination of the boys. ‘Relaxed household, wouldn’t you say, Ryan?’

  Dr Ryan, chuckling too hard to reply, nodded his agreement.

  ‘That was indeed Mad Murdoch,’ Babs announced when laughter approached its natural death. ‘He’s a bit of a character. We’ve got cats, dogs, chickens, donkeys, Murdoch’s mother, and geese, too. After Murdoch, who’s spoilt, the geese are the worst. One of the donkeys is blind, so Murdoch looks after him. Mr Crawford rescued them all. He’s working with the RSPCA.’

  Dr Macey spoke. ‘Lippy and I know you of old, Don. You have your faults like the rest of humanity, but you do no harm and perform many a charitable deed. You already know that Lippy and I would be happy to take these boys, but I think there’s more for them here. Looking after animals is good therapy.’

  ‘Mr Hourigan?’

  Gordy turned and looked at the welfare woman. ‘Yes, that would be me.’

  ‘You’re willing to take them?’

  He nodded. ‘In a heartbeat. I’m of a huge Irish family, so I’m used to youngsters. Mr Crawford’s housekeeper and his nurse will cook meals for the boys, so they’d have two homes and several adults plus the menagerie outside. Donkeys are good company and very affectionate.’

  ‘And school, Mr Hourigan?’

  ‘Just a cock-stride away.’

  ‘And Gordy’s a linguist,’ Don said. ‘Four languages – he speaks Irish, English, Animalish and Rubbish.’

  Phil and John arrived at the door. ‘Can we go outside with Ian and that daft horse?’ Phil asked.

  ‘Of course you may,’ replied the owner of the estate. ‘If you want to earn your keep, shovel some dog shit and bury it deep behind the garage. Thanks.’

  Both doctors and the psychologist stood up. ‘You’ve probably won yourselves temporary custody of three needful boys,’ the psychologist announced. ‘It’s good to have them pro tem, because it gives you a chance to understand them and decide whether you want them permanently. This way, we all have time to think. The boys’ wishes and decisions will be taken under consideration, too, when we have our meeting.’

  The crowd left with several cream cakes over which they would doubtless fight, while Don, Gordy and the girls returned to the kitchen. Babs watched through the window as Lippy told the boys how the meeting had gone. ‘They’re laughing, Sal. God bless them, they’re happy.’

  Lippy climbed into the van and drove away.

  Immediately, the three lads ran into the kitchen. ‘Thank you,’ Ian said. ‘We’ll be good.’

  ‘Just be yourselves,’ was Gordy’s advice. ‘When boys start acting good, we send for doctors.’

  ‘Well,’ Phil said, scratching his head, ‘you’d best get a vet, because that horse is behaving itself. John rode it. He fell off, like, but that was his fault, and Murdoch just stood over him and made sure he was all right.’

  ‘Come with me,’ Gordy said. ‘I’ll show you how to muck out. Working with animals is fifty per cent fun, fifty per cent shit and fifty per cent hard graft. It’s time you met some donkeys, too. They’re Mr Crawford’s pet project.’

  ‘That was one hundred and f-fifty per cent,’ John said.

  ‘I know. The extra fifty is Murdoch.’

  Don’s eyes twinkled as he watched through the window while Gordy took the boys across the lawn towards the paddock. ‘I think they’ll be all right, baby girls. I’m going back to bed.’

  Babs followed him up to make sure he didn’t have a fall. The scent of tonight’s scouse floated up the stairwell, making the house smell homely. Homely meant safe. She was OK, Sally was OK, and Don was better than he’d been for weeks. As for Gordy – well, he was promising . . .

  Neil Carson stood at the school gates, a flat cap pulled low over his eyes. Just a few hours ago, he had killed a woman, a piece of dross without which the world would supposedly improve. Now, he watched his children, just two among many healthy, happy youngsters celebrating freedom from the confines of classrooms. How would Matt and Lucy turn out? They no longer had a daddy to guide them; Matt, in particular, needed a leader of the same gender. And little girls loved their daddies, didn’t they?

  ‘Neil?’

  He ignored the voice. He wasn’t expecting company, didn’t want to talk, yet he knew who it was. Why now? Why did she have to be here right now?

  ‘Neil – it’s me.’

  He turned. It was Laura. No, it wasn’t. She looked like Laura, but with a slightly fuller face and colour in her cheeks. Laura had no sisters. Her hair was shiny; her hair had never been shiny. ‘Hello,’ he answered uncertainly. He’d been gone for . . . for how long? Days, weeks, a month? And she looked so well. She was happier without him, it would appear. ‘Hello,’ he repeated.

  ‘Watching them play, are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I brought them packed lunches. They both decided that they don’t like school dinners, so I thought I’d start today with homemade stuff. They forgot to pick the boxes up on their way out of the house.’ She paused. ‘Why don’t you visit?’ she asked eventually. ‘Why not come for a meal with us when you’re on a suitable shift?’

  Neil stared hard at his wife. She was painted. Although she wasn’t as heavily coated as street women, she wore powder and lipstick, some colour on her eyelids – and was that mascara? Oh, God. Had she turned, taken a step away from her old life and towards . . . towards the murky side? ‘I have to go,’ he said abruptly, walking to his bike. He threw his leg over the crossbar and pedalled furiously along the pavement until he was far enough away to stop and check traffic.

  He pulled into the road and began the journey back to Greasy Chair Hell. Today, he was moving in with Joseph Turton and his mother, so his domestic circumstances would be cleaner and easier from now on. Joseph was coming at twelve, and Neil’s shift would begin at two o’clock, so there wasn’t much time.

  His heart was beating rapidly. Rumours about a body in a side street by the Dock Road were beginning to circulate; as yet, there was nothing in the newspapers. Although anonymous, he was the most hated man in Liverpool. ‘Jesus,’ he whispered, ‘where are you?’ It was a grey day. The only bit of brightness had been in the faces of children at play. Oh, and Laura’s features had been decorated . . . What was the woman up to? Another man. There had to be another man.

  He was being replaced. She couldn’t remarry because of her faith, but if she introduced a substitute father . . . He couldn’t bear the thought. Perhaps he should visit for the occasional meal. First, he had to move house, so he must try to concentrate on getting today right. He no longer thought clearly, and often lay awake in the night persecuting himself about Dolly Pearson and her poor mother. He contin
ued to nurse the suspicion that he was losing his mind.

  ‘I’ll take good care of Joseph’s mother,’ he mouthed to himself. ‘After all, everybody made mistakes.’

  Laura walked into the playground after the whistle had sounded, and handed lunch boxes to the teacher in charge. She smiled at her son, then at Lucy, both standing still in lines straight enough for the Trooping of the Colour.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Carson?’ the teacher asked.

  Laura blinked as if waking from a dream. ‘Oh, yes. Sorry – I was just anxious to get the children’s food to them. Their names are on the boxes.’ Smiling politely, she left the school grounds and began the walk to work. Neil had disappeared, of course.

  She stood and stared blankly at the road. There was something not right with him. There had been something not right for a while, and now he seemed even worse. The way he’d looked at her – she shivered. She might have been a sample, some kind of experiment on a slide or in a Petri dish. Whispering, she said her favourite prayer. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, ora pro nobis’ – oh, she’d lapsed into Latin again – ‘now and at the hour of our death. Amen.’ Death. Had he? Could he? Was he a . . . a murderer?

  He’d never been demonstrative, but neither had she except when it came to her children. Neil was a boring man with a boring job, just one friend who still lived at home with an ailing mother, and no hobbies beyond the odd fishing expedition and a pint after work. He was not a warm person, seldom laughing, never getting upset, and he seemed to have no imagination.

  But none of the above sufficed to account for him now, because he was very, very different from the quiet, kind man she had married, the good father and excellent provider. There was a darkness about him; his eyes had changed, seeming somewhat flat and lifeless. He hadn’t been able to look at her today, was almost incapable of standing still, as if someone had wound a spring in him and it was nowhere near to running down.