Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  Laura shook her head. ‘I don’t want my children upset. They’d love their real daddy to come home.’

  ‘But would you?’ Daisy checked on her fish. ‘Throw the chips in, love, then answer me – do you want Neil back?’

  Laura’s answer was immediate. ‘No.’ The fat spat back at her angrily when it made contact with cold potatoes, so she shut the folding lid. ‘I don’t. But it’s not about me; it’s about bringing up happy children who will go on to marry and make their own secure families.’

  ‘And your own happiness doesn’t count? Wouldn’t they be happier if you were too?’

  ‘He’s old enough to be their grandfather. And what would everybody say if I divorced Neil? The church, my neighbours, my parents and Neil’s family – it would be a wretched situation.’

  Daisy shrugged. ‘Well, you must make your own mind up, I suppose. Let’s open the door and allow the starving of Liverpool in.’

  Eleven

  ‘You come anywhere near me again with that sodding horse needle, and I’ll stick it up your arse with your stethoscope, your thermometer, and the Penny Lane bus, standing room only. You’ve had enough blood out of me to feed Dracula for a fortnight, so piss off.’ Eve intertwined her fingers and placed the resulting knot on the bed covers, where they imitated a confusion of pork sausages. ‘No more blood pressure tests, thanks, or that thing will join the rest in a very dark place. Piss off,’ she repeated, glaring fiercely at her victim. She was scared, and fear angered her beyond control.

  The doctor took Eve’s advice and left the scene immediately. That woman in bed three was fierce, and he was a slight man with a life to live and exams to pass. He sent in the troops. While the troops dealt with Eve Mellor, he peered through the venetian blind that gave the ward sister’s office some privacy.

  Ward Sister was not alone. Her assistants included Matron, a fierce-looking female in a monochrome uniform. She was hefty, but even she looked slender when she stood near Eve. Behind Matron, a consultant lingered with two more blue-clad nursing sisters and a couple of staff nurses. Several young men in training as doctors brought up the rear. The social skills of all in this crew were about to be tested; a particularly difficult patient was an item worth studying. For a few seconds, they did just that – gazed at the woman who was too large for an ordinary hospital bed.

  Matron took Eve’s chart from the bottom of the bed, looked at it and passed it to the consultant. ‘Madam,’ she began, ‘I think we need to look at several possibilities here, since your symptoms are—’

  ‘It’s Miss Mellor,’ Eve snapped. ‘M-E-L-L-O-R. Got it?’

  ‘Miss Mellor,’ Matron said, stressing the double s at the end of the word Miss. ‘You have given us nothing but trouble since you arrived on the ward – well, since before you arrived. They had to send a second ambulance just to have enough crew to lift you.’

  ‘You’re no effing plucked pullet yourself,’ the patient snarled. ‘And I did not ask to come here. You will do no more, because I’ve had enough with that one that couldn’t hardly talk English – he’s took half the blood out of me. He must have two buckets full of it by now. Is he a vampire? Should we carry garlic flowers and wear a cross?’

  Matron employed a different tack. ‘You’re a very sick woman, Miss Mellor.’

  Eve delivered a hollow laugh.

  ‘There’s nothing to laugh at, nothing at all.’

  ‘Do I get fined for laughing? Do you have a chuckle box instead of a swear box? I know I’m a sick woman, you soft cow! Get me home and I’ll go to bed and bloody die. Send me them women who ride bikes all over the show – district nurses. They can pump me full of drugs when the time comes. Oh, and I might decide when that time comes. It’s my life, my death and none of your bloody business, right?’

  ‘Are you contemplating suicide?’

  ‘Are you contemplating leaving me alone? Bugger off, and take your bridesmaids with you.’

  The consultant put in his twopenny-worth. ‘Er . . . we need to get the results of several blood tests and take some X-rays before you go home. It won’t take long.’

  ‘No,’ she growled. ‘Tests? You’ve enough of my red stuff here to swim in and get a bloody degree in the backstroke with honours, never mind tests. Watch my lips, Mr Doctor. I will not give permission for you to proceed any further with my case. If you touch me, I’ll sue for assault. If this gobshite here – Matron Misery Gob – doesn’t stop mithering, she’ll be done for harassment. And if you don’t get me home, I might stick a kidnap hat on one of your monkeys as well.’ She waved her arms at the young doctors before folding them as best she could across a vast bosom. ‘There are people I need to kill, so let me out. When I say kill, I mean make their lives a misery like what you’ve done to me.’

  Several jaws dropped. Eve winked at one of the young trainees.

  Matron shuffled backwards and spoke quietly to the consultant. He tried again. Trained to understand that extreme aggression was often used to mask terror, he approached the bed and took Eve’s hand in his. ‘Miss Mellor,’ he began in a soft, kindly voice. ‘We are trying to help you.’

  She pulled her hand away. ‘Assault,’ she warned. ‘And don’t be nice – I’m not a child. Keep your hands to yourself. See you at my post mortem, eh?’

  Undeterred, the man continued. ‘This ward is where we put people who need diagnostic procedures to ascertain—’

  ‘Like a pending tray in an office?’ the patient asked.

  ‘Exactly like that, yes.’

  She nodded thoughtfully. ‘There’s your solution, then. Shove me in the out tray, stick a couple of stamps on me gob and post me into an ambulance. You can’t make me stay unless I’m crackers, and I’m not crackers. Well?’

  ‘You are ill.’

  Eve delivered a false smile.

  ‘Miss Mellor, I believe—’

  ‘Cancer,’ Eve hissed. ‘I didn’t land in Fleetwood on Monday with the rest of the fish. I don’t need to be mauled by you lot, because I bloody know what this is – it took my mother. You can’t cut me – I’m too fat. You’d need a tree saw to get through this lot.’ She stared at the young trainees. ‘That boy at the back – yes, the one who looks about twelve, stop laughing or I’ll send you to the headmaster’s office for detention.’

  ‘But you must understand that we need to try to help you,’ the consultant insisted.

  Eve nodded. ‘I know that, lad. They tried to help Mam, and it didn’t work. Bring the form and I’ll sign myself out of this hell. You won’t get into trouble as long as I sign. Do the tests on my blood and send the results to Mannix, my GP. He’s another daft bugger, but he’s all we’ve got out there in the wilderness.’

  Matron sighed audibly. ‘Will you need help to dress yourself?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t forget – I’m dying.’ She made no attempt to conceal her sarcasm. ‘Phone Kate. She’ll help me, and it won’t be assault.’

  They left her. Sister brought the form, and Eve signed it, but she still found herself stranded like a beached whale. She looked round the ward, which was clearly a holding bay, as it contained people of both genders. The man next to her was connected to several drips, with a bag of pee hanging from underneath the bed, poor soul. A woman directly opposite was spark out with her mouth hanging open like the Mersey Tunnel without traffic. What a bloody life. What a bloody death. She couldn’t stay here, wouldn’t stay here. The pain had stopped and it might not come back again for a while.

  Eve didn’t need any more of this malarkey. A fat person became used to having little dignity and no physical grace, but this dump was a stride too far. Her soul was the same size as everybody else’s and anyway, she refused absolutely to become a row of jars in pathology, a set of samples kept to display an interesting collection that served to illustrate the results of untreated illness. ‘Come on, Kate,’ she whispered, ‘get me the heck out of this ward before I have a breakdown and get certified.’

  A terrified Kate arrived eventually, and she
was not alone. Behind her trotted Mo, Judy, Cynthia and Angela. Good God, they’d formed a posse, or maybe they were a wagon train, she thought as they surrounded the bed. They looked concerned for her, but nowhere did she find a trace of pity. Her girls were grounded, and they took life with all its vagaries in their stride.

  Cynthia donated a smile. ‘They don’t normally let five people in at once, but you’re a difficult patient, so here we are. We’ve got clean knickers and stuff.’

  Eve spoke to Angela. ‘I thought you’d be packing your bags.’

  Miss Whiplash blinked. ‘If you think I’m leaving Kate to cope with you on her own, even with the help of this motley lot, you can think again. And if you don’t behave, I’ll be there to batter you. OK?’

  ‘You’re staying?’

  ‘Yes, for a while. My sister will keep the flat for me. I’ve told her my friend’s very ill.’

  They pulled the curtains round and dressed her carefully. Tears threatened, but Eve held back the storm. This was what she wanted – her own kind, her own girls around her. Yes, there would be pain, but these women would fight to keep her free of it. ‘Does Mannix know I’m discharging myself?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mo replied, ‘and he’s hopping mad, like a frog with a moustache.’

  ‘So am I, but with a smaller muzzy. I should have refused to get in the ambulance in the first place.’

  ‘You were in too much pain to care,’ Cynthia reminded her. ‘They’ve given Kate medication for that. If it gets worse, you’ll be on morphine.’ As ever, Cynthia didn’t bother to dress up the information.

  ‘I know. I’ve lived this nightmare from your side of the fence, and it’s not easy. But bless you all for hanging in with me.’

  Angela blinked again. No way was she going to start crying here in front of everybody. ‘Where else would we be, Eve?’

  Eve closed her eyes. Yes. Where else would they be? Even Angela Whiplash cared. This was an illustration of true female solidarity, a natural unity men often failed to understand. ‘Marching as to war,’ Eve quoted.

  Kate smiled sadly; the hymn was on Eve’s list of funeral instructions.

  Mo helped Eve with stockings and shoes. ‘Right, you’ll do,’ she said.

  ‘Belle and Tom are waiting for you with that lovely dog called Max,’ Kate said. ‘And I’ve got painkillers for you. Sally and Babs are coming for a visit soon. People do care, Evie.’

  ‘I know. I’m grateful. Now, get me out of this morgue.’

  They got her out. The farm van was parked at the front of the building, and the girls helped her into the front passenger seat. ‘Who’s driving?’ she asked.

  ‘Angela,’ was the chorused answer.

  ‘Can you drive?’ Eve wanted to know.

  ‘You’ll soon find out. Climb in the back, you lot.’

  Alone in the cabin with the boss, the dominatrix spoke to Eve, and this time she didn’t try to stop herself sounding emotional. ‘It’s been hard for you, Eve. Let’s see if we can make what’s left as easy as humanly possible.’

  ‘It’s appreciated, Angela.’

  ‘It’s deserved. Right. Which one of these thingies is the clutch?’

  Sally Hayes was in a bit of a quandary. She liked Ian, who was only fifteen, but she liked Bill Tyler, too. He was sweet and funny and sometimes quite magical, especially when his face was alight with mischief. ‘I must be desperate,’ she told herself frequently. ‘I fancy anybody young, anybody not old enough to be him.’ Him. Him was her mother’s second husband, and Sally’s nemesis. ‘Stop thinking about the rat,’ she ordered herself in a whisper. She had the kitchen to clean and Mr Crawford’s teatime snack to make. But she kept on thinking about Ian and Bill, Bill and Ian – she was a mess.

  She knew why, of course. It was because neither of these young men frightened her, and the relationship between her and Babs had taught her that physical love didn’t have to involve pain, so she was almost ready to take the next step towards what might be judged a normal, acceptable life. Yet a few shards of fear remained embedded, probably because her mother had not protected her from the monster, and trust did not come easily to Sally.

  Don Crawford’s needs were easily satisfied because, as Babs often said, he would have trouble penetrating tissue paper, let alone a girl, but Sally still felt sick in his presence. Babs protected her from him some of the time, but Babs wasn’t always here these days, and the old man was unpredictable, to say the least. Although the girls now had their own room, he still came in to look at them, to watch while they slept or gossiped or argued. Babs was forever reminding Sally that this man provided for them, fed and clothed them, and had even included them in his will, but Sally continued to have a problem with trust. Oh, and he made her flesh crawl . . .

  One of Sally’s jobs was to keep Bill’s room clean and tidy while he was off out learning plastering. He liked plastering, said it was an art form and that he intended to be its most devoted student. ‘I’m going to sign my work once I can get the bloody stuff to stop falling off the walls,’ he had told her. He intended to be known as Master Plaster. He came home each evening covered in the stuff, but he was always wreathed in smiles. Today, he arrived at Wordsworth House early. ‘I done a ceiling,’ he announced. Most of it was all right, but a bit fell off on the boss’s head, so he chased me with a shovel.’

  ‘Did he catch you?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Yes, but he never hit me cos that’s how his last apprentice died.’

  ‘He is joking?’

  ‘All the bloody time, Sally. There’s no peace. He sent the lad learning carpentry for a box of bent nails. The boy asked why, and the boss said, “You bend the buggers anyway, so I thought I’d save you the bother.” Then we found him with two tins of paint, one blue, one yellow. He said he was inventing striped gloss.’

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  Billy shrugged. ‘No flaming idea.’

  ‘He must be mad as a hatter,’ Sally concluded.

  ‘That’s what we said, but he wanted to know why the hell he shouldn’t have striped paint. Really, he was making an exclusive shade of lime green for his own front door and windowsills. He’s mad. I like him.’

  When she’d stopped laughing, Sally asked, ‘Is he pleased with you overall, though?’

  ‘We have to provide our own overalls.’

  ‘Now you’re the one acting soft.’

  He winked and shrugged. ‘I think I’ve caught the boss’s illness.’

  ‘Glad it’s that boss and not Boss boss from Halewood or wherever. I wish they’d catch him, Bill. Somebody must be hiding him, because he’s supposed to be six foot four in his socks and as broad as he’s tall.’

  ‘The Met’s looking for him as well, you know.’

  ‘The which?’

  ‘Scotland Yard. Hiding in London has to be easier. I’m going for a bath.’ He picked up a towel and stared hard at her. ‘Can you read? I mean read proper – like fast and without pictures?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you teach me? I can read some, but not proper like Roy could.’

  ‘I’ll help you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Wearing disgraceful overalls and a broad smile, he left his bedroom.

  She finished straightening the room, went into the kitchen, washed her hands and made Mr Crawford’s sandwich and tea. She would clean this room later. Bill couldn’t read? He’d got to eighteen without learning to read properly? A grin spread itself across her face. ‘He told me,’ she murmured. ‘He asked me, so he trusts me.’ Perhaps that trust might work both ways? Perhaps she could trust him. She needed someone who would look after her, keep her safe from . . . from stuff she didn’t want to think about.

  Don Crawford was in frisky mode, and Babs wasn’t here to take the front line when trouble started, because Babs was out learning about horse riding and something called tack and how to get a horse to prepare for a nearby obstacle. For Sally, that was mostly Greek. She was no longer terrified of Murdoch, but she wasn’t a devotee like
Babs.

  When the old man put his hand up Sally’s skirt, she reacted with a fury of which she had never before been aware, slapping his arm quite hard.

  He was stroking her bare thigh when she turned on him. ‘Listen, you dirty old man – if I leave here, so will Babs, and that bloody horse will get nowhere. You know the score; your heart’s not great, and I can make it a damned sight worse.’

  ‘I paid for you,’ he said. ‘And Babs is too fond of her horse to leave me.’

  ‘I wasn’t for sale. Now, Babs is used to you, and I’m not. I’ve put up with you leering at us when we’re in bed, but don’t ever touch me when Babs isn’t here, or I’ll make sure you have the big heart attack a bit earlier than you might have expected. Babs quite likes you; I don’t. Get used to it. She’s your real baby girl, anyway. I’m just like a spare part.’

  She flounced towards the landing, catching a last glimpse of him as she turned to close the door. ‘I can soon tell Mr Macey about you; he thinks Babs and I are nurses and cleaners, cooks and bottle-washers. He’ll get us somewhere decent to live when he finds out what a shit you are.’ She smiled. His jaw hung slack and loose; she could do it! She could tell older men to piss off, and it worked.

  Although unaware of the details, this was the day on which Sally took hold of her own power. Layer upon layer of resentment and anger had piled high inside her for many years and, on this afternoon, those layers finally melded together and became both armour and weaponry. At last, she was growing up.

  Right, what next? Ah yes, she had a kitchen to clean and a meal to make for four hungry lads . . . Just now, she liked Bill best.

  *

  I think I already mentioned Trevor Burns, who was our family butcher when we were still a family. He was the one who got me into Meadowbank where I met Angela, who is going to move soon to East Prescot Road in Knotty Ash. She punishes me, and I know I need her to carry on doing just that, because I’m bad. Going with a whore is wicked . . . But it’s part of the job, or so I keep trying to convince myself.

  Well, I’ve been out on collections a few times lately. I like the autonomy of that; I like being alone but among people who stay away from me. And I was dragging letters out of a pillar box on Bold Street and shoving them in the bag when he tapped me on the shoulder. My heart jumped a bit, because postmen do get robbed, but when I turned, it was Fatso with his purple nose, red cheeks and ginger hair. He looks like something created by one of these modern artists, all clashing colours and odd shapes. ‘Oh, hello,’ I managed. My God, he is ugly; his wife’s no oil painting either, but she has a lovely smile and a kind heart, always gave me an extra couple of pork sausages for the kids when I did the shopping. ‘Hello, Trevor,’ I said, forcing my mouth to widen into an imitation of a smile. ‘Did you want something?’