by Maureen Lee
‘If I’m still around in another sixty years, I’ll remember that, Nell,’ Iris said with a grin. ‘These sandwiches are nice. Is it real salmon in them?’
‘It came from me dad,’ Nell informed her. ‘He got a big tin from somewhere.’ A tin that size couldn’t possibly have been acquired legally; it had probably fallen off the back of a lorry.
When Irish eyes are smiling, people were singing now.
‘Your dad is very generous,’ Iris said.
‘That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone call him that. He’s usually referred to as a bloody criminal.’ Nell took the empty plate into the kitchen and found Ryan O’Neill and Rosie Hesketh locked in a passionate embrace.
‘Ah well,’ she sighed. It looked as if her long-held ambition to marry Ryan was no longer on the cards – if it ever had been.
At five o’clock, Ryan O’Neill ran upstairs and banged on the door of the bedroom where his dad was, then on his sister’s. ‘Everyone’s gone,’ he shouted. ‘Me and Rosie are going round to their house. She’s dead tired. She’s been in the kitchen since early this morning and was baking stuff till nearly ten o’clock last night. Me and Nellie Desmond saw that everyone had a drink. Now someone needs to come down and look after our Bridie.’
His voice was only slightly accusing. It was a black business, his dear mam dying long before she should, and he was as upset as anyone, but he considered that his dad and their Maggie were laying it on a bit thick. What if he too had decided to go into a virtual coma and expect someone else to see the day through?
He banged on the doors again, this time louder. ‘Will at least one of youse come down and see to Bridie. She’s also lost her mam and it needs to be explained to her.’
Both doors opened at the same time. ‘I’m coming, son,’ his father said.
Jaysus! Paddy’s face looked as if it had caved in and his eyes were glazed. Then Maggie came out and she looked just as bad. Ryan hoped he hadn’t sounded too hard. Maybe there was something wrong with him, that he wasn’t sensitive enough, that he didn’t feel things as badly as his dad and Maggie.
He put his arms around both of them. ‘I think our Bridie needs a cuddle,’ he said. ‘She keeps asking where her mammy is.’
It was Saturday afternoon a few weeks later and Iris was trying on hats in Owen Owen’s, her favourite shop. She couldn’t make up her mind between the blue linen halo and the pink straw shaped like a pie with a frilly veil. In the end, she chose the pie, paid for it, and went upstairs to the restaurant for a coffee and a cake.
She’d brought a novel with her, mainly to read on the tram: The Razor’s Edge by Somerset Maugham, her favourite author. She took it out of her bag and began to read now as she sipped the coffee. After a while she became conscious that a man in a loud tweed sports jacket two tables away was staring at her fixedly. She frowned deliberately, hoping to put him off, but he continued to stare. Lifting the book, she held it in front of her face and he disappeared from view. When she’d finished the coffee, the cake, and the chapter she’d been reading, she put the book down and the man had gone.
Back home, Iris made tea and continued reading The Razor’s Edge in the kitchen. Tom, Frank and their father had gone to a football match – Liverpool were playing a London team, she couldn’t remember which. Going to the football was something they did three or four times a year. The match over, they would buy fish and chips and eat them out of the newspaper, then spend the rest of the night in a working-class pub singing along with the clientele. They would all go home mildly drunk, so she wasn’t expecting Tom until about ten o’clock.
Not that she minded. In about an hour, Nell would arrive, possibly bringing Maggie with her. The plan was to have tea and afterwards go to the Palace in Marsh Lane to see Mr Skeffington, with Bette Davis and Claude Rains. If Maggie came, it would be as if they were in the army again – it was the first time all three of them had gone out together since they’d left.
It would seem Maggie was finding it hard to get over her mother’s death; it had really knocked the stuffing out of her. Nor was she enjoying having taken over Sheila’s role in running the house. She was a hopeless cook with no interest in housework of any description, and the O’Neill household was a complete mess according to Nell, who helped out a bit. Poor little Bridie cried for her mam every night, but Maggie was no help, too easily giving in to tears herself.
There was a knock on the door. Iris laid down her book and went to answer it. It might be Nell arriving early, or a hopeful patient looking for emergency treatment. If the second, they would be unlucky. She would direct them to the nearest hospital.
But when she opened the door, she found it was neither. Instead, the man she’d seen in Owen Owen’s restaurant was outside. It was the sports jacket she recognised first: black and cream houndstooth, really dreadful.
He smiled, but she didn’t smile back. ‘Yes?’ she asked abruptly.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ His smile became wider. ‘Sergeant Grant, isn’t it? Iris to her friends.’ He spoke well, with a classy southern accent.
‘Who are you?’ Her heart seemed to shrivel inside her body. He had actually followed her home, boarded the same tram.
‘Major Williams, Matthew to my friends.’ He made to walk into the house, but she stopped him. ‘Now that’s no way to act with a friend, is it, Iris?’ he said, smiling still. ‘Because we were friends in Plymouth, close friends if I remember rightly. Very close,’ he emphasised. ‘I would like us to have a little talk about those times, if you don’t mind.’
‘I do mind, actually.’ Iris stayed where she was, blocking his access.
The smile vanished and his blue eyes narrowed. He was a good-looking man, about forty, quite tall. She noticed that the collar of his pale grey shirt was slightly frayed and the buttonholes on his sports coat needed repair. There was a weary, almost shamed expression on his handsome features. This was a man down on his luck, she realised.
‘Then maybe I should talk to your husband about our friendship,’ he said. ‘I’m sure there are episodes of your life in the army that he would find fascinating. I’ll come back tomorrow, shall I? After Sunday lunch should be a good time. Or is your husband available now?’
Iris stood to one side and let him in. ‘My husband is out,’ she said quietly. She took him into the waiting room. No way would he be allowed upstairs where she lived with Tom.
He glanced around the room with its four rows of metal chairs. ‘I noticed the brass plate outside saying your husband is a doctor.’ He managed to raise another smile. ‘In which row should I sit?’
‘Anywhere you like.’ She sat at the end of the back row. He turned the chair in front round so they were facing each other.
‘I’m not going to beat about the bush,’ he said. ‘I need cash and I need it straight away. I’m only in Liverpool because I came for an interview for a job that I didn’t get. It was like manna from heaven when I saw you in that shop earlier and remembered what we’d been to each other in the army – lovers, were we not? Quite passionate lovers, if I remember rightly. How many nights did we spend together in that hotel?’
‘I can’t recall.’ It had been four, she remembered quite clearly. And they had been passionate. He hadn’t been at the camp for long. He’d been posted to India and she had taken it for granted that she would never see him again.
‘I wasn’t the only one, was I, Sergeant? You were well known in that place. “Keep an eye out for the sexy sergeant,” I was told by one chap when he knew I was bound for Plymouth. I think “camp bike” is the appropriate description.’
‘How much do you want?’ Iris asked baldly. She had no alternative but to pay him.
He shrugged. ‘Fifty quid should do for now.’
She gasped. ‘Fifty! Do you seriously think I can lay my hands on fifty pounds at the drop of a hat? I would have to go to the bank, and they aren’t open until Monday.’ What did he mean, ‘for now’? Was it his intention to come back aga
in? She was doing her utmost to stay calm, but inwardly she was screaming and badly wanted to be sick. Now that he had found where she lived, she was trapped. He might never leave her alone.
She said, ‘On reflection, even if the bank was open, I couldn’t withdraw fifty pounds. My husband would have to sign the cheque and I couldn’t possibly ask him.’ She had a bank account of her own, but it only contained about ten pounds, maybe even less.
‘You must think of a reason to get him sign a cheque. Tell him you want a new fur coat or something.’
‘But he’ll expect to see the coat!’ He’d also think it very strange that she’d want a fur coat at the start of summer. And it was out of character for her to buy something so expensive without discussing it with him first.
‘Then say you want jewellery, buy cheap stuff instead and show him that,’ he said impatiently, as if it was something she should have thought of herself. ‘It’s what my wife used to do.’
‘Does your wife approve of you blackmailing other women?’ Iris asked sarcastically.
Anger flared in his nice blue eyes. ‘She left me for my brother while I was in India fighting for my country,’ he said bitterly. ‘When I got home, she’d moved into his house and our house had been let to someone else. I had no job, nowhere to live, no wife.’
Iris wasn’t going to say she was sorry for him. ‘So you decided to take up blackmail as a career.’
She’d made him angrier, which was a foolish thing to do. He leant forward in the chair and grasped the top of her arm, squeezing it hard. ‘Look, I’ll be here at half past ten on Monday morning and expect to be given fifty pounds – no, more like midday; you need time to get to a bank. If it’s not forthcoming, I will sit in this room and wait until your husband is free and inform him of his pretty wife’s sideline while she was in the army.’
‘And do you expect him to give you fifty pounds?’ Iris said, not without irony. She wondered how she was managing to stay so outwardly calm when her insides were in turmoil.
The man shrugged and released her arm. ‘You never know, if I put it a certain way, offer him my sympathy, say my wife did more or less the same, tell him just how hard up I am, the good-hearted doctor might find it in him to help me.’
Knowing Tom, that could possibly turn out to be true, but it would mean the end of their marriage. Iris rose from the chair. ‘I think you’d better leave,’ she said. ‘Where will you be staying in Liverpool?’ She wasn’t sure why she asked, because she didn’t care if he was sleeping in the street. Perhaps it was because she already had the germ of an idea.
‘The Sloane Hotel in the city centre. I don’t suppose,’ he said with a sly grin, ‘there’s any chance of renewing the exciting relationship we had in Plymouth for half an hour or so? As you can imagine, I have plenty of time to spare.’
‘You must be joking.’
Nell and Maggie arrived not long after the major had gone. Nell remarked that Iris looked terribly pale. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked.
‘Just a bit off,’ Iris confessed. ‘Do you mind if I sit upstairs while you make the meal?’
Maggie asked if she would like a cup of tea brought up, and Iris agreed that she would. Maggie was looking a bit brighter. It seemed Ryan’s girlfriend Rosie had started to come at weekends and look after things, so Maggie could have Saturday and Sunday off.
‘She loves housework,’ Maggie said incredulously, as if Rosie had a rare disease that marked her out from the rest of society. ‘She and our Ryan are talking about getting married.’
Iris went upstairs and could hear them chattering away. They were such innocents, the pair of them – well, Nell was. Lord knows what Maggie might have got up to with that Chris character she’d been going out with, had been about to marry but had finished with in a quite mysterious way.
The camp bike!
‘Oh Lord!’ she whispered, burying her face in her hands. If only you could rub out the past and start again. What a stupid thing to think. The past was set like concrete and could never be changed. She wondered if Major Williams would get fed up with Liverpool and return home before Monday. If he had a home. But he must live somewhere, even if it was only a bedsitting room in London, or even one of those hostel places where men slept in dormitories.
Perhaps she should have been nicer to him, Iris thought, much too late, instead of rubbing him up the wrong way, making it likely he’d return on Monday and tell Tom purely out of spite.
She should have cooked him a meal, explained in a reasonable way how impossible it would be to obtain money without Tom knowing. She could have offered him the money out of her own account as proof that she was genuinely sympathetic and wanted to help. She could even have gone to bed with him . . . She dashed the thought from her mind.
Since coming home, she’d not felt sure of her feelings for Tom, but the prospect of losing him filled her with horror. He wouldn’t throw her out, but their marriage would be over. No man would be willing to tolerate his wife behaving like a whore.
‘But all I wanted was a baby,’ she imagined herself saying.
‘You still behaved like a whore,’ Tom would say back.
Nell came in with a cup of tea. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Much better,’ Iris lied. ‘Almost back to normal. I’ll be down in a minute.’
‘You stay here and have a nice rest,’ Nell insisted. ‘I’ll give you a shout when the meal’s ready.’ They were having mock duck – made with sausagemeat and covered with cheese sauce that didn’t require cheese. It was absolutely delicious.
Iris drank the tea quickly, then went downstairs. Just now, she preferred not to be left alone with her own thoughts.
It appeared Alfred Desmond had spent the afternoon at the police station.
Iris gasped. ‘What’s he done wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ Nell said. ‘He’s friendly with some of the coppers; takes them whisky and biscuits and stuff, to keep on their right side, like. Me da’s got irons in an awful lot of fires. He could get away with murder if he wanted.’ She’d brought a large box of Cadbury’s chocolates for the girls to eat at the pictures, a beautiful round box with yellow roses on the lid, a gift from her father.
It was then that the seed that had been planted in Iris’s mind earlier that afternoon began to sprout. She would think about it in the pictures and see what developed.
The plot of Mr Skeffington was highly dramatic, but Iris was too busy creating her own plot to concentrate. Bette Davis and Claude Rains were two of her favourite actors, and she hoped the opportunity might come to see the film again.
‘What’s the name of the pub where your father drinks?’ she asked Nell when they were outside, the picture over.
‘The Queen’s Arms in Pearl Street,’ the girl replied. ‘Why d’you want to know?’
‘Like I said before, Tom’s spending the evening in a pub for a change. I just wondered if it might be the same one as your dad’s.’
Nell chuckled. ‘Liverpool has about a million pubs. It wouldn’t half be a coincidence if your Tom and my dad ended up in the same one.’
‘I just wondered.’ Iris shrugged.
They said good night, and Maggie and Nell went home. Instead of going home herself, to pass the time Iris walked slowly in the direction of the river. It was impossible to get close to the water because of the docks that lined the road. Lights shone beyond the tall wooden gates, and there was the sound of people working. At this hour, there were few people in the Dock Road and a sensation of aloneness pressed heavily upon her. She shuddered at the idea that this sensation could stay with her for ever if Major Williams told Tom about their relationship on Monday morning.
By now, the girls would be in their own houses and there was no chance of bumping into them. She squared her shoulders and walked swiftly back the way she’d come, into Marsh Lane, where there was rather more life. The chip shop was open and people were gathered outside, as well as outside a pub she didn’t know the name of. She w
alked further until she came to Pearl Street. The Queen’s Arms was situated about halfway down, and once again the customers had collected outside, some sitting on the pavement, leaning against the pub walls. She couldn’t imagine Alfred Desmond occupying such a demeaning position. He would be inside, on one of the best seats in the parlour. She visualised him surrounded by admirers and hangers-on, the centre of attention.
Well, she wasn’t going inside to find out. A man emerged in his shirtsleeves, no collar, and tattered braces holding up his working trousers. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and he was whistling ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’.
‘Is Alfred Desmond in there?’ Iris asked. She had on a headscarf rather than a hat, thinking that it made her less noticeable.
‘He is indeed, missus,’ the chap replied chirpily.
‘Would you ask him if he’ll come out and speak to me, please?’
‘Who shall I say it is? He’s not likely to come out without knowing who wants him.’ He grinned. ‘You could be a member of the criminal underworld luring him to his doom.’
Iris made a face. The chap had far too much imagination. ‘Tell him it’s the doctor’s wife.’
Barely a minute had passed before Alfred Desmond emerged from the building. ‘What’s up?’ he enquired, wiping his beer-soaked moustache with the back of his hand.
‘I’d like you to do me a favour,’ Iris said. ‘If it’s possible, that is.’
He put his hand beneath her elbow and led her around the corner into Garnet Street, where it was quieter. ‘And what can I do for you, Mrs Grant?’
‘I have a problem,’ Iris stammered. She should have rehearsed what she was going to say. ‘There’s a man – I knew him in the army – and he came to the house this afternoon. He’s threatening to tell Tom, my husband, all sorts of things about me that aren’t true. There’s no way Tom will believe him, but it will upset him terribly. Nell will have told you how hard he works on behalf of his patients. I just don’t want him troubled, that’s all.’
‘And what would you like me to do about it, Mrs Grant?’ He sounded vaguely amused. He’d probably guessed what she had in mind, but wanted to hear her put it into words.