Liverpool Annie

by Maureen Lee

  Annie knew nothing about a pension fund. She opened the envelope later and found a cheque for five hundred pounds. Like Lauri, she didn't want charity. Next time she saw Mike she'd give him the cheque back.

  iristmas came and Christmas went. Marie got on well ith the children. She seemed able to come down to eir level without being patronising. Annie thought istfully she would have made a wonderful mother, aniel wanted to know everything about Dr Who and e promised to send a photo signed by Dr Who mself, Patrick Troughton.

  On Boxing Day morning, it was Marie who came to the room and got into bed with Annie. They sat up, igging the duvet around them.

  'You won't forget that picture, will you?' Annie eaded. 'Otherwise Daniel will be bitterly disap-)inted.'

  Marie promised to post it as soon as she got home. 'I on't leave it so long before I come again,' she vowed. 'I've a feeling you said something like that before.' 'I'm sorry, sis, but everything's so frenetic down ere.'

  'You said that, too.' Annie smiled. 'It doesn't matter, V. You came when I really needed you. That's all I ire. How's the acting going, anyroad? We've scarcely id time to talk since you came.' Marie paused before answering. 'Lousy, sis,' she ^hed. 'I think I'm the oldest female in Hair. I'm lirty, and the others are at least ten years younger. I as surprised they took me on at my age.' Her face I'isted bitterly. 'I'm old, Annie, and I've got no-here.'

  'I don't suppose you've thought of giving up?' Annie rayed the answer would be 'yes', but Marie shook her :ad.

  'If I give up now, I'll have wasted thirteen years. No,

  s, I'm keeping on. I'll be a success if it kills me.'

  Chris Andrews came over later to see Marie. He

  lushed when she told him he looked adorable with his

  igtail. 'I've written a play,' he said nervously. 'It's the

  first I've done since Goldilocks. I wondered if you'd read it and let me have your opinion.'

  'Of course,' Marie said grandly, as if budding playwrights regularly pressed their work on her. She left that afternoon to return to the chorus of Hair and her dream of becoming a famous actress.

  Marie had gone, Christmas was over. Tomorrow, things would be back to normal. People would get on with their lives, including Annie, though it wouldn't be normal for her. She had to learn to live without Lauri.

  She'd never looked in the drawer containing Lauri's papers before. He'd taken care of everything; written cheques for the bills which he left on the windowsill beside the front door for her to post.

  'Crikey!' she muttered when she sorted through the bank and building society statements, the bills for gas, electricity, rates, telephone, insurance. 'I never realised the central heating cost so much.' She'd never realised anything cost so much, and felt resentment that he'd kept her so much in the dark, not shared things the way other couples did. The resentment was immediately replaced by guilt, as it seemed awful to feel even mildly angry with someone who'd so recently died.

  She immediately turned the central heating down. It was New Year's Day and snowing heavily, but Sara and Daniel were next door.

  The papers were spread on the table and she saw that, according to the last statement from the building society, two thousand pounds was owed on the house, yet the initial loan hadn't been for much more. The monthly payments had been taken up in interest charges.

  'Bloody hell!' She multiplied the quarterly bills by four, the mortgage payments by twelve, added the yearly bills, and divided the total by fifty-two.

  'Bloody hell!' she said again. It came to nearly twice hat she would get in widow's pension coupled with amily Allowance for Daniel. She might be allowed cher benefit from the State, but it would never be lOugh to meet the bills - and there were food and othes to buy on top. She searched for the latest bank atement. It was irritating that she had no idea how luch money was in the bank.

  'Well, that won't last long,' she thought when she mnd it was four hundred and eighty-two pounds, but le statement was dated the first of December and ould be taken up by funeral costs. 'I think I'll keep lat cheque from Mike, after all. It will last until I get a >b. We should have taken out one of those insurance lings me dad used to sell.' People paid coppers a week )wards a lump sum when someone died. 'But it never rossed me mind one of us would die.' She screwed up er face, determined not to cry. 'Anyroad, funerals cost

  fortune nowadays, it would have taken more than ennies to save four hundred pounds.'

  As soon as the children were back at school, she'd )ok for a job. Bruno said she could return to the irand, but the wages weren't nearly enough. Even so, le job would have to be part-time. There was no way le'd let Sara and Daniel become latchkey kids like alerie's.

  : was strange how life seemed to repeat itself. Annie )und herself again searching through the Liverpool •cho for work. Chris Andrews let her borrow his ^pewriter to practise on, and after a few hesitant tarts, she found her fingers as nimble as ever. It was le same with shorthand. Machin & Harpers were ood teachers. If she were asked to take a test during n interview, she would pass with flying colours. If she ever went for an interview! Only a few of the

  jobs advertised were part-time. Annie wrote after every single one, but by the time February arrived all she had received was letter after letter of rejection. In desperation, she discussed the matter with her neighbour. Valerie had found a job. What magic formula had she used?

  'No-one will take you if you've got young children,' Valerie said flatly. 'They think you'll be off every five minutes if they've got a cold or something, that you'd always put the kids before the job.'

  'I would,' said Annie.

  Valerie shrugged, as if this proved her point.

  'How did you manage it?' Annie asked curiously. 'You've got four.'

  'I told them my mother lived with me.' Valerie had the grace to blush. Mrs Owen had been persuaded to stay in Heather Close during the holidays, but that was all. Tracy had suffered from a bad cold the whole of last term, but she'd still been sent to school.

  School holidays were something Annie hadn't allowed herself to think about. She was concerned only with the immediate future. The money m the bank was shrinking alarmingly. If she wasn't fixed up by Easter, she had no idea what would happen.

  That night, she walked round the house to see if there was anything to sell, but all she found was the children's old cot which might fetch enough to pay for half a week's groceries. Of course, she could sell the Anglia which was old, but it ran well and she wanted to keep it. It would save time hanging round for buses if she ever got a job, though that seemed more and more unlikely, and when Sara started at Grenville Lucas next year, she could give her a lift when it was raining.

  'Oh, Lauri,' she whispered. She tried to imagine him, wherever he was; perhaps his spirit still existed, looking down on her, offering advice, telling her what she

  lould do. They'd never talked about death, they'd 2ver really talked about anything serious. No doubt he lought he'd always be there to look after her and the lildren.

  Annie sighed. It was story-time. The hour spent )gether in the chair had become very precious lately. 7hen she finished reading, Daniel always wanted to now about heaven, what was it like? Tonight, he visted his face earnestly. 'Will Dad get on well with lod?'

  'Your dad got on well with everybody.' Except me, le thought.

  She'd gone to see the headmistress, Mrs Dawson, and )ld her about Lauri the day the children returned to ;hool. 'We'll keep an eye on them,' Mrs Dawson romised. 'The loss of a parent affects different children 1 different ways, but in my experience, they always ull through.'

  The children went to bed. Marie had sent the signed icture of Dr Who, and it was stuck with a drawing pin D Daniel's wall.

  Sylvia was coming round later. She was happily ousehunting, looking for somewhere with a garden )r children to play in. 'I'm not stopping at one,' she aid cheerfully. 'Once this is born, I shall look round for suitably gorgeous man to sire the second. D'you think dike would be interested?' she ad
ded teasingly. 'I'd uite like a red-haired baby.'

  Lucky old Sylvia, Annie thought moodily. She's never ad to worry about money.

  She made tea ready for when Sylvia came, and was itting in the breakfast room, thinking tearfully about -auri, and wondering what the hell she was supposed to lo, when the back door opened.

  'It's only us,' Valerie Cunningham shouted. She came a followed by Kevin. 'We'd like a little word.'

  'Sit down. I'm expecting Sylvia any minute.' Annie felt a moment of hope. Perhaps Valerie had told Kevin about her unsuccessful search for work, and he'd come to offer her a job in his bank!

  They looked at each other expectantly, then, when her husband made no attempt to speak, Valerie began in a rush, 'I've been talking to Kevin about your little problem.'

  It didn't exactly seem a little problem, Annie thought, and her expectations of a job offer soared slightly higher.

  'The thing is, we wondered if you'd thought of selling the house?'

  'Selling the house!' The idea had never crossed her mind.

  Kevin was becoming jowly. His throat wobbled when he spoke. 'It's just that we've got these friends, it's a chap I work with, actually, and when I told him there was a possibility next door might become vacant, he was immediately interested.'

  'No-one told me there was a possibility my house might become vacant.' Annie's head felt very hot, as if the blood were rushing through at top speed and becoming over-heated. She told herself they were only being kind in attempting to solve her 'little' problem.

  'I don't know if you realise how much these houses are worth, Annie,' Valerie said eagerly.

  'My friend is prepared to pay five thousand - cash, that is.' Kevin's pale eyes blinked behind his glasses. 'So you wouldn't have to wait until he got a mortgage. He wouldn't want a survey. There's nothing wrong with our house, so yours is bound to be all right.'

  'Five thousand!' Annie gasped. 'But Lauri only paid . . .' What was it? She'd only looked at the building society papers a few weeks ago.

  'Two thousand, seven-fifty,' Valerie said promptly. 'Property is the best investment you can have.'

  'My friend is even prepared to pay the solicitor's ;osts,' Kevin went on. 'It would be over and done with n a few weeks, and you'd have a few thousand to play A^ith once you've paid off the mortgage.'

  'And where do me and the children live then, on the streets?'

  Valerie laughed. 'You can get a nice little place for a :ouple of thou or less. Some of those terraced houses ook quite cosy done up.' She glanced around the room. 'You have an eye for decoration, Annie. I've always thought your house looked far smarter than Durs.'

  A nice little place like Orlando Street, Annie thought bleakly, A place without a garden, so there'd be no willow tree, no shed with a verandah, no swing. If she'd stayed with Auntie Dot, that sort of house might hold no terror, but there was no way she'd return to somewhere like Orlando Street now.

  'Heather Close is such a desirable place to live,' Valerie said.

  'I know,' said Annie. 'Which is why I intend to stay.'

  Next morning, Annie phoned an estate agent and said she was thinking of selling her house in Heather Close and how much was it worth.''

  'Whereabouts in Heather Close?'

  'The far end, number seven.' She hoped he wouldn't ask to put a board up, as she had no intention of parting with Lauri's house.

  'The best part!' the man said warmly. 'I can see it in my mind's eye. We handled next door, the old couple who died. You've got an exceptionally big garden. Are you the one with the willow tree?'

  'That's right.'

  The estate agent hummed a little tune. 'Well, I'd need to look round, but I'd say, roughly, mind, six and a half

  thou. You could ask a few hundred more, then wait and see how the cookie crumbles.'

  'Thank you,' Annie said faintly. She assured him she'd be in touch immediately she'd made up her mind.

  Six and a half thousand! She cast aside the suspicion that the Cunninghams had been trying to deceive her, because it scarcely bore thinking about. She supposed she could sell and buy somewhere cheaper and live on what was left, but although she didn't know much about this sort of thing, she had a feeling the building society would never give her, a widow without a job, another mortgage, which meant she'd have to buy the 'somewhere cheaper' for cash. By the time she'd repaid the two thousand pounds owing, the rest wouldn't last all that long. The cost of living was rising, despite the fact Edward Heath had promised to 'cut prices at a stroke', and the new Value Added Tax didn't help. Food prices were set to rise even further now the country had joined the European Community. Lauri had always said joining the EEC was a terrible mistake. Nearly everyone in the Labour Party was dead against it.

  Annie touched the smooth cupola-shaped knob at the bottom of the stairs which Lauri had made specially. She couldn't stand the idea of another family living here. It was intolerable to imagine a strange woman using her kitchen, strange children playing inside the willow tree, an entirely strange family sitting in front of the fireplace that Lauri had built. It may only be a rather ordinary semi-detached in a suburb of Liverpool, but the house was part of Lauri, part of her. It was the only home the children had ever known. The time might come when she'd have no option but to sell, but until that time came, Annie vowed she would do all she could to cling on to the home she loved.

  le wasn't sure where to turn next. She typed out a 3zen cards for shop windows offering typing at ten lillings an hour, and was thrilled when a girl, a edical student, brought a thesis to be typed. The riting was execrable and contained numerous Latin rms. Annie typed till past midnight for two nights in a >w. The girl looked startled when asked for three Dunds, although it should have been more.

  Days later, an elderly man turned up with a novel i'd written in a neat, crabbed, though legible hand, jt when she began to type, there were lines and circles /^erywhere, moving words, sentences or entire iragraphs from one place to another, and she'd be alfway down a page, only to discover she hadn't icluded something from the page before. It took two eeks of solid work to complete the nearly five hundred ages. Annie totalled up the hours; it came to over a Lindred. She couldn't possibly ask for fifty pounds! She ;ked for thirty, and the man looked even more startled lan the student.

  'I hope I get it published after all this expense,' he rumbled.

  She doubted it. It was the worst novel she'd ever read.

  Although a very nice man from a garage brought ;veral invoices and insisted on giving her a pound hen she only asked for ten shillings, she realised she 'asn't going to make a fortune as a typist. A few weeks Iter she gave Chris Andrews his typewriter back.

  She economised on everything, kept the central eating turned down during the day, cancelled some f the insurances, bought the cheapest mincemeat tid made pies and stews. The children remarked on ow often they seemed to have jelly and custard for fters.

  They had no idea how hard up she was. She still gave lem dinner money for school, although they could

  have had free meals, because she didn't want them thinking they were different. No-one knew the difficulties she was having, except the Cunninghams. She would have had the telephone disconnected, but people might guess why. When Dot or Bert asked how she was coping, she assured them, 'Fine.' They had a few pounds put away, and would insist on helping if they knew she was in trouble. But it would be degrading to take money off two old people who enjoyed splashing their tiny amount of wealth on their grandchildren.

  In May, the balance in the bank had shrunk to double figures, and the electricity bill was due any minute. 'I should have stayed at the Grand, there would have been a few pounds coming in.' But Bruno had hired someone else months ago. 'If only I had someone to talk to,' Annie fretted. 'If only our Marie would get in touch!' Marie was impossible to get hold of, never there when she phoned. Chris Andrews, though, had received a letter. Marie thought his play 'wonderful', and promised to show it to a director she knew.

  On
e Sunday after Mass, she was in the garden, digging at the weeds in a desultory fashion, conscious of the sun warm on her back, when she heard Vera Barclay come into her garden. Vera helped on the fruit and veg stall all week and could only do her washing on Sundays. Annie straightened up, relieved to give the weeds a rest for the moment.

  'Morning, Vera,' she shouted over the Travers' old shiplap fence.

  Vera was hidden behind a sheet she was pegging on the line. Her rosy, weatherbeaten face appeared, the inevitable cigarette hanging from her mouth. She bade Annie a cheerful 'Morning, luv.' She was a small, outgoing woman with short curly brown hair. 'How's things?'

  'Fine,' Annie said automatically.

  After Vera had pegged out another sheet, she came over to the fence and looked at Annie searchingly with her bright blue eyes. 'You're always "fine",' she said.

  'Well . . .' Annie shrugged.

  'I wouldn't be fine if my Sid had passed away and I was left with two young kids to bring up on me own.'

  'Well,' Annie said again. She'd always known that Vera and Sid were kindness itself. They were good neighbours, and had sent a lovely wreath for Lauri's funeral, but the two women had never become close. They talked mainly, as now, over the fence. Annie was more friendly with Valerie, whom she'd never particularly cared for, than with Vera.

  Sara and Daniel came wandering into the garden, looking rather lost. 'Why don't you go and play next door?' Annie suggested. Shouts and screams could be heard from the Cunninghams.

  Sara shook her head. Daniel took no notice and headed for the swing. They sat on it together, Sara pushing slightly with her foot.

  'I've got something that'll cheer you two up.' Vera disappeared into the house and came back with two big Jaffa oranges. 'They're lovely and sweet and juicy - and there's no pips!'

  To Annie's embarrassment, Daniel made no move to get the orange, but Sara came across and took them both. 'Thank you very much,' she said politely. 'It's ages since we had an orange.'