Laceys of Liverpool (2 page)

‘They say you can sell hair like that for a small fortune in the West End of London,’ Mrs Piper yelled from under the dryer when Alice came back.

‘Who to?’

‘Wig makers. They’re always on the lookout for a good head of hair.’

‘Really,’ Alice said doubtfully. The hair she’d just thrown away was more suitable for a bird’s nest: dry as dust, over-permed, full of split ends and dyed the colour of soot.

‘You can comb Mrs Piper out now, Alice,’ Myrtle said in a slurred voice.

‘About time too,’ Florrie Piper said, tight-lipped. ‘These curlers are giving me gyp.’

‘I don’t know how you stand it to be honest.’ Alice switched off the dryer, and Mrs Piper heaved her large body out of the chair and went to sit in front of a pink-tinted mirror.

‘We can’t all have naturally wavy hair, Alice Lacey, not like you.’ Florrie Piper chose to take offence. She
sniffed audibly. ‘You shouldn’t work in a hairdresser’s if you can’t take what’s done to the customers.’

Alice removed the net and yelped when her fingers touched a red-hot metal curler. It must be torture, sitting for half an hour with bits of burning metal pressed against your scalp. ‘I’ll take them out in a minute,’ she muttered. ‘Would you like a mince pie?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say no,’ Mrs Piper said graciously. She’d already had three. Food wasn’t usually provided in Myrtle’s Hairdressing Salon, but it was Christmas Eve. Some rather tired decorations festooned the walls and a bent tinsel star hung in the steam-covered window. There’d been sherry earlier, but the proprietor had finished off the lot by dinner time. Myrtle was as tipsy as a lord and had made a terrible mess of Mrs Fowler with the curling tongues. The waves were dead uneven. Fortunately, Mrs Fowler’s sight wasn’t all it should be and she refused to wear glasses. Hopefully, she wouldn’t notice.

Mrs Piper had recovered her good humour. ‘What are you doing for Christmas, luv?’ she enquired when Alice began to remove the curlers. Her ears were a startling crimson.

‘Nothing much.’ Alice wrinkled her nose. ‘John’s mam’s coming to Christmas dinner, along with his brother Billy and his wife. They’ve got a little boy, Maurice, exactly the same age as our Cormac. Me dad usually comes, but he’s off to Ireland tonight to spend Christmas with his sister. She’s not been well.’

‘Your Cormac will be starting school soon, I expect.’

‘In January. He was five only yesterday.’

‘And how are your girls? You know, I can never remember their names.’

‘Fionnuala, Orla and Maeve,’ Alice said for the thousandth time in her life. ‘They’re at a party this avvy
in St James’s church hall. Something to do with Sunday School. I made them a cake to take. I managed to get some dates.’

Mrs Piper eyed the remainder of the mince pies. ‘Would you like another?’ Alice enquired.

‘I wouldn’t say no,’ Mrs Piper repeated. ‘It would be a shame if they went to waste. You’re closing early today, aren’t you? I must be one of your last customers.’

‘We’ve got a couple of trims, that’s all. Here’s one of ’em now.’ The bell on the door gave its rather muted ring – it probably needed oiling – and Bernadette Moynihan came in. She was a vivacious young woman with an unusually voluptuous figure for someone so small. Alice smiled warmly at her best friend. ‘Help yourself to a mince pie, Bernie.’

‘I thought we were having sherry an’ all,’ Bernadette cried. ‘I’ve been looking forward to it all day.’

‘I’m afraid it’s gone.’ Alice glanced at Myrtle who seemed to have given up altogether on hairdressing and was staring drunkenly at her reflection in the pink mirror.

Bernadette grinned. ‘She looks like a ghoul,’ she whispered.

Myrtle was a tad too old for so much lipstick, eyeshadow, mascara and rouge. Now, everything was smudged and she looked like a sad, elderly clown. Her grey roots were showing and the rest of her hair had been peroxided to a yellow frizz. She made a poor advertisement for a hairdressing salon.

‘Don’t comb it out too much, luv,’ Mrs Piper said when the curlers were removed. ‘I like it left tight. It lasts longer.’

Alice loosened the curls slightly with her fingers and Mrs Piper said, ‘How much is that, luv?’

‘Half a crown.’

‘And worth every penny!’ She left, tipping Alice threepence, with her head resembling the inside of an Eccles cake.

The door closed and Alice looked from Bernadette to Myrtle who was slowly falling asleep, then back again. ‘I’m not supposed to give trims, not official, like.’ She usually went to Bernadette’s to trim her hair, or Bernadette came to hers.

‘Well, if you don’t cut me hair, it doesn’t look like anyone else will.’ Bernadette seized a gown and tied it around her neck. ‘I just want an inch off. Anyroad, Al, you’ve got the knack. You couldn’t do it better if you were properly trained. I only came ’cos it’s Christmas and I was expecting mince pies and a glass of sherry. To be sadly disappointed,’ she added in a loud voice in Myrtle’s direction, ‘in regard to the sherry.’

Alice giggled. ‘Sit down, luv. An inch you said?’

‘One inch. A fraction shorter, a fraction longer, and I’ll complain to the management.’

‘You’ll be lucky.’ Alice attacked Bernadette’s smooth fair hair, draped over one eye like Veronica Lake, with the scissors. ‘Are you looking forward to tonight?’

Bernadette grinned. ‘Ever so much. I’ve always liked Roy McBride. He works in Accounts. I was thrilled to pieces when he asked me out – and to a dinner dance on Christmas Eve!’

‘I hope you have a lovely time.’ Alice placed her hands on her friend’s shoulders and they stared at each other in the mirror. ‘Don’t be too disappointed if he turns out like some of the others, will you, luv?’

‘Like
most
of the others, you mean. All
I
want is company, all
they
want is . . . well, I can’t think of a polite word for it. Men seem to think a young widow is game for anything.’ Her usually cheerful face grew sober. ‘Oh, Al, I don’t half wish Bob hadn’t been killed. I feel
guilty going out with other men. I get so lonely, but not lonely enough to jump into bed with every man I meet. If only we’d had kids. At least they’d make me feel wanted.’

‘I know, luv,’ Alice said gently.

‘We kept putting them off, kids, until we got a house. We didn’t want to start a family while we were still in rooms. Then the war started, Bob was killed, and it’s been horrible ever since. And I’m still living in the same rooms.’

Alice squeezed her shoulders. ‘Don’t forget, you’re welcome round ours tomorrer if you feel like a jangle. Don’t be put off ’cos it’s Christmas Day.’

‘I’m going to me mam’s, Al, but thanks all the same.’ Bernadette reached up and touched Alice’s hand. ‘I’m sorry, luv, for being such a moan. You’ve got enough problems of your own these days, what with John the way he is. It’s just that you’re the only person I’ve got to talk to.’

‘Don’t you dare apologise, Bernadette Moynihan. You’re the only person I’ve told about John. Today was your turn for a moan. Next time it’ll be mine.’

The final customer of the day arrived; Mrs O’Leary, with her ten-year-old daughter, Daisy, who was in Maeve’s class at school and whose long, auburn ringlets were in need of a good trim. By now, Myrtle was fast asleep and snoring.

‘Would you like me to do it?’ an embarrassed Alice offered. ‘I won’t be long with Bernie.’

‘Well, I haven’t got much choice, have I?’ Mrs O’Leary laughed. ‘At least you’ll probably cut it level both sides. Myrtle’s usually well out. I sometimes wonder why we come. I suppose it’s because it’s so convenient, right at the end of the street, but I think I’ll give that place in Marsh Lane a try. Each time we come
Myrtle’s worse than the time before. And it’s not just the drink. She’s every bit as useless if she’s sober. If it weren’t for you, Alice, this place would have closed down years ago.’

‘Hear, hear,’ cried Bernadette. ‘It’s Al who keeps it going.’

Alice blushed, but she had a feeling of dread. If Myrtle’s closed, what would she do? She’d started four years ago, just giving a hand: sweeping up, wiping down, putting women under the dryers, taking them out again, washing hair, fetching towels, putting on gowns. Lately, with Myrtle going seriously downhill in more ways than one, she’d been taking on more and more responsibility. It was impossible to work in a hairdresser’s for so long without learning how it was done. Alice was quite capable of giving a shampoo and set, a Marcel or Eugene wave, a perm – the new method was so much simpler than having to plug in every curler separately, a procedure that took all of four hours – and she seemed to have a knack with scissors. It was just a question of holding them right.

She only lived in the next street. It was easy to pop home when business was slack to make the girls their tea, keep an eye on them during the holidays. She usually brought Cormac with her. An angel of a child, he’d been quite happy to lie in his pram in the kitchen, play on the pavement outside when he got older, or sit in the corner, drawing, on the days it rained. But it wasn’t just the convenience, or the extra money, useful though it was. Nowadays the hairdresser’s provided an escape from the tragedy her life had become since last May. For most people the end of the worst war the world had ever known was a joyful occasion, a reason to celebrate. For the Laceys it had been a nightmare.

Myrtle’s was an entirely different world: a bright, cosy,
highly dramatic little world behind thick lace curtains and steamed-up windows, quite separate from the one outside. There was always something to laugh about, always a choice piece of gossip doing the rounds. The women had sorted out the war between them – it would probably have ended sooner had Winston Churchill been privy to the sound advice of Myrtle Rimmer’s customers.

Most women were willing, even anxious, to open up their hearts to their hairdresser. There were some very respectable men in Bootle who’d have a fit if they knew the things Alice had been told about them. She never repeated anything, not even to Bernie.

Bernadette waited until Alice had cut Daisy O’Leary’s ringlets so they were level both sides and Mrs O’Leary pronounced herself satisfied. She wished them Merry Christmas and departed.

Alice locked the door, turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ and between them the two women half carried, half dragged the proprietor to her flat upstairs and laid her on the bed.

‘Jaysus,’ Bernadette gasped. ‘It don’t half pong in here. She’s not fit to live on her own, Al, let alone run a hairdresser’s.’

The bed was unmade, the curtains still drawn. Alice covered her employer with several dirty blankets and regarded her worriedly. ‘I’ll pop round tomorrer after dinner, like. See if she’s all right. She said something about going to a friend’s for tea.’

‘Has she got any relatives?’ Bernadette asked.

‘There’s a daughter somewhere. Southampton, I think. Myrtle’s husband died ages ago.’ She heard someone try the salon door, but ignored it. There was a notice announcing they closed at four.

They returned downstairs. After Bernadette had gone,
Alice brushed the floor again, gave it a cursory going over with a wet mop, wiped surfaces, polished mirrors, straightened chairs, arranged the three dryers at the same angle and tied the dirty towels in a bundle ready to go to the laundry when the salon reopened after Christmas. She glanced around to see if there was anything she’d missed. Well, the lace curtain could do with mending, not to mention a good wash, the walls were badly in need of a lick of paint, and the oilcloth should be replaced before a customer caught her heel in one of the numerous frayed holes and went flying. Otherwise, everywhere looked OK. She could go home.

Instead, Alice switched off the light and sat under a dryer. Go home for what? she asked herself. The girls weren’t due till five. Her dad had taken Cormac to the grotto in Stanley Road. John was finishing work at three. He’d be home by now. Alice shuddered. She didn’t want to be alone with her husband.

John Lacey regarded what was left of his face in the chrome mirror over the mantelpiece. It had been a handsome face once. He wasn’t a conceited man, but he’d always known that he and his brother Billy weren’t at the back of the queue when the Lord handed out good looks. Both were tall, going on six feet. John’s dark-brown hair was curly, Billy’s straight. They had the same rich-brown eyes, the same straight nose, the same wide brow. His mam, never one to consider anyone’s feelings, used to say John was the handsomer of the two. He had a firmer mouth, there was something determined about his chin. Billy’s chin was weak.

Mam didn’t say that now, not since her elder son had turned into a monster. John stroked the melted skin on his right cheek, touched the corner of the unnaturally angled slit of an eye. If only he hadn’t gone to the aid of
the seaman trapped in the hold when the boiler had exploded on that merchant ship. The hold had become a furnace, the man was screaming, his overalls on fire. He emerged from the flames, a blazing phantom, hair burning, screaming for help.

The irony was he hadn’t managed to save the chap. He had died within minutes, writhing in agony on the deck, everyone too terrified to touch him. Everyone except that dickhead, John Lacey, who’d dragged him out, burnt his own hands, burnt his face. The hands had mended, but not the face.

A further irony was that the war was virtually over and the accident had had nothing to do with the conflict. The firefighters were on duty at Gladstone Dock, as they had been every night over the past five years, when the boiler had gone up. They’d come through the war unscathed, all his family, his brother’s family, his mam, his father-in-law. Amber Street itself hadn’t been touched, not even a broken window, while numerous other streets in Bootle had been reduced to rubble. Then, in the very last week, John had lost half his face.

He stared at the grotesque reflection in the mirror. ‘Fool!’ he spat through crooked lips.

Where were his children – his three girls, his little son? More important, where was his wife? He remembered the girls had gone to a party. His father-in-law had Cormac. But there was no explanation for why Alice wasn’t home.

‘She don’t fancy you no more,’ he told his reflection. ‘She’s with another fella. He’s giving her one right now, sticking it up her in the place that used to be yours.’