Laceys of Liverpool (4 page)

Downstairs again, she sat under the same dryer as she’d done the night before, the middle one. She was even more miserable now than she’d been then. What was to become of her, of John, of their children? How was she to convince John that she loved him? Would she continue to love him if he remained the angry, glowering, suspicious person, nothing like the man he used to be? Could you love someone who made your children unhappy? Did he love her? What had happened was awful, but as Maeve had wisely said, he had no right to take it out on his family.

‘White Christmas’ was being sung not far away. ‘Just like the ones we used to know . . .’ Not any more, we don’t, Alice thought bleakly. This Christmas has been nothing like the ones we used to know. The first after Mam died had been bad enough. Dad was gutted, but he’d done his best to brighten things up for his daughter. He’d bought her a new frock, taken her to the pantomime on Boxing Day. She was eight, an only child.

Alice knew she wasn’t a clever person. She hadn’t a single talent she could think of. She was often tongue-tied, stuck for something to say, slow-witted. She had achieved just five things in her life: she had married John Lacey, whom all the girls at Johnson’s Dye Factory had been mad about, and she’d had four beautiful children.

But if she was to get through the years to come and stay sane, she needed to do something else. Time passed so quickly. Pretty soon the girls would start getting married. There’d only be Cormac left and what if John
was still the same? Things at home were unbearable now and they’d be even more unbearable with the girls gone.

Yes, she had to
do
something. But what? At the moment, even her job was on the line and it wouldn’t be easy getting another, not with servicemen coming home, wanting back their jobs in the factories, and women all over the place being given the sack – women used to earning a wage and unwilling to return to being housewives. Bernadette said there’d been forty-two applications when the Gas Board where she worked had advertised for a wages clerk. Most were from women who’d been in the Forces, but it was a man who’d got the job. Not that Alice was fit to be a clerk of any sort, she couldn’t even add up.

‘We’ll not go round our John’s next Christmas if things there don’t improve,’ Billy Lacey said as he walked home through the fog with his family. ‘I’m glad you said we were having someone round to tea, luv, even if it were a lie. I couldn’t have stood another minute in that house.’

‘It wasn’t a lie,’ Cora said coolly. ‘Mr Flynn’s coming to tea.’

‘Mr Flynn, the landlord!’

‘The very same.’

Billy grimaced at the idea of another meal accompanied by stilted conversation. They were passing O’Connell Street where they used to live and which Billy much preferred to where they lived now. ‘I think I’ll drop in on Foxy Jones. I haven’t seen him since he came out the Army. I’ll be home in time for tea, luv.’

‘Like hell you will,’ Cora muttered as her husband, hands in pockets, whistling tunelessly, made off down the street. She wouldn’t see him again until the pubs closed. Not that she cared. The less she saw of Billy the better.

‘Dad!’ Maurice called plaintively, but his dad ignored him.

Cora gave her son a little shake, annoyed he wanted his dad when he had her. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you.’

Maurice took the words literally. ‘A bone, Mam?’

‘How many times have I told you not to sit on your Grannie Lacey’s knee? I can’t stand to see her maul you.’

The little boy felt confused. Gran had sat him on her knee. He’d had no choice in the matter. ‘I’m sorry, Mam.’ He apologised to his mother a hundred times a day. He was always getting things wrong, though was often mystified as to what they were.

‘You will be sorry when you get home.’

His stomach curled. He knew what the words meant and could tell by the way Mam walked, very quickly, shoulders back, lips pursed, that she was going to hit him with the cane. For the rest of the way home he did his best not to cry, but the minute the front door closed he started to bawl. ‘Don’t hit me, Mam. Please don’t hit me.’

His mother ignored his cries. ‘In here,’ she said imperiously, opening the door to the living room. ‘Come on!’ She tapped her foot impatiently.

Maurice walked slowly into the room, dragging his feet. What had he done wrong? He never knew what he’d done wrong. He was shaking with fear as his mam told him to bend over a chair and the cane swished three times against his bottom. It hurt badly. The little boy sobbed helplessly, knowing his bottom would sting for ages. He could understand being beaten if he broke windows, did something really bad, but although he tried very hard to be on his best behaviour, somehow he always managed to make Mam angry.

‘You can get to bed now.’

It was too early. He hadn’t had any tea. Still crying, the child made his way upstairs. In the living room his mother listened to the faltering steps. There was something very touching about the way he climbed, drawing his feet together on each stair. Her heart turned over as she imagined the sturdy little figure clutching the banister. She heard him reach the top, go into his room, then flew after him. He was sitting on the bed, knuckles pressed into his eyes.

‘Maurice!’ She fell on her knees, clutched him against her breast. ‘Don’t cry. Oh, don’t cry, luv. Your mammy loves you. She loves you more than anyone in the whole wide world.’

He felt hot, his small body shuddered in her arms, his heart thumped loudly against her own. Two small arms curled around her neck. Cora held him closely as wave after wave of raw, savage emotion coursed through her veins. There was nothing, absolutely nothing on earth comparable to the love she felt for the child sobbing in her arms, clinging to her, and it was made even sweeter by the knowledge that he loved her back, unquestioningly, wholeheartedly, because she was his mother.

‘Do you love your mam, son?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Shall we go down and have some tea?’

Maurice hiccuped. ‘Please, Mam.’

‘Would you like some Christmas cake?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Let Mam carry you.’ She picked him up, laughed and said, ‘Lord, you’re a weight. Pretty soon you’ll be carrying me.’

She carried him downstairs like a baby. Maurice, more confused than ever, wondered what it was he’d done right.

It was three years since Cora and her family had moved from O’Connell Street to Garibaldi Road. The new house was a great improvement on the old: semidetached, with three good bedrooms, a proper hall, small gardens front and back. There was a bathroom and separate lavatory upstairs. Even Billy, who hadn’t wanted to move, appreciated having a lavvy inside.

‘But we’ll never be able to afford the rent on a place like that,’ Billy protested. He was home on leave from the Army where he appeared to be having a whale of a time.

‘It’s twelve and six a week, half a crown more than we pay now.’ Cora was no longer prepared to be dictated to by her husband. If Billy wanted, he could stay in O’Connell Street on his own.

‘Only twelve and a tanner for a house in Garibaldi Road!’

‘According to the landlord, yes.’

Billy looked dubious. ‘I don’t want us to move, then have that Flynn geezer shove up the rent.’

‘He won’t,’ Cora assured him. ‘I work for him, don’t I? I told you. He calls himself Flynn Properties. I keep the books.’

She’d been badgering Horace Flynn for a better house for years. They couldn’t afford it, but she’d take in washing, she’d do anything to get out of O’Connell Street. Then, he’d owned just over thirty properties. Now there were forty. Every few months he bought another house.

‘We’re good tenants, aren’t we?’ she’d reasoned years ago. ‘We’re never late with the rent.’

‘No and I don’t know how you manage it, not with your husband in the Army. I’ve had to give notice to quit to half a dozen of me tenants since their hubbies
were called up. What is it you get; a shilling a day, and twenty-five bob a week allowance?’

‘I’m good at managing with money.’

Mr Flynn glanced around the neat parlour of O’Connell Street. He was small and tubby, shaped like a ball, with exceptionally short arms and legs. A fringe of greying hair went from ear to ear at the back of his otherwise bald head, which was covered with brown blotches, like over-large freckles. From what she could gather, he wasn’t married.

‘I must say you keep the place nice.’ He shook his head. ‘But no, Mrs Lacey. I’m not prepared to move tenants up a notch until I feel assured they’re in a position to pay the increased rent.’ He smiled a touch sarcastically. ‘Perhaps one day, when the war’s over and your husband’s in a well-paid job.’

If she had to wait for Billy to get a well-paid job, she’d be in O’Connell Street until the day she died. Cora gnawed her bottom lip. She was still shoplifting. It was easier with a baby in a pram, then a toddler in a pushchair. Like before, some things she kept, some she pawned. Once, when it was winter, she’d taken a fur coat from C & A Modes, not an expensive one, it being C & A, though she’d got five quid for it from the pawn shop. But she couldn’t very well tell Mr Flynn
that
.

Maurice was two, and she’d already bought the cane, hung it on the wall and had used it a few times, when once again she had a go at Horace Flynn about a house. There was a lovely one going in Garibaldi Road and she knew it was one of his because she’d seen him collect the rent. The previous tenants were two old maids in their fifties who’d gone to live in America. She asked him into the parlour to remind him how nicely it was kept.

‘I’ve got a job,’ she lied, ‘serving in a shop.’

‘Which shop?’

Cora thought quickly. ‘Mercer’s the newsagent’s in Marsh Lane.’

‘I’d like to see some proof; a wage slip, a letter from the manager, if you don’t mind, so I’ll know you can afford the rent.’

‘I’ll ask the manager for a letter. I don’t get wage slips.’ She didn’t want to admit she’d lied. Next week, she’d just pay the rent and keep her gob shut. If he mentioned Mercer’s she’d say she’d left.

There was silence. Mr Flynn was staring fixedly at the wall at the cane. ‘What’s that for?’

‘Me little boy. I’m a firm believer in discipline.’

He licked his lips. ‘So am I.’

Cora saw a gleam of perspiration on the round bald head, a craving in the round wet eyes. She also saw something else: a way of getting the house in Garibaldi Road. It was the way she was to use to get the lovely furniture that went in it, the reason why it was many years before she shoplifted again.

She smoothed back her hair, curled her lip disapprovingly, said sternly, ‘Have you been naughty, Mr Flynn?’

He nodded eagerly. Saliva oozed from his mouth. ‘Very naughty, Mrs Lacey.’

‘Then we shall have to do something about it.’ She unhooked the cane from the wall.

For more than a month, Alice virtually ran Myrtle’s on her own. The girls took turns to give a hand on Saturdays and after school. Orla complained loudly that it was dead boring and the smells made her sick, particularly the ammonia, but sixpence a week was too good to miss. Fionnuala loved it. She would have done it for nothing, because it made her feel important. Maeve didn’t care what she did as long as she was left to do it in peace.

Only occasionally did Myrtle put in an appearance. She looked terrible, usually wearing tatty carpet slippers, her face grey and mottled. Once she came down in her dressing gown, a filthy plaid thing without a belt. Alice turned her round and sent her back upstairs.

‘She’s lost her mind,’ one of the customers at the time pronounced. ‘I reckon it’s ’cos the war’s over. It was the war that kept her going. Remember when we had to bring our own towels?’

Alice smiled. ‘And we made shampoo by grating soap and boiling it in water. I was reduced to using Lux soap flakes on the customers once.’

‘I remember you setting me hair with sugar and water when you’d run out of setting lotion. Myrtle used to open dead early or dead late, even on Sundays, to accommodate the women working in factories, otherwise there’d never have been time for them to get their
hair done. She never charged extra.’ The woman sighed. ‘We all pulled together then. I wouldn’t want the war back, not for anything, but there was a nice friendly spirit around. People put themselves out, like Myrtle.’ She jerked her head towards the stairs. ‘Is anyone seeing to her, like?’

‘I usually make her a bite to eat for breakfast and dinner, and her friend, Mrs Glaister, comes round every day to make her tea and put her to bed. She’s written to Myrtle’s daughter in Southampton to say she needs looking after permanent.’

‘You’ll soon be out of a job, then?’

‘Looks like it.’

Olive Cousins, Myrtle’s daughter, took her time coming from Southampton. It was over four weeks later, at the beginning of February, that she turned up; a sharp-faced woman in her fifties, wearing too much pink face powder and a beaver lamb coat that smelt of mothballs. Even then, she didn’t go straight upstairs. Alice was in the middle of a perm and was forced to listen while she explained in a dead posh voice, that occasionally lapsed into broad Scouse, that Christmas had been so hectic she was fair worn out and had needed time to recuperate. Her son had been home from university, her daughter had not long married a doctor and his parents had come to stay – she emphasised ‘university’ and ‘doctor’, in the obvious hope Alice would be impressed. Alice was, but decided not to show it. She disliked Olive Cousins on the spot.