Midnight on Lime Street

MACMILLAN

F
OREWORD

The Invisible

R
UTH
H
AMILTON

Dedicated to Gill Currie, who has looked after me and my household for two decades.

In memory of Red Rum, the greatest ever steeplechaser.

I salute the owners, trainers, keepers and riders of this most wonderful horse – I met him on Southport sands.

C
ONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Post Scriptum 1974

Soft Echoing Hooves

There were shoes everywhere: strappy sandals, peep-toes, flats for wearing with jeans, stiletto-heeled pairs, silver ones, gold ones, patent leather slingbacks, wellies for God
alone knew when, scarlet skyscrapers, boots in suede and leather, plus one man-sized brogue in brown (no lace). The room resembled a colourful maze, or an obstacle course for small animals. Or was
it more like a jumble sale after closing time?

Eve Mellor stood in the open doorway, a fat hand wrapped round the handle. Somewhere out there in the city of Liverpool walked a man with half a pair of shoes. Perhaps he had only one foot,
though she couldn’t recall admitting a disabled man . . . no, that wasn’t true. Tom Duffield had just the one hand, since he’d lost the other while operating heavy machinery, but
that was different and didn’t involve a brogue without a lace. Eve sighed heavily; this was going to be quite a fight. Her thoughts wandered unbidden back to Tom Duffield; he was clearly
falling in love with Belle, another of Eve’s girls. Life was a continuous bag of complications.

Baby Schofield (real name Barbara or Babs) was out for the count and snoring like a drunken sailor. She specialized in acting the little girl, frilly knickers, a skirt so abbreviated that she
needed to keep her neck clean, white blouse undone to her impressive cleavage, a carelessly knotted school tie, straw hat with a band round it, a prefect badge on her blazer. Dressed and ready, she
looked cute, though fast asleep and with her mouth wide open she was somewhat less than attractive.

‘Baby?’ Eve called in a rough, growling voice born of too many cigarettes. ‘Babs, wake up. Where the hell did you get this lot?’ she asked, though she was beginning to
suspect that she already knew the answer. It looked as if Donald Crawford had definitely lost the plot. He was aged, probably senile, and rather unpredictable these days. And he was creator of the
gathering storm.

The woman in the bed moaned, swore, and turned over, holding her pillow close to her chest. ‘Bugger off,’ she repeated.

‘Wake up before I send for the ambulance.’ The owner of the farmhouse picked her way across hazardous terrain and pulled back heavy velvet curtains. ‘Opening a shoe shop, are
you? Changing your name to Freeman Hardy and Willis, eh?’ She struggled to contain laughter; for some inexplicable reason, she was fond of the nuisance under the covers.

‘Aw, shurrup, Eve. I’m not in the mood. Donald’s retired and shut his shop up Lord Street, so he’s give me all the size fives what were left. Oh, and right as well as
left – they’re all in pairs.’ With her eyes crinkled against the onslaught of daylight, she finally managed to sit up. ‘What do you want, anyway? I’m supposed to be
resting.’

Eve snorted with suppressed humour. ‘So that’s what he had in the massive suitcase when I picked him up. And one man’s shoe?’

Baby yawned loudly. Last night’s makeup had not been removed and, in this state, she looked a great deal older than her thirty-one years. She wanted to scream, though she worried about not
being able to stop screaming if she started. There was no life round here, no shops, no houses, little traffic. And she was sick unto death of playing the child for dirty old perverts – there
had to be more to life than this.

‘If you don’t start cleansing with cold cream every night, you’ll end up with skin like a rhinoceros. What’s the matter with you?’ Eve’s tone was becoming
caustic.

Barbara Schofield shrugged. ‘I can’t be Baby any more. Shouldn’t Sally do it? I’m fed up with being given lollipops and chalks and colouring books.’

‘You get paid,’ Eve snapped, ‘and the johns are used to you – they like you, especially the old ones.’

‘And you take nearly half of me money. Go away, I’m tired. I had to stand on a chair reciting me three times tables last night while Donald slapped me arse with one hand and helped
himself with the other.’

Eve drew herself to full and not inconsiderable height. There were occasions when Babs had to be chastised, and this was one of them. ‘I’ve a mortgage to pay and a house to keep
nice.’ She folded her arms. ‘Look at it this way – if he’s hitting your arse while you say your tables, he’s leaving some real kiddy alone. You’re providing a
service that protects the community.’

Babs was almost awake and alert by this time. ‘I was tired. I needed my sleep. What the hell do you want? Is it dinner time? I never heard no bell.’

Eve bridled. She was a well-organized woman of substance who took no prisoners. Few people dared to get on the wrong side of her, mostly because she was built like a Sherman tank. And she was
thorough. Everything was timed to a split second, and all coins and notes were accounted for at least twice at the end of each session. Like Scrooge, she left nothing to chance in the counting
house that was her office.

Baby sighed; she knew what was coming. The Lecture.

‘Listen to me, Barbara Schofield. I look after my girls very well. There’s no pimp to beat you up, no chance of being caught out here in the back of beyond and, on twelve to fifteen
quid a week with tips on top, you earn more than most bosses in big offices get paid. I do three pick-ups a night, I pay for petrol and take the men back to town when they’re all finished
with business. You’re safe, fed and clothed. If you’re not suited, get your arse down Parliament Street and wake up a bit dead the next day.’

But Baby Babs was not for giving in easily. ‘Have you woke the other girls up as well?’

‘No.’

‘Then why me? Why rattle the bars of my playpen? What the hell have I done this time, eh?’

Eve relaxed her shoulders deliberately; she needed to present a less formidable front, as this was going to be a delicate business. ‘You want to get away from here for a while, yes? Live
where there’s shops and cinemas and pubs, a bit of life.’ She sat down. ‘It’s Donald,’ she said, her tone softer. ‘He’s retired because he’s not up
to the job.’

‘He’s not up to much,’ Baby replied smartly. ‘He’s bloody useless.’

‘Useless and rich, madam.’ The light dawned fully at last. ‘Did he bring this brogue last night when he gave you all the women’s size fives?’

The younger woman nodded.

‘He’s mixed up because he’s going senile, Babs; he’s rolled half his marbles down the drain, poor fellow. Don’s health’s in a hell of a state, and he’s
got nobody to look after him. Months to go at best, that’s all he’s got. It’s his heart. He wants you to move in and live with him, look after him, feed him and play Baby and
Daddy with him.’

Babs blew a loud, damp raspberry. ‘In his dreams,’ she hissed.

‘Think about it.’ Eve’s tone had reclaimed its acidic edge.

Baby rubbed her eyes, spreading black mascara all over her face. ‘In Southport? Isn’t that where everybody goes to die? There’s nursing homes all over the place full of old
folk. And loads of kids come in summer, too.’

‘He won’t see 1969, Babs. What’s six months at your age, eh? You’ll be in his will, babe. He might even leave you his house and everything. Think about all the clothes
and jewellery he’ll let you buy. Think lap of luxury and all you could want—’

‘Oh, stop it. Lap of luxury? It’s his lap what I’ll be sat on while he . . . how shall I put it without bringing the tone of Meadowbank down? While he tries to rise to the
challenge. I’ll get bored. I get bored easy, me.’

Eve rolled her eyes up to the heavens. It would take more than a verbal stumble from this little minx to bring the tone down. Meadowbank Farm was classy and discreet. ‘He’s got a
horse,’ she said quietly.

It was Baby’s turn to fold her arms. ‘Has he? Just what I’ve always wanted, a bloody horse. Ooh, I’m that excited I could dance till Thursday without the seven
veils.’

‘Well, it’s a special horse and he owns half of it.’

‘Which half?’

‘Does it matter?’

Babs grinned. ‘Better the eating end than the shitting end.’

Eve wagged a finger. ‘Thoroughbred hunter, sired by a wild Arab, no fear in him and tipped by some to win the National once he’s sorted. Think about it.’ She left the room,
banging the door in her wake. She would miss Babs, but oh, she was a pain.

Babs rolled out of bed and sat in a wicker chair. It was painted pink, because this was Baby Girl’s room. The wallpaper was pink, as were eiderdown, curtains, carpet, lampshades and some
items of furniture. ‘Thank God none of these shoes are pink. Pink is the sort of colour that could drive a girl to the edge of madness. I hate pink. I bloody hate bloody pink. I want purple.
I’d like a purple dance frock with sequins. I wonder if he’ll buy me that emerald green suit in me catalogue? And to be fair, I suppose they do have some nice shops on Lord
Street.’

She looked in the mirror. ‘I’m a rancid mess,’ she told her reflection.

Southport was rather sedate for Babs. It was Victorian, all canopied pavements along the main road, and little arcades running off it. Quaint was the word, she supposed. Liverpool was where she
wanted to be, but perhaps she would have to travel the long way to Liverpool: turn right into Birkdale and follow the road home after Donald had given up the ghost. ‘Six months,’ she
whispered. ‘Can I put up with him for six months?’

She sat for a few minutes and thought about Donald. He’d never married, because women were too old to suit his requirements. Teachers and mothers had stopped him hanging around in parks
and playgrounds, so he now visited her, his pretend child, at Meadowbank Farm in the middle of nowhere, nearest shops in Knowsley, quite a stretch away. Don’s footwear outlet had possibly
been closed down because he couldn’t be trusted to deal with the feet of little girls, and to top it all, it looked as if he’d a few slates missing off the roof. Who wanted to live with
a crackpot?

Barbara Schofield sighed heavily. She had been picked up almost five years ago during one of Eve Mellor’s recruitment drives. Babs had been looking for business at the bottom of Lime
Street when the van had pulled up. ‘Get in,’ had been Eve’s greeting, and she’d got in, because Eve was roughly the size of King Kong, and the weather had been bad, freezing
rain turning to sleet and threatening to deliver snow.

So she’d been driven out to this godforsaken farm where she’d been given hot soup and bread, a bath, a bedroom and the promise of a safer, warmer life. Eve had examined her while
she’d been naked, had forbidden her to diet in case her bosom sagged, had named her Baby, and here she was, going on five years later, still stinking of Johnson’s baby powder and with
freckles painted on her nose. A doctor had poked and prodded at her nether regions before declaring her clean, and she’d been stuck ever since in a pink room while Eve Mellor paid the
mortgage and the bills out of ‘her’ girls’ earnings.

What about the other men who wanted Baby Babs? Hadn’t Eve just said that they were used to her, that she couldn’t grow up and be a normal, common or garden working girl without
freckles? ‘She’s bloody sold me,’ she hissed between gritted teeth. ‘She’s sold me to a limp old kipper with bad breath, false teeth and combed-over hair. Southport?
Who wants to live there with Droopy Don and half a horse?’

She ran downstairs and into the enormous kitchen. This was where Eve’s girls lived when they weren’t on the job, but all the others were still where they belonged, upstairs in their
beds. There were two large, custom-made sofas, two padded armchairs, a massive Welsh dresser, a huge table and, in the corner, a television set. Cooking and washing up went on at the other end of
this thirty-odd foot room, and such activities were in the hands of Miss O’Gorman, who was now too old to be on the game.

Kate O’Gorman turned when the door slammed. ‘Hiya, Babs,’ she said. ‘You look like you fell off a midnight flitting; you’ve black streaks all over your face. Have
you been with a coalman?’