Midnight on Lime Street (31 page)

Bill tucked into his food. As well as bacon and eggs, he had black pudding, a sausage, beans, mushrooms and hash browns. This was great. He missed home, yet he felt as if he had another family
here, in Southport. Things would turn out well, especially with food as good as this.

Daisy and Barry Bramwell, proprietors of Bramwells’ Chippy, were delighted with Laura Carson. She was blooming like apple blossom in springtime, even though this was
autumn. As the days and weeks passed, she gained a pretty layer of flesh that was ably supported by well-defined cheekbones, her hair grew and hung in shiny locks, and it was clear that she was
almost celebrating her new self.

She did five lunchtimes, Monday to Friday, but there was now a new arrangement. As Friday and Saturday tended to be the shop’s busiest nights, Lucy and Matt stayed here, in the flat above
the shop. Lucy shared young Diane’s room, while Matt slept in Kevin’s, and all four children were delighted. Laura’s wages increased, but there was yet another reason for the
twinkle in her eyes.

The reason had a name – Andrew Martindale. Mr Martindale came to the shop every Saturday night after an evening at his bridge club. He ordered cod in breadcrumbs rather than batter, a
small portion of chips and a cardboard cup of butter beans. This was his weekly treat for two reasons. First, he tried to eat healthily for the most part, and second, he feasted his eyes on Laura,
whose improvement continued to be more noticeable now that her husband was out of the house.

Whenever he turned up just before closing time, both Bramwells were suddenly busy clearing up, scooping up utensils or dashing through to the back with enamel buckets that had contained raw
chipped potatoes earlier in the evening. In short, they left Laura to get on with it – whatever ‘it’ was.

Mr Martindale’s greeting was always polite. ‘Good late evening, Mrs Carson. You know my order.’

‘By heart, Mr Martindale.’

He watched her every move, and she knew his eyes were on her. It was almost like two minutes of courtship once a week.

‘No sign of the husband?’ he asked occasionally.

She answered either in the verbal negative or with a shake of her head.

‘He’s a fool.’ Sometimes ‘idiot’ or ‘lunatic’ took the place of the word fool.

After not much more than a minute or two, he would be gone.

Daisy knew all about him, of course. He was owner of several small, select jewellery shops, and he chose, cut, polished, prepared and set gems. A widower, he lived alone except for his dogs,
which he treated like children. ‘He likes you, Laura,’ Daisy would say.

‘I like him. I’m married, though.’

‘Get rid.’

‘Daisy! I’m a Catholic just like you.’

‘Yep. It’s a bugger, isn’t it?’

Both women usually finished up in pleats of laughter for which they could find no valid reason, after which piece of utter craziness Laura returned to her empty house. Without the children
asleep upstairs, she felt truly isolated. Never a great reader, she usually found something to do, sewing, knitting, a bit of music on the radio, ironing, or darning Matt’s socks, which often
owned more holes than a colander. On Sunday mornings, she picked up her children, took them to Mass, and normal life was resumed.

Things went out of kilter one Saturday night when Andrew Martindale’s car refused to start. ‘My late supper will be much later,’ he complained to Laura when she left the shop.
‘It’s going to be cold and dead beyond retrieval – a truly late and dear departed supper.’

So she took him home. Home was just a couple of hundred yards away, and Laura knew he would do her no harm, even when, after eating his supper, he confessed to having deliberately removed a
rotor something-or-other from his engine.

And so began the pattern. He was often the last customer, and he invariably took her home in his car. He always ate his supper in her house, always drank the cocoa she made for both of them, was
polite, kind and interesting. When leaving, he would kiss her on both cheeks, thank her for everything, get into his car and drive off with a cheery wave.

Laura was confused by the situation. She couldn’t tell Andy (as he now chose to be called) to stay away, because she was too polite to do that. Attracted to the older man, she longed for
more than a goodnight peck on the cheek, and she didn’t understand herself, since ‘that side’ of marriage had never appealed to her. And what if Neil found out? She never forgot
to close the curtains. Even Neil couldn’t see through those. He still hadn’t spent time with his children, so he was probably avoiding the area. Anyway, she was doing nothing wrong, was
she?

Yet she had to confess her sins of thought to Father Doherty, whose views proved broader than she had allowed herself to expect. ‘You’re lonely, my dear,’ he would say,
‘and you have committed no sin. Sometimes, the mind wanders into greener grass, and we can’t keep it on a lead, can we? Just do your best. You’re a godly woman, and He is on your
side. So stop confessing sins you haven’t yet committed, woman.’

So she carried on doing her best, though it was no easy feat. Doing her best meant not reaching across the table to touch his hand, denying herself the relief she might have felt had she opened
up to him about her defunct marriage. Doing her best meant hoping he hadn’t felt the tremor in her traitorous body when he kissed her goodnight on her cheeks. Perhaps she should not work on
Fridays and Saturdays, but the money was excellent, and the children looked forward to staying with the Bramwell twins.

But she finally opened up to Daisy Bramwell. ‘I think I could love him,’ she whispered one Friday lunchtime as they prepared to start frying. ‘He’s kind and patient and
funny.’

‘Don’t forget rich,’ Daisy giggled.

‘Stop it, please. It’s not about money or a nice detached house or a big, shiny car. It’s about Matt and Lucy and my immortal soul.’

‘Go on. I won’t laugh again,’ Daisy promised as she coated fish with the batter mix. ‘Leave the chips a minute while I fill the aquarium. Mind, it’s more like a
crematorium, I suppose. Perhaps I should call it the cremaquarium? Sorry, sorry – go on, love.’

‘I want to be with him. I’ve never felt like this before.’

‘Oh, grab him with both hands, girl. What good will morals be when you’re sitting at one side of the fireplace staring at the other chair, the empty one? Your kids won’t stay.
They’ll be up, off and married in their twenties, and you’ll be there with nobody to keep your bed warm or shift the snow or bring you a cuppa in the morning.’

Laura shook her head. ‘I don’t want my children upset. They’d love their real daddy to come home.’

‘But would you?’ Daisy checked on her fish. ‘Throw the chips in, love, then answer me – do you want Neil back?’

Laura’s answer was immediate. ‘No.’ The fat spat back at her angrily when it made contact with cold potatoes, so she shut the folding lid. ‘I don’t. But it’s
not about me; it’s about bringing up happy children who will go on to marry and make their own secure families.’

‘And your own happiness doesn’t count? Wouldn’t they be happier if you were too?’

‘He’s old enough to be their grandfather. And what would everybody say if I divorced Neil? The church, my neighbours, my parents and Neil’s family – it would be a
wretched situation.’

Daisy shrugged. ‘Well, you must make your own mind up, I suppose. Let’s open the door and allow the starving of Liverpool in.’

‘You come anywhere near me again with that sodding horse needle, and I’ll stick it up your arse with your stethoscope, your thermometer, and the Penny Lane bus,
standing room only. You’ve had enough blood out of me to feed Dracula for a fortnight, so piss off.’ Eve intertwined her fingers and placed the resulting knot on the bed covers, where
they imitated a confusion of pork sausages. ‘No more blood pressure tests, thanks, or that thing will join the rest in a very dark place. Piss off,’ she repeated, glaring fiercely at
her victim. She was scared, and fear angered her beyond control.

The doctor took Eve’s advice and left the scene immediately. That woman in bed three was fierce, and he was a slight man with a life to live and exams to pass. He sent in the troops. While
the troops dealt with Eve Mellor, he peered through the venetian blind that gave the ward sister’s office some privacy.

Ward Sister was not alone. Her assistants included Matron, a fierce-looking female in a monochrome uniform. She was hefty, but even she looked slender when she stood near Eve. Behind Matron, a
consultant lingered with two more blue-clad nursing sisters and a couple of staff nurses. Several young men in training as doctors brought up the rear. The social skills of all in this crew were
about to be tested; a particularly difficult patient was an item worth studying. For a few seconds, they did just that – gazed at the woman who was too large for an ordinary hospital bed.

Matron took Eve’s chart from the bottom of the bed, looked at it and passed it to the consultant. ‘Madam,’ she began, ‘I think we need to look at several possibilities
here, since your symptoms are—’

‘It’s Miss Mellor,’ Eve snapped. ‘M-E-L-L-O-R. Got it?’

‘Miss Mellor,’ Matron said, stressing the double s at the end of the word Miss. ‘You have given us nothing but trouble since you arrived on the ward – well, since before
you arrived. They had to send a second ambulance just to have enough crew to lift you.’

‘You’re no effing plucked pullet yourself,’ the patient snarled. ‘And I did not ask to come here. You will do no more, because I’ve had enough with that one that
couldn’t hardly talk English – he’s took half the blood out of me. He must have two buckets full of it by now. Is he a vampire? Should we carry garlic flowers and wear a
cross?’

Matron employed a different tack. ‘You’re a very sick woman, Miss Mellor.’

Eve delivered a hollow laugh.

‘There’s nothing to laugh at, nothing at all.’

‘Do I get fined for laughing? Do you have a chuckle box instead of a swear box? I know I’m a sick woman, you soft cow! Get me home and I’ll go to bed and bloody die. Send me
them women who ride bikes all over the show – district nurses. They can pump me full of drugs when the time comes. Oh, and I might decide when that time comes. It’s my life, my death
and none of your bloody business, right?’

‘Are you contemplating suicide?’

‘Are you contemplating leaving me alone? Bugger off, and take your bridesmaids with you.’

The consultant put in his twopenny-worth. ‘Er . . . we need to get the results of several blood tests and take some X-rays before you go home. It won’t take long.’

‘No,’ she growled. ‘Tests? You’ve enough of my red stuff here to swim in and get a bloody degree in the backstroke with honours, never mind tests. Watch my lips, Mr
Doctor. I will not give permission for you to proceed any further with my case. If you touch me, I’ll sue for assault. If this gobshite here – Matron Misery Gob – doesn’t
stop mithering, she’ll be done for harassment. And if you don’t get me home, I might stick a kidnap hat on one of your monkeys as well.’ She waved her arms at the young doctors
before folding them as best she could across a vast bosom. ‘There are people I need to kill, so let me out. When I say kill, I mean make their lives a misery like what you’ve done to
me.’

Several jaws dropped. Eve winked at one of the young trainees.

Matron shuffled backwards and spoke quietly to the consultant. He tried again. Trained to understand that extreme aggression was often used to mask terror, he approached the bed and took
Eve’s hand in his. ‘Miss Mellor,’ he began in a soft, kindly voice. ‘We are trying to help you.’

She pulled her hand away. ‘Assault,’ she warned. ‘And don’t be nice – I’m not a child. Keep your hands to yourself. See you at my post mortem, eh?’

Undeterred, the man continued. ‘This ward is where we put people who need diagnostic procedures to ascertain—’

‘Like a pending tray in an office?’ the patient asked.

‘Exactly like that, yes.’

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘There’s your solution, then. Shove me in the out tray, stick a couple of stamps on me gob and post me into an ambulance. You can’t make me stay unless
I’m crackers, and I’m not crackers. Well?’

‘You are ill.’

Eve delivered a false smile.

‘Miss Mellor, I believe—’

‘Cancer,’ Eve hissed. ‘I didn’t land in Fleetwood on Monday with the rest of the fish. I don’t need to be mauled by you lot, because I bloody know what this is
– it took my mother. You can’t cut me – I’m too fat. You’d need a tree saw to get through this lot.’ She stared at the young trainees. ‘That boy at the
back – yes, the one who looks about twelve, stop laughing or I’ll send you to the headmaster’s office for detention.’

‘But you must understand that we need to try to help you,’ the consultant insisted.

Eve nodded. ‘I know that, lad. They tried to help Mam, and it didn’t work. Bring the form and I’ll sign myself out of this hell. You won’t get into trouble as long as I
sign. Do the tests on my blood and send the results to Mannix, my GP. He’s another daft bugger, but he’s all we’ve got out there in the wilderness.’

Matron sighed audibly. ‘Will you need help to dress yourself?’

‘Yes. Don’t forget – I’m dying.’ She made no attempt to conceal her sarcasm. ‘Phone Kate. She’ll help me, and it won’t be assault.’

They left her. Sister brought the form, and Eve signed it, but she still found herself stranded like a beached whale. She looked round the ward, which was clearly a holding bay, as it contained
people of both genders. The man next to her was connected to several drips, with a bag of pee hanging from underneath the bed, poor soul. A woman directly opposite was spark out with her mouth
hanging open like the Mersey Tunnel without traffic. What a bloody life. What a bloody death. She couldn’t stay here, wouldn’t stay here. The pain had stopped and it might not come back
again for a while.

Eve didn’t need any more of this malarkey. A fat person became used to having little dignity and no physical grace, but this dump was a stride too far. Her soul was the same size as
everybody else’s and anyway, she refused absolutely to become a row of jars in pathology, a set of samples kept to display an interesting collection that served to illustrate the results of
untreated illness. ‘Come on, Kate,’ she whispered, ‘get me the heck out of this ward before I have a breakdown and get certified.’