She's Leaving Home (27 page)

‘I have to write reports for university entrance next term. It might be kinder if there were some aspects of your personal life I didn’t know about. I want to say the best about you.’

The glance which flashed in return was laced with animosity, yet behind lurked something unfathomable, heart-rending.

‘Thanks, anyway,’ the girl said off-handedly and rose. Miss Plumb allowed herself to feel a
little put out. Obscurely she sensed that a chance had been missed.

‘Goodnight, Colette. Take care going home. And don’t forget, if I can help –’

But the student had gone, and the door had closed behind her.

Nellie McCauley did not often appear down in the dumps, but it was clear to her closest friends that something was eating her. That same Friday night two of them decided to take action.

A knock came. The tiny television in the corner of the room had its sound up but she could not pretend that she did not hear. The knock came again, more insistently. ‘Bugger,’ said Nellie, and lurched to the door.

The chain went on automatically as she peered through the peephole. ‘Who is it?’

‘Doreen. And Trixie. C’mon, Nellie. We haven’t seen you for yonks down the Ancient Mariner. Whoever he is he’s not worth it. There’s a country-and-western singer on tonight. Get your glad rags on and join us.’

Nellie unlocked the door and let them in but with scant interest. ‘I’m tired,’ she announced, and slumped back in the chair.

Doreen was a blousily battered forty-year-old with an optimistic outlook on life no matter how it treated her. She left her husband regularly when the couple came to blows but was as often reconciled. As a Catholic, divorce was out of the question. A former schoolmate of Nellie, they had known each other back in the days when the latter’s surname wasn’t McCauley. Her younger sister Trixie was a C&W fan and tolerably happily wed: but then her husband, deck-hand on an oil tanker, was seldom at home. Provided neither heard of misdemeanour by the other the liaison was secure.

An opened bottle of beer in one hand, cigarette in the other, Nellie looked dully at them. She had done the housework the previous weekend but not bothered much since; dirty clothes had been thrown on sofa and chairs, dishes remained stacked in the sink, the ashtray was piled high. Curtains and windows were closed. Nellie did not encourage invasions of her privacy so no one would see. In a perverse way it satisfied her. The state of the flat represented fairly accurately the condition of her soul.

‘So what’s eatin’ you, kid?’ Doreen loosened her coat and sat on the sofa arm with a sympathetic air. Her hostess sighed.

‘That damn cow Sylvia Bloom. No, cow isn’t right – vulture. Eater of flesh.’ The two newcomers exchanged glances. ‘She’s a Jewish matchmaker, would you believe,’ Nellie explained brusquely. ‘Got her claws into my boss Mr Feinstein – well, got him lined up with one of her choice cuts. Won’t let go till he’s in some synagogue under the silk canopy, a wineglass crushed under his foot for luck.’ Nellie could not clearly picture what he would marry, only that it would be a female shape in shimmery white, curvy, dark-haired – and younger than herself.

She took a doleful swig of the beer. Her second bottle. In truth she did not care for the taste, but her sorrows needed to be drowned, or at least dowsed.

‘But what’s it to do with you? Here, give us one of those beers,’ came from Trixie. Nellie indicated the kitchen and her visitors helped themselves.

‘You’re right,’ Nellie swallowed, and wiped her mouth. ‘I dunno why I care, but I do. It’d never be me. Not in a million years. The orthodox Jews wouldn’t have somebody like me unless I converted – and that takes ages and could be refused. You have to take lessons, like somebody marrying a Catholic.’ Doreen nodded and Nellie continued. ‘I’d have to learn Hebrew, God help me. D’you know it’s written the wrong way round and hasn’t any vowels?’ Mr Feinstein had helped her read the three consonants which made up the word ‘kosher’.

‘It’s a mystery, designed to keep intruders out. Like me. In our place. Underneath. When Feinstein gets married I won’t even be invited to the
chuppah
. And I’ve worked for him over ten years.’

‘My grandmother said they bring a lot of it on themselves,’ Doreen commented. ‘Racial hatred and that. The old pawnbrokers pre-war were so mean, and bullied their poor customers.’

‘Glad I’m not a Jew,’ Trixie laughed shortly. ‘Wouldn’t want to work for them, neither. British through and through, me.’

Nellie had no difficulty understanding such dislike. The exclusive nature of the Jewish faith reinforced such intolerance. That did not mean she had to practise it herself, nor allow it in her presence.

‘Oh, yeah? You sure?’ Nellie pointed the bottle at her friend. ‘This is a sea-port. Nobody in these streets can claim purer blood than anybody else. You never know which sailor your granny went with forty years ago.’ Trixie and Doreen giggled but did not remonstrate. ‘Anyway,’ Nellie continued stoutly, ‘two wrongs don’t make a right. However mean the old Shylocks were, that doesn’t give a reason for exterminating them. Live and let live is my motto.’

She did not want to be one of them. She did not care much whether they wanted her or otherwise. But she did hate how her boss, a good and decent man, was about to be entrapped, and how he would be quite content without her.

Doreen picked up Nellie’s handbag with a threatening gesture. ‘You’re coming out tonight, girl. For God’s sake, stop brooding. You can wear ordinary clothes – not everybody will be dressed up.’

At this juncture Nellie looked at them crossly. Their coats had been removed in the warmth of the flat and slung over the sofa. With a start she absorbed what her friends meant by ‘dressing up’.

Doreen wore a cowgirl’s outfit in tan imitation leather, with a low-cut white blouse to show off her substantial cleavage. The buckled belt cut her nearly in half and must surely be abandoned after a couple more pints. Fringes everywhere jigged and flipped. In one hand but not yet on the hennaed curls was a white Stetson, matched by the white high-heeled ankle boots on the feet. Trixie was younger and slimmer; her outfit of dark blue denim jeans and jerkin, red kerchief tied at her neck, suited her. The boots were black knee-length and she had left out the hat.

Nellie’s mouth twitched. ‘Merciful God,’ she muttered. ‘The pair of you look like a dog’s breakfast.’

Doreen and Trixie sensed they were winning. Nellie was half pushed, half pulled towards the bathroom. ‘You’ve got ten minutes, girl. It’s Johnny Cash tonight.’

‘Johnny Cash? What, the real one?’

‘Well, nearly,’ Trixie demurred. ‘He does Johnny Cash. And Jim Reeves and Slim Whitman and Tex Ritter. Lots of others. Ask him nice and he’ll sing one for you. Now gedda move on!’

It was a good half-hour later that the three women clattered along the main highway towards the pub, from which came raucous chatter and snatches of amplified music. Nellie had found a pair of tight leopard-skin trousers and a black scoop-neck sleeveless top to go with her fake fur coat. The effect was tackily glamorous.

By the time the three women entered the Ancient Mariner the entertainment was in full swing. The bar was crammed, mainly with men. The three new entrants were greeted rapturously. In a trice the women were seated at a prominent table and pint glasses of beer appeared as by magic.

Nellie threw off her coat and wriggled happily at the wolf whistles. It was a pleasure to have left behind the shapeless sweater, those scuffed shop boots and thick socks, and show off her buxom figure. She reached for her glass, aware that her bare arms were tidily muscled from humping that grocery. Her earrings dangled merrily. She pressed her lips together to smooth out the lipstick and laughed loudly at someone’s joke.

Doreen and Trixie were spot-on. He was definitely not worth it. Not worth moping over, anyway. And she was mad to let herself ever contemplate life with – but no. She pushed the name away. It was a complete waste of effort. He’d never have her. He was too set in his ways. For him
Nellie McCauley was not in the frame.

The crooner wasn’t bad though he had trouble with the key changes – but so did Johnny Cash himself, Nellie recalled. Two pints of bitter later life was much more mellow. Merry, indeed. On all sides came whoops of cheery ribaldry, great gales of it, as Doreen and Trixie brought more pals to join them.

A rum and peppermint appeared from nowhere and she sipped appreciatively: how grand to be treated like a lady. She leaned her elbows on the wet table and gazed hazily around. This was her sort of place: not that stupid shop. These were the types she had grown up with. Rough they might be but kind-hearted. Cracked a joke, liked a cuddle. Didn’t mind who you were.

‘Nellie. I thought it was you.’

The broad-chested man in a dark blue jersey eased himself into a seat left temporarily empty by Trixie’s new beau. Nellie began to say ‘That’s Bob’s’, when she stopped dead.

‘It’s me, Nellie. Aren’t you glad to see me?’

The haze refused to clear. She prodded Doreen in the ribs but received only a chortle in return; her pals were too engrossed in their own conquests to come to her rescue. She grabbed the glass to steady her shaky hands, then drained it.

‘Cheers,’ said the man with a grin. He was cleanshaven, though jowly and with less hair than she remembered. Around his blue eyes, white crows’-feet stood out in his sunburned face. ‘Thought you’d like that. Your favourite – or used to be.’

‘Oh, my God,’ Nellie gulped as she put down the glass. ‘Pete McCauley. I thought you were dead – or in the French Foreign Legion, or whatever.’

‘Not quite. But the Costa Brava seemed like a good idea for a while, then I got a berth on a Spanish tanker on the Barcelona-Caracas run. Been sweet-talking the senoritas ever since.’ He winked.

‘The Costa Brava? Then you
were
on that bank job. You told me you weren’t, you stinker.’

‘Heh! heh! I wasn’t about to spill the beans on my mates, was I? Anyway it’s eleven years ago. Trail’s gone cold. Detective Inspector Slipper’s busy elsewhere. So I thought I’d chance it. Hitched a ride on a tramp steamer loaded with oranges. Great to be home.’

Some reserve in Nellie sagged just as Pete’s face registered that boasts and bombast were no longer as effective as before. He would have to work harder than that, she told herself.

‘You could have written –’ she began to protest.

‘Oh, Nellie.’ He took her hand; she did not pull it away. ‘I couldn’t, see. If the police were tracing your mail it’d have given us away. Same if I’d sent money. Most of it went in living expenses – you can call it Costa Packet as far as I’m concerned. Plenty disappears into the pockets of them Franco police to keep ’em quiet. Bribery and corruption isn’t in it.’

Nellie hesitated and bit her lip.

‘I thought a lot about you, Nellie.’ His deep voice sounded earnest. ‘Them foreign women – they aren’t the same. Do you know they said I didn’t talk proper English? I’m Scouse, I told ’em. I talk English like she was meant to be spoke. It’s the other buggers who don’t.’

Nellie blinked at him slowly. It’d be best to get up and move away. He was a rogue, this husband of hers, and always had been. Yet what else was on offer? Not Mr Feinstein, that was for sure. Perhaps Pete’s return was both a punishment for her dreaming of a different world, and a
reminder of the only world in which she was at home. A timely reminder – and one she should not lose hold of, not this time.

She smiled and raised her eyes to him.

‘I’m not here long, Nellie,’ he pleaded. ‘I could still be put away for five years. Got to see my Mam, she’s not been well.’ He saw his chance suddenly. ‘So I can’t stay there, know what I mean? I thought…’ His toe nudged a long blue kitbag on the floor.

Of course you could bed down at your Mam’s, Nellie thought. The lazy old duck never did look after you – and as a seaman you’re more capable of cooking your own breakfast than most in this pub. That’s not what you’re after.

She rose and swayed slightly, still smiling. ‘Can sleep in tomorrow – shop’s shut,’ she mumbled.

Pete held out her coat in an exaggerated display of chivalry. ‘Still work for the yids? Why don’t you get a proper job?’

‘Long story.’ She could not control it: her speech was emerging slurred. A gurgle broke from her, half-belch, half-laughter. ‘You’ll have to hold me up, love. Gimme your arm.’

Paddy, the doorman at the Cavern, greeted Helen and Michael this time with easy familiarity, and joked about the attractions of the best club in Liverpool for US servicemen. Michael promised to spread the news back at base. Yet in truth the noise, smell and heaving bodies were more to Helen’s taste than his own. After an hour or so Michael could take no more. Hypnotic as the music was, it prevented conversation. By ten o’clock he had persuaded Helen to leave. The two of them started to walk in the mild night air till they came to the El Cabalah, a half-empty coffee bar.

Michael carried two cups from the counter and placed them on the tiny table. Outside pink neon flashed on and off. It was quiet at this time of night, while bars and cinemas were still full. He fed the juke box with coins, pressed buttons. Then he seated himself. From a glass dispenser he poured two large teaspoons of brown sugar into his cup, took a sip and grimaced.

‘You have joshed me, Helen, about how I’m complimentary about everything here. So let me tell you that you Brits haven’t the faintest notion how to make half-decent coffee.’

The soft vibrato of Elvis filled the café. ‘
Wise men say, only fools rush in
.’ They had passed a cinema showing the film
Blue Hawaii
which featured the song.

Helen grinned and drank a little. The froth clung to her upper lips and she licked it.

‘My American aunt says much the same and it really annoys my mother. We can complain to Steve over there. He’s very proud of his espressos and cappuccinos.’