The Liverpool Trilogy (11 page)

The twins looked at each other. Never before had their mother spoken so bluntly. ‘But that’s crazy,’ Paul said. ‘Ridiculous.’

Lucy agreed. ‘If his daughters are in my house, he has an excuse to come for them. I won’t be treating his shoulder, so that will cut down most of his visits. However, your friendship with Steph and Alice could make life difficult for me. I hope you understand.’

‘What do we tell them?’ Mike asked.

‘No idea. I’ve found of late that the truth serves me very well. Perhaps it’s almost a relief, because I lived a lie for such a long time.’ She left them to discuss their problem. No, it wasn’t their problem – it was hers, and she had allowed a personal difficulty to impinge on her children for the first time ever.

In her ground floor bedroom, she listened to the blackbirds as they argued about something or other. Was she being spiteful? She had no idea, but someone would have to put a stop to Moira. She couldn’t go around the villages in her wheelchair interviewing prospective candidates for the post of concubine. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself shut in a loony bin, poor woman.

The garden looked rather dry. Outside, Lucy turned on the sprinklers and listened to the screaming from next door. Moira was being given a hard time by her daughters, but better them than some stranger she might accost with her dreadful propositions. Richard, who had clearly returned from his house call, joined in. ‘Who told you?’ he yelled. ‘This is preposterous.’

Moira added a few words to the poisonous recipe. ‘You wanted her. All I did was—’

‘All you did was make a bloody mess,’ he roared. ‘Yes, she’s attractive, but you shouldn’t have done this, you stupid, stupid woman.’

Doors slammed. The sound of girls arguing and weeping flooded through an open first floor window. With the blackbirds bickering on one side and the Turner girls on the other, Lucy gave up, turned off the sprinklers and went indoors. What had she done? What had she achieved? Richard would have trouble facing her, her friendship with Moira was possibly destroyed, and four young people were upset.

Her sons were waiting for her. ‘You did the right thing, Mums,’ Mike told her. ‘Mrs Turner can’t go about the place looking for a woman – at least you’ve put a stop to it.’

‘I feel terrible,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I can stay here.’

‘You can and you shall,’ said Paul. ‘They’re the ones at fault, not you. For long enough, you were messed about by Dad. At last you’re sticking up for yourself, and it’s not before time.’

‘I shouldn’t have involved you and their girls.’

‘How else might you have ensured that the stupidity would stop? It could have been just about anyone out there – it could all have ended in court cases and all kinds of trouble. This way, we know it’s over.’

Alone in her darkening kitchen, Lucy thought about Moira. Moira wasn’t like other people, and that was nothing to do with multiple sclerosis. She was, well, unusual. The poor woman probably thought she was doing the best she could manage for a man she clearly adored. In her imagination, Richard would go to Lucy for sex, and return home to her for meals, surgeries, and general family life. After Moira’s death, the two houses would become one, and everyone would live happily ever after.

For the second time that day, Lucy acted on a whim. She draped a cardigan over her shoulders and walked over to the next house. ‘I couldn’t have slept,’ she told Richard, when he opened the door. ‘She acted out of love for you, but I had to nip her idea in the bud, because other people might react in a different way. I understand her fear, and I appreciate your position, but she goes too far.’

‘And you told your sons.’

‘Of course. I have nowhere else to turn. For years, I kept my children behind a safety curtain. They’re now adults, and they will protect me just as I protected them.’

He sighed heavily. ‘I’m not a rapist, Lucy.’

‘No. You’re an attractive man with humour and wit – and a wife. I suggest you channel your surplus energies in her direction, because life isn’t just about your demands and expectations. Many men have to manage life without a woman. Are you so weak? How stupid can one doctor manage to be?’ She heard herself, yet scarcely believed that she was saying the words. ‘Look after her, Richard. She loves you enough to go to any lengths to keep you happy. But put a stop to this behaviour, because it could land either or both of you in serious trouble.’

She found Moira weeping in the sitting room. ‘Moira?’

‘Lucy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—’

‘Shut up for a minute, will you? The disease you have makes you vulnerable in many ways – it’s not just physical. You love him enough to give him away, and that’s a huge sacrifice, but you can’t arrange the future – none of us can. I’m not prepared to lose you. You’ve helped me so much. You’ve given me strength and – hey – I can almost paint a tree!’

Moira dried her eyes. ‘Your trees look as if they died in the Chernobyl disaster.’

‘Yeah, but they’re getting better.’

‘Are they? I can’t say I’ve noticed. Lucy?’

‘What?’

‘Be my friend.’

‘I’ll always be that, Moira. I shouldn’t have slammed out of your house earlier. What is he, after all? Just another man. In my scheme of things, they are there, and we have to cope with them. He’s no more important than the next fellow, love. You didn’t get ill on purpose, did you? And you’re acting like his mother, for God’s sake. Leave him to his own devices. You know, sweetheart, you’ve done more harm than good. I was becoming fond of him until you forced the issue. So, in future, think before you speak.’

Moira managed a slight smile. ‘You’ve always thought too much before speaking. Until now. Am I right?’

Lucy nodded. ‘Spot on.’

Outside in the hall, Richard Turner trimmed the conversation he had overheard until it contained just six words. ‘I was becoming fond of him,’ she had said. He opened the door to his surgery, walked to his desk, and stared across at the chair in which patients sat during consultations. Should any one of them turn up and describe symptoms like his own, he would possibly make an appointment with a psychiatrist. ‘You are obsessed,’ he told himself quietly. ‘And her breasts are magnificent. So, you have a magnificent obsession. And that’s a film you saw with your wife.’

Moira was not stupid. He should never have used that word, because she was having trouble with memory, with acting appropriately, with life itself. But what she failed to understand was that his interest in the woman next door had deepened. Yes, it was sexual, but he was falling in love with more than a body. Lucy was a good woman, his kind of woman. Moira wouldn’t mind if he slept with her, but she might create a fuss if he fell down into the unfathomable depths of real love.

So he did what he’d been doing for a fortnight. ‘Just going back to check on that terminal old lady,’ he called to his wife before leaving the house.

The old lady was not a patient, was neither old nor a lady, and was very much alive. She was thirty-two years old, firm of flesh and morally lax, and she was his release. This would be his second visit today, but he needed her. A brassy blonde, she had no idea of Richard’s real identity, and she was excellent in the sack. She was his sanity.

Days and weeks passed. Lucy Henshaw found herself to be in an interesting condition. Didn’t that mean pregnant, she reflected as she made her bed. In which case, she would rename her condition fascinating. Yes, that was quite a good word. She couldn’t get pregnant, anyway. It wasn’t just because of her age; it was a choice she had made after the birth of Elizabeth. She feared the knife, but she’d feared pregnancy more, and had opted for tubal ligation. Yes, fascinating was definitely a better term, since her days of being in an interesting condition were long gone.

Two men were in love with her. Well, it probably wasn’t real love on the part of either of them just yet, but she had apparently been reborn in the forty-sixth year of her life. She’d had a renaissance, had gone from frumpy to desirable simply by changing her address. It certainly added a slight frisson to her existence, because David was on the phone every day, while Richard was pretending to have lost interest.

A man who lost interest was interesting. She was using the word a great deal this morning, and was in danger of wearing it out, but it was apt. Richard Turner always left the house in a hurry when surgery was finished, as he needed to visit people who were confined to their homes. Until lately, he had looked for her, always giving a smile and a wave if he caught sight of her. Now he had lost interest – that word again.

He stared at the ground while he walked to his car, and though his face might not care whether or not Lucy was visible, the back of his neck betrayed him daily. It was an unusual colour, slightly north of pink, a short distance south of bright red, but it was definitely not normal. He was afraid of her. She didn’t want him to be afraid. All she wanted was the respect due to her, which she’d certainly never got from the man she had married.

He scuttered round the car, bent rather too low when opening the door, and drove off at a speed that spoke volumes about his need to escape. ‘Behaving like a criminal in the getaway car,’ she told her image in the mirror. ‘And you have changed, madam. You, Miss Proper, are advertising yourself very boldly.’

Oh, yes, she had changed, all right. Gone were the loose blouses and huge don’t-look-at-me cardigans. She had invested in some top-of-the-range bras and a few pairs of Bridget Jones-style undergarments that had enjoyed, during their manufacturing days, a passing relationship with something called Spandex. They weren’t belly-crunchers, so they were probably second cousins several times removed from corsetry, but they emphasized her shape. It was time to become proud of her hourglass figure. The world was full of stick insects, and Lucy had decided to stand out from the crowd. And she certainly stood out, especially at mezzanine level. Hating her own body was a thing of the past; she would embrace herself, embrace life and live it to the full.

Like a silly teenager, she was enjoying herself, preening from time to time, looking at designer clothes and bags. She’d always had a good wardrobe, but she was now investing in a capsule collection to which she added something or other almost every week. It was hardly a capsule now; it was more a complete pharmacy with a full complement of treatments, lotions and potions. Her skin was smoother and less wrinkled, as she was working with expensive creams to achieve a better appearance. If she wasn’t satisfied, she knew where to go for Botox, though she did hold reservations when it came to something that sounded suspiciously akin to botulism.

She named the cause of all these symptoms the butterfly syndrome. Some people were grey, dull caterpillars for a very long time, but after a period of metamorphosis they emerged as Painted Ladies, beautiful creatures with splendid colours on their wings. ‘You have hidden your light not under a bushel, but under a cardigan. From this day forth, cardigans are for cold days.’

Yet the main changes in Lucy were hidden ones. She was relaxed, positive and almost unafraid. The mouse she once was could never have been so forthright about the Richard and Moira situation. That tiny rodent would have run away, but the new Lucy caused Richard to do the running. ‘In control of myself at last.’ But she didn’t want to control others, didn’t wish to become like her soon-to-be-ex-husband. The quiet life would suit her very well. In just days, she looked better than she had in years – felt better, too. At last, she was winning. Soon, business people would sleep and eat breakfast in her house.

Work in Stoneyhurst was travelling along at speed. It was becoming increasingly plain that she still needed to provide for her children, so her bed and breakfast accommodation had been whittled away until she could take only a handful of guests. It didn’t matter any more. For the first time ever, she was enjoying a sensation named freedom. It was wonderful. But she must get cleaners. This place was far too big to be tackled by one woman, and Lucy liked company – the sort of company that went home after work. And she needed to think about Moira next door, as her long-term carer was about to disappear into Wordsworth country.

After watching Richard drive off, Lucy made the daily phone call. It was her duty to ask how her husband was faring, since she was paying all his bills. He was settling. That meant he was sedated so that he wouldn’t rant and rage for a bottle of whisky. Heart surgery would be happening soon, probably tomorrow. He had lost enough weight, and his chances of survival were improved. What the hell was she going to do about him? He was a human being, and she couldn’t simply eradicate him from her life.

Today, her wonderful daughter, who had been working for over a month in Manchester, was coming for lunch. She had missed an earlier planned visit, because she had been busy, but she was on her way. The subject of Tallows would be discussed, because David needed an answer. He was expected this evening. The child in Lucy hoped that Richard Turner would notice the handsome visitor. ‘Behave yourself, Louisa,’ she said sharply. She remembered reading somewhere that newly divorced women often went wild, sometimes performing a complete U-turn in the area of character and personality. But Lucy wasn’t divorced just yet. She felt divorced, but that didn’t mean a thing, because she needed the paperwork, the final decree, that passport to absolute liberty, before she was legally free.

The chrysalis had opened, and the butterfly had begun to dry out her wings. But she wasn’t a Painted Lady. Neither was she a Cabbage White. The first implied a lot of make-up, and the second was the colourless character she used to be. Now she found herself able to visit Moira without running away when Richard returned. She talked to him, laughed with them both, and was becoming quite a hard case. The Hard Case butterfly? That sounded as if it had emerged from something wooden, like a coffin. Lively Lucy? No. This new butterfly would be the Coloured Courageous. But she had better keep that to herself, or people might believe she had lost the plot altogether . . .

He was in prison, and it was a jail of his wife’s making. She had condemned him to this, and he didn’t deserve any of it, because he’d always been a damned hard worker. It wasn’t fair. He’d been a successful property developer, for God’s sake. He didn’t belong here. This place was for losers, failures, drug addicts and . . . and alcoholics. It was bloody boring, and he wanted to get out.