Midnight on Lime Street (43 page)

‘Blood and sand, Babs,’ Sally shouted, ‘do you want to turn up red-eyed tomorrow?’

Bill walked round the table and placed an arm across the weeping girl’s shoulders. ‘Hormones,’ he pronounced gravely.

‘What the effing hell do you know about hormones?’ Sally wanted to know.

‘Me sister suffered from it,’ was his quick reply. ‘Before she had our Simon, she was a wet rag for months, and the doctor said she’d caught something called
hormones.’

Sally laughed, though no humour was delivered with the sound. ‘You don’t catch hormones, soft lad,’ she told him. ‘You have ’em all the time.’

Bill’s eyebrows shot skyward. ‘Get away with you.’

The bridesmaid gave up. ‘I’ll tell you when we’re on our own,’ she threatened past teeth that were almost gritted.

Bab’s shoulders continued to shake, though she emitted a different muffled sound.

Bill patted her shoulder. ‘Don’t cry, love.’

‘She’s not crying now – she’s laughing,’ Ian advised the company.

John was quick to agree. ‘She’s gone what me mam used to call historical.’

‘Hysterics,’ Phil explained.

The soon-to-be Mrs Hourigan raised her head. ‘Listen, you crazy sods,’ she managed, dashing tears from her face. ‘Just promise me one thing – that you’ll always be
part of my life, because you’re priceless.’ Her tone steadied. ‘Wear that, Sal. Be different; be yourself.’

Don marched in with an alacrity that defied his doctors’ diagnoses. He wore an immaculate suit, a shirt with a couple of discreet frills down its front, a bow tie and shoes that shone like
black glass. ‘Will I do like this?’ he asked. ‘I’m the one walking you up the aisle, Babs.’

‘You’ll do,’ was her reply. She surveyed the whole company once more. ‘Take them off and hang them up. We don’t want creases.’

Alone at last, Babs sat up straight and thanked God for her new life. She had a good man, a baby on its way, a wonderful horse, a house of her own and a very kind boss who had made all her
dreams come true. She promised to look after Don, because she wanted him to be there in five years to witness Murdoch romping home with the rest of the field way behind him in the most difficult
race known to man and beast. ‘We can do it, Murdy,’ she whispered. ‘Me, you, Gordy, Don and Lippy will make you famous. Right, I’ll go and try me frock on.’

Locking her bedroom door, she released the dress from its prison, a large bag with a hole at the top for the hanger’s hook. It was a simple affair in a shiny, silky material, high-necked,
long-sleeved, with lace down the arms and at the top, where it met a well-defined bodice in the more solid fabric. Turning sideways, she smoothed a tiny bump and ordered it not to grow any more for
twenty-four hours. ‘Stay as you are for now, baby,’ she muttered.

Someone knocked at her door. ‘Who is it?’ Babs called.

‘Only me,’ Sally answered.

The bride opened the door and allowed Sally in.

‘He’s dead,’ the younger girl stated baldly, her mouth curving into a smile.

‘Who?’ Babs’s heart missed a beat.

‘Me stepdad. Run over by a coal cart yesterday, pissed as a fart, died in the ozzy this afternoon. Eve heard about it and phoned me.’

‘So we won’t need to—’

‘No, we won’t.’ Sally grinned. ‘God, you look gorgeous. Shall we go back to being lezzers?’

Babs pretended to consider the question. ‘No, Sal,’ she answered finally. ‘I love him. Will you put my cap on?’

‘Hair down or up?’

‘I don’t know. The hairdresser’s coming tomorrow and I’ll let her decide. Gordy likes my hair loose, but I think the Juliet cap needs to be noticeable. Sally?’

‘What?’

‘That’s the best wedding present, him being dead. It means we can shop in Liverpool as well as Southport.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ Sally’s words were forced past hairgrips held between her lips. ‘I’d have my hair up if I were you. Gordy can take it down when
you get home after the do.’

‘Yes – give him something to look forward to.’

‘I’m not going to me stepdad’s funeral.’

‘No?’

‘No, because I might laugh or do a jig round the coffin.’

Thus Sally’s abuser was consigned to the past, just a wrinkle on a page or an insect glued to hanging flypaper. ‘I’ll be all right now, won’t I, Babs?’

‘Course you will. We all will. I’d hug you, but I need to look after me frock. Go on – bed. We have to be up early tomorrow.’

Bert Heslop was profusely apologetic about being late. ‘I just needed to hang about for the extra half hour, Miss Mellor.’

She grinned. ‘Following a husband?’

‘A wife. I left her swinging from somebody’s neck outside the cinema,’ he said, eyes twinkling. ‘She’s up to no good. Mind, her husband looks like the aftermath of
a bad accident, and he’s as miserable as sacrilege, so we shouldn’t blame her.’ He sat on a nearby chair and took her hand. ‘Right. What’s all this about you
dying?’

Eve shrugged. ‘Nothing can be done, Mr Heslop; I’m riddled with it – pancreas, liver, kidneys and a few pounds of best steak. When they read me the list, I felt like a mixed
grill minus the eggs and fried bread.’

He lifted a pad and a pen from his briefcase. ‘And you make light of it.’

‘Do I? Well, what’s the point? They wanted to keep me in the hospital so they could study me, so I told them to eff off. I’m stopping here with my girls and my best friend
Kate. She’s taken over, and she’s doing all right.’

He smiled. ‘OK, Carson, Neil, postman. Tell me what you know.’

She covered the subject completely, all the way from weak chin, flowered shirts and ties, cross and chain – though she stressed that this was only hearsay – to the main post office,
his wife, his kids, and the area in which he currently lived. ‘You can follow him home from work.’

‘Indeed. Anything else?’

‘He likes to be whipped, wants to be scourged till he bleeds, the soft bastard.’

‘It takes all sorts, Miss Mellor.’

She became serious. ‘The Mersey Monster’s out there, Mr Heslop, and it could be him. I need to know before I go.’

He scribbled a few more notes. ‘You may rely on me.’

‘I know that, which is why I sent for you. Get him. Get him for the working girls he’s killed and for those he might intend to kill. Just be as fast as you can.’

‘Certainly.’ He shook her hand and left the room, wiping his eyes when he reached the hall. Eve Mellor was a woman of strong instincts, and she was probably right about this man. He
would start tomorrow. It would be Saturday, but this was an emergency, because Eve Mellor was on her deathbed.

As was ever the case when Babs Schofield was involved in any activity, Saturday morning was a litany of errors right from the start. The men’s buttonholes arrived with
greenery attached. She didn’t want that, because her
Book of Wedding Etiquette
stated clearly that a man’s lapel flower should be unadorned. Her own bouquet, ordered by Sally,
was white with hints of pink and purple here and there, which shades served to echo the bridesmaid’s dress, so that was fine.

Right. She glanced round the kitchen to check that everything was in its proper place. The dishes were washed, there was no lunch to think about today, and Babs was able to devote time to
men’s surplus foliage. Even so, she remained angry, because she’d ordered just the flower, no green fluff. Some people in shops didn’t bloody listen. They’d stuck fern on,
and it was miserable, all droopy and limp. Oh, and Sally had done a disappearing act.

The phone rang. Would somebody please find four sparkling white handkerchiefs for the ushers. ‘Bog off,’ she snapped at her beloved Gordy. ‘We’re not supposed to see each
other or talk till we get to the register place.’ She slammed down the receiver. Handkerchiefs? Were they planning on crying their eyes out, the soft buggers?

Babs spent the following half hour of her post-breakfast day remaking buttonholes and cursing quietly under her breath. She stuck the results in a bowl of very shallow water and ordered them to
behave unless they wanted to be buried with dog muck behind the garage.

Several minutes were wasted when she found her precious horse standing over the three-tier wedding cake in the big living area, usually named the drawing room. ‘How the hell did you get
past me? Don’t even think about it, you little swine. The cake is for humans only.’ The ‘little’ swine towered over her. He knew this was an unusual day, and he’d been
looking for clues. Whinnying softly, he pushed his nose into her hair, inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly.

‘I don’t want horse snot shampoo today, Murdoch. Can’t you get yourself outside and be a horse just this once, eh? And no going upstairs.’ She led him out, locking the
drawing room door in their wake. The rest of the buffet was in the pantry or on its way with caterers, and he couldn’t fit through the small pantry door, so that was OK.

After an extra apple plus one for Nicholas Nye, Murdoch left the house slowly. A wildly swishing tail informed her that he was not best pleased.

Babs shook her head. He had a cob on; she could tell he was in one of his big sulks. ‘Shit,’ she mumbled, looking up at the kitchen clock. Where did the time go? She had so much to
do in the next half hour . . . and there was still no Sally.

The providers of party foods entered the arena. Another ten minutes floated away into the ether while she explained the locked door. ‘He comes in the house,’ she told the gang of
three. When questioned, she informed the small gathering that Murdoch was an unusual horse who related best to some members of the human race, plus a small, blind donkey called Nye. The dogs were
in a stable, she told them, and geese were unpredictable.

Having never heard of a household like this one, they shook their heads and began the business of bringing in fancy foodstuffs from van and from pantry. This was a very strange place, but they
were being well paid, so they got on with the job.

Another man turned up in good clothes including a blindingly white shirt, a tailcoat and a bow tie. He owned an expressionless face and long, elegant fingers with beautifully manicured
nails.

‘Who are you?’ Babs was fast reaching the end of her very short rope. He looked bloody daft in that rig-out. Had nobody ever taught him how to smile? Did he ever laugh?

‘Sommelier,’ was his curt reply.

Some mothers, Babs decided, were no good when it came to choosing names. ‘I see,’ was all she managed at first. After a few seconds she asked why he was here.

‘I do the wines and serve champagne,’ he said. ‘I shall also supervise the waitresses when they get here.’

He was posh. Don was posh, as was Lippy Macey, but she was used to them. This chap looked down his nose till he was all but cross-eyed, so he wasn’t a natural – oh no, this was a
self-made posh. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to . . .’ her voice limped away as if lacking energy. She had about an hour at best to become a bride. Where the hell was
Sally? How was she supposed to manage all by herself on the most important day of her life?

As if in answer to unspoken questions, Babs’s bridesmaid fell in at the door. She was as filthy as mortal sin. ‘I’ll just . . .’ she breathed, saving herself by grabbing
the door jamb. ‘Er . . . yes.’ She shot off upstairs.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Babs shouted.

‘Doing stuff,’ was the disembodied reply.

It was clear that the chief and one-and-only bridesmaid was going to be as much use as a chocolate teapot when it came to helping the bride prepare for her big event. ‘Beggaring
hell,’ she cursed softly. ‘Why does everything happen to me?’

The next half hour became a tangle of activity for which she was grateful. Barbara Schofield, soon to be Hourigan, was taken upstairs, shampooed, set and stuck under a dryer while the
hairdresser painted her nails. Helen (from Hair by Helen of Lord Street) released the dress from prison, dusted the white shoes, examined one Juliet cap and sprayed the bouquet with a fine mist of
water. ‘Right-o,’ said Helen, ‘your dress has a long zip, so I can put your hair up now.’

Thirty-five minutes later, Babs stared at the stranger in her mirror. She was beautiful. All brides looked well on the day, but she . . . she shone. With her hair swept backward and upward, she
had gained an inch or so in height; at last, she had hit her target of five whole feet. When her shoes were on, she was about five feet and three inches. Sorted!

Helen brought a hand mirror to show Babs the back of her head where the cap sat, its rim decorated by deliberately wayward curls. ‘You are bloody gorgeous, love,’ the hairdresser
told her. ‘And the mascara, lipstick and blusher are all you need. Wonderful skin – you’re a lucky girl.’

‘Thank you. The money’s on the bedside table.’

‘I’ve been paid—’

‘Take it. You dressed me and made me look wonderful. Please pick that money up, love. When Sal marries Bill, I’ll book you.’ She posed while a photograph was taken for Hair by
Helen’s brides’ book. ‘Oh, and have a look in the next bedroom, see whether my bridesmaid’s still covered in muck.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t ask, Helen – just do it.’

Alone, Babs spoke to her son or daughter. ‘Thanks for staying small, baby. You have a beautiful mam and a handsome dad, and we’re both short-arses. Keep that thought in mind, cos
this frock fits where it touches.’

Helen put her head round the door. ‘She’s fine. I’m just doing a bit of a backcomb on her hair. All the best, Babs.’ And she was gone.

‘This is it, then,’ Babs advised her reflection. She was getting married in – oh, about twenty minutes. ‘Mrs Hourigan? More like Mrs Hooligan. I must dress up more often
and stop legging about like a bloody tomboy.’ She couldn’t remember when she’d last worn an adult skirt.

Sally arrived. Stopping in the doorway, she eyed the bride. ‘You look absolutely great.’

‘So do you. Are we ready?’

‘Yes. Gordy’s gone with the lads, and Don’s downstairs waiting for us.’

‘Then let’s get the show on the road.’

‘Are you sure?’ Sally grinned broadly.

‘I’m sure.’

They descended the stairs.

‘Babs?’