The Liverpool Trilogy (106 page)

‘You told me not to.’

‘Why do they call them angel fish? Delinquents, they are. That one there’s a bastard. They know I murdered trout.’

‘But we sat here and ate cod—’

‘Anonymous cod. Cod with no heads.’ She stood up and helped him to his feet. ‘I’ve committed fishslaughter,’ she said.

‘Moll?’

‘What?’

‘Shut up and get a bloody head doctor. I’d better go before she smells a rat. If she smells a rat, I’ll decapitate it and get done for ratslaughter. That way, you won’t
be on your own in court.’

She clung to him. ‘Don’t let her drive you any madder than you already are. No matter what she does or says, stay cool, not angry.’

‘I’ll try.’

He drove from the edge of Woolton to Smithdown Road, his foot easing off the accelerator as he neared his destination. The kids would be in bed. Tess might be in bed, or she might be waiting
with one of her prepared diatribes. He wasn’t in the mood. He’d never been in the mood for lectures, but what could he do? Tess would have her pound of flesh, wouldn’t she?

He climbed the stairs to the flat, his leg throbbing fiercely. She would have put his name down for gardening in her new house, he supposed. Gardening? A potted plant was his limit. Cutting
lawns and trimming hedges lay well outside his restricted range of abilities.

Ah, she was trying a different tack. For a woman approaching forty, Tess Compton was in excellent shape. She was wearing an almost transparent nightdress, her face was made up, and she had
spread herself out like Marilyn Monroe on the sofa. His immediate reaction was born in hope, hope that his children were asleep. But he couldn’t look at her, since she was so annoyingly
beautiful. God, he wanted her. What sort of animal was he?

‘Well?’ she asked.

‘Well what? Wishing well, artesian well, well done? It’s too late, Tess. You’re beautiful, but there’s no point. You go to bed, and I’ll have the sofa. Sean and
Anne-Marie will think it’s because of my knee. We can’t fill in the missing pieces of our jigsaw. It’s not about sex; it’s about respect, fun, talking. You look stunning,
and you always did, but lovemaking was always the payment you made for something you wanted, like Anne-Marie. So thanks, but no, thanks.’ To get her own way, Tess was prepared to act the
whore.

She shot up like a rocket on bonfire night. ‘So you won’t try?’

‘I’ve tried long enough. Now, listen to me for a change.’ He swallowed nervously. ‘A while back, I took out a policy, and it will mature soon. That will get you your
house. Anne-Marie will probably go with you, because she’s Quarry Men mad, and one of them lives along that avenue. Sean will do whatever he wants.’ He held up a hand when she opened
her mouth to speak. ‘I’ve not finished. You say nothing to the kids until we’ve found the right house. When they learn about everything, it will be from both of us. Together. For
once, think about them, not about you.’

She stood up, turned away, and walked into the bedroom.

Don lingered for a while at the living room window. Last order stragglers meandered homeward, some whistling, some singing out of tune. One maniac had fallen in love with a lamp post and was
whispering sweet nothings into its corporation-green paintwork. A late bus trundled by, a tangle of multicoloured youths fighting on its upper deck. Rainbow. Rainbow trout. ‘That angel fish
hates the bloody sight of me.’ Burnt supper, down to the village for fish and chips twice, plenty of vinegar. An ordinary woman who still worked in spite of her wealth, who still spoke like a
native, who sounded just like George Formby when doing her bit at the pub. ‘Turned out nice again.’ Yes, she was a mimic. She was a giver. It was time to make things happen; it was time
to move on.

Leather’s hard to sew, but I managed to cobble together a close-fitting mask with eye holes, a space for my nose, a gap for my mouth. Buggeration, this one was a
fighter. I didn’t give her enough chloroform before sticking her in the sidecar. She’s in some woods up a side road off the A580. Scratch marks on my arms. Must wear closer-fitting
clothes.

I’ll be all right for a while now . . .

There is a nowhere place, a morning twilight that hangs between night and day, between sleep and wakefulness, and its nature is cruel, because it shelters us for so brief a
time from recent miseries. When sense returns, memories pierce consciousness like shards of glass cutting through bone and tissue, embedding themselves in a heart that felt repaired just moments
earlier. It refuses to be managed, eliminated or curtailed, as its nature is elemental and buried in the id of every human creature.

Life was getting no easier. Today, Roisin Allen sat bolt upright in the bed, reality crashing into her chest, heart racing like a lorry down a cul-de-sac, impact inevitable, petrified, waiting
for the grinding of gears, the scream of brakes, the stench of burning rubber. She was both victim and perpetrator, since she was the one who must mend herself, and she could not stop her own
machinery.

What would Phil have said? ‘Pull yourself together, you’ve kids to mind.’ Or, ‘You can’t stand still; you have to move on with life.’
Oh, Phil, how shall I
carry on without you, and why didn’t I treat you better? No, I didn’t want more children, but we could have— Well, I could have held you and loved you when you needed
that.

Guilt was the worst part. Within moments of waking, every cross word she had uttered, every dirty look she had delivered, came back to her on a vivid Technicolor screen, sound included, in her
weary head. He had called her his Rose, his Rosie. Roisin, pronounced Rosheen, was a beautiful but unusual label, so most people named her Rosh. In the mornings, he had nominated her Dozy Rosie,
because she’d been a reluctant riser.

Phil had been dead for three weeks, and Rosh Allen continued to suffer these early morning symptoms. She slept next to a bolster that was not him, but fooled her when she shifted during slumber,
giving her false security, false hope. Drugs sent her into unconsciousness, but they hung over her like black rain clouds, and she seldom woke properly until after lunch time. Mother had moved in,
of course. She had taken over the children, the cleaning, cooking, washing and ironing. Mother, usually Mam, in her late fifties, could not carry on like this for ever. An amazing little woman,
Anna Riley coped with whatever life threw in her direction.
I continue selfish, Phil. My poor mother is weighed down by it all, and I know I should be—

The bedroom door crashed into an item of furniture. ‘Why ever do you keep the chest of drawers just there? Every morning the same, and I nearly lose your breakfast. We’ve eggs
scrambled all the way to glory and back just now.’ The tray was dumped unceremoniously on a bedside table. ‘Get yourself on the outside of that lot, then out from under the
blankets.’ Anna paused. ‘I’ve given up me house, so. The keys go back this afternoon.’ She sighed. ‘Some of us have to make the decision to get on with life, you see.
We can’t all go Shakespearean and lie round like Desdemona in a fit with her leg up. ’

‘I haven’t got my leg up.’ The woman in the bed glared hard at her mother.

‘Neither did Desdemona, but she’d every right to, poor soul. Anyway, like I said, I’ve given up me house.’

‘Right.’

‘And it’s grateful they were, because a family can take it now. I was rattling about like the last pill in the bottle. When you’re better, I shall find myself a sitting bedroom
not too far away from you.’

‘A bed-sitting room, you mean.’

‘Perhaps I do. But we have to get Winston and Lucy-Furr. You must come and help me. I have a vehicle for their transportation, but cats can be troublesome, as you are quite possibly
already aware.’

Rosh groaned. Troublesome? Her mother’s cats were from the dark side. Their behaviour was criminal; had they been human, they would have been in Walton Jail. There had been four of them,
but two had gone off to ruin wallpaper and furniture in cat afterlife; however, the two worst had managed to survive the busy stretch that was College Road. And now Anna intended to bring them to
the relative peace of Lawton Road in Waterloo, Liverpool North. ‘I don’t want them.’ Rosh would rather have mumps or scarlet fever.

Anna made no reply. Her daughter had spoken, had referred to something other than her grief. This was progress indeed. An inch at a time, Anna’s precious Roisin was going to be dragged
back to life.

‘Mam?’

‘What?’

‘Does Winnie still talk all the time?’

‘He does. He comes home and delivers a lecture, especially if there’s rain about. Blames me for the weather, so he does. And every time, I have to show him it’s raining at the
front of the house as well as the back. Or vice versa. Always, he demands tangible proof. The boy’s a fool, but handsome enough for a ginger tom. You’ll grow used to them, I
promise.’

‘I shall get a very large dog,’ Rosh threatened. She cast an eye over her scattered breakfast. Winston was not the naughtier of the two felines. Lucy-Furr, pronounced Lucifer, had
definitely been booted like the first fallen angel out of heaven by God the Father, who would have needed the assistance of God the Son, with God the Holy Ghost riding shotgun. Lucy destroyed
things. She did it secretly, frequently and thoroughly. ‘I noticed extra holes in your funeral mantilla. She even ruined a sacred item.’

Anna sniffed. Back to the funeral. Again. ‘I’ve sold all me furniture as well,’ she said. ‘So we’ve money to live on until you get back to work. We need just a
small new bed for me in the box room. Stuff in there will go into your roof. But you see, Roisin, when you work, you won’t be here for the kiddies when they get out of school. You could be
gone already when they leave in a morning. I’ve taken a couple of evening jobs to help out—’

‘Mam, you’re doing enough.’

Anna sat on the edge of her daughter’s bed. ‘Now, you just listen to me, young lady. Phil Allen was one of the best, but he’s gone, God bless him and have mercy on his good,
brave soul. I’m still here and not in bad health. We muck in. We’re Irish, so we do what needs doing for the greater good within the family. I know you don’t want me here for
ever, but I know also that you love me. Now, don’t start crying again, or we’ll need a boat. Eat. We’re going for me cats.’

Alone, Rosh did her best with the scrambled eggs and toast. Mother was right about the chest of drawers too near the door; perhaps the room was due for a change. And she must take Phil’s
clothes down to church for the poor. Yes, Mother was right yet again; it was time to make an effort. Mother was almost always right; that was the most annoying thing about her.

Phil had given Mam the name ‘Mother’. She deserved the full title, he had said. Anna Riley was small in stature, huge in soul. Had Rosh needed any proof at all, these past weeks
would have provided it. Until the funeral and after that sad occasion, Mam had kept house all day, had sat all night with her daughter, seldom sleeping in her chair, always ready to respond to the
moans of a child in another room. And she was right, because a young widow needed to work, while children wanted minding. Energy would have to be found, as would the urge to re-enter the workplace.
None of it was going to be easy.

‘Roisin?’

Here came Mam again, door crashing inward once more.

‘Open it.’ She held out an envelope and waited while her daughter released its contents.

Tears surfaced quickly. It was a postal order for twelve pounds from Phil’s workmates at Wilkinson Engineering. ‘Aren’t people good?’ she said. ‘We’ll get
your bed with this.’

Anna produced a second envelope, manila, with a little window on the front. ‘And this arrived along with that one.’ She held it out. ‘There.’

‘Oh, heck.’ Rosh dried her eyes on the bed sheet. ‘I don’t like brown letters. You know I hate them. You do it.’ Phil had always dealt with such items. The idea of
being responsible for all the workings of a household held no appeal for Rosh. Going back to a full-time job would be enough without all the bills and the budgeting.

Seating herself in a small rocking chair by the window, Anna opened the envelope. She had learned to read in her thirties, and she was proud of how quickly her eye could cover a page. ‘May
the saints preserve us,’ she exclaimed. ‘What a man that was. He was a pearl.’

‘Mam?’

‘Thought of everyone but himself, didn’t he? I mind the time when he came to me and said—’

‘Mam!’

‘No, he called me Mother, so he said that, then went on to—’

‘Mam!’

‘Oh, sorry. It’s from an insurance firm in Manchester. Your man kept his payments up, God bless him. They’re waiting just now on the coroner’s confirmation of the report.
But when they have that for their files, and when death by accident is official, you will get ten thousand pounds. Had he died naturally, it would have been just three. But because it was a road
accident, well – there you go.’

Rosh’s jaw dropped. Just three? That was enough to buy two houses and a car. But ten? Philomena could carry on with piano lessons, the old instrument downstairs could be tuned properly or
replaced, while Kieran might realize his dream of becoming a doctor. As for Alice – well – she could just be happy. Little was expected of poor Alice, who had been late to crawl and
walk, who still seemed to have difficulty reading and writing . . . ‘Thank you, Phil,’ she said aloud.

‘Amen to that.’ Anna waved the letter. ‘And this is a sign, Roisin. You don’t need to rush out to work, don’t need to—’

‘Oh, but I do. That nest egg is for my babies, Mother. I can get a tutor for Alice, someone who can get her learning. Kieran needs books, and Philly could use a new piano.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m coming with you. For the cats.’

Inwardly, Anna thanked the saints with all her heart. Money had never held a high position on her daughter’s agenda, but the policy had made her think about a future, about the children,
even about the cats from Satan. It would all take time, but life was about to be reclaimed by the beautiful Roisin Allen, God help her. Because men noticed her, and there was no Phil to guard her
now.