The Liverpool Trilogy (112 page)

She was still pretty. Her reflection in every shop window she passed proved that point. Men looked at her. They saw beauty, yet knew nothing of her mindset, her secrets. For behind the handsome
facade, a disconcerting thought niggled. She was not a loving wife, had never been a satisfactory one. And she’d been stupid enough to believe that he would stay in the marriage because of
his leg.

Don was a good-looking man. Lately, she had begun to view him differently, and the limp gave him character. Everyone liked him. Leader of a local pub’s championship darts team, he was
greeted with smiles and waves every time he walked out of the launderette and into the street. His popularity had been earned because he was a decent man and a good player of darts. Don deserved to
be treated well.

Tess, on the other hand, was seldom spoken to. She could sometimes be a bit cool when customers asked for change to dispense a cup of detergent or to work a machine. They should have sorted all
that before dragging their dirty washing through the streets.
I am already a bitter old woman
, she told her inner self while walking to the carpet shop.
And the kids love him more than
they love me, because he raised them while I was busy filling daily needs and saving towards freedom. Freedom? Customers can’t even remember to bring the right change or a packet of soap
powder . . . And now, he’s going to abandon us, and the children will hit the roof, since it’s all my fault. But even though I might well be leaving the flat, I’m still going to
have this carpet.
The carpet had become a matter of principle.

But a husband was a prerequisite. Widowhood carried with it a degree of dignity, but widowhood was impossible to arrange without committing a mortal sin, and she didn’t want him dead
anyway. Divorce, for a Catholic, was supposedly impossible. It was also an admission to the world that a woman had failed, that she had been placed in the reject bucket.
Do not touch, do not
feed this animal.
Tess dreaded the shame of it. Those who had suffered her terse replies in the launderette would gossip. They’d say she deserved it, had pretended to be a cut above and
no wonder poor Don had left the scene, bless him with his bad knee.

‘I’ll have the grey,’ she told the shopkeeper. Red was such a common colour, and grey was the only available alternative. She gave him the address of the flat and asked him to
measure and fit before lunch time tomorrow. When Don came home from work, he would see her statement; whether or not she stayed in the flat, the carpet would be a fait accompli. Axminster square,
indeed. Everyone had fully fitted these days, because polished floorboards or lino edging were very pre-war. Even if the flat was to be let, a new carpet was required.

The kids knew there was something wrong. Their father was sleeping on the sofa, which was doing his knee no good at all, while Sean had been heard to deliver the quiet opinion that his
mother’s face looked like a squeezed lemon. But neither Don nor Tess had spoken to them yet about the planned separation. Would they suffer? Well, they weren’t babies any more, and this
world was full of hard knocks . . .

She sat with a cup of stewed tea in a small café that could not be listed as having seen better days, since it had always been scruffy. But Tess needed space to think, and there was
plenty of that in this oily hole. The flat no longer felt welcoming, the launderette was noisy, the streets were too busy. She was the only customer here. Even the cup stank of rancid fat, while
the table was chipped and marked by the scratched initials of today’s young. The decadent establishment was soon to change hands and become a milk bar with a juke box and non-alcoholic drinks
for a generation of nomads.

They wandered. They came home from work, ate in a hurry, then beggared off to places they would never discuss. Sean was a quick wash man, but Anne-Marie took hours to get ready. She was now
apprenticed to Dolly Pearson, a hairdresser from . . . from Menlove Avenue. The hairdressing shop was a Smithdown Road lock-up. Dolly was divorced, and was looked upon as damaged goods, though she
seemed not to care. Was that the answer, then? A hard shell, a layer of nonchalance, a permanent smile and a permanent wave always well set with a fringe on the forehead?

Sean was old enough for pubs, but Anne-Marie wasn’t. She was, however, old enough to spend her leisure time riding pillion behind a man who had renamed himself Marx. His real name, Mark
Wells, was clearly not good enough. Mark, as Tess insisted on calling him, was something of an oddity, since he was a quiet Christian of sorts with a loud motorbike. He’d brought the doctor,
had ushered everyone out of the launderette while Tess had sat stupidly with a paper bag. Mark voted Labour . . . Still, he’d got rid of Pea-Green, which was surely a good thing?

Oh, she couldn’t drink this tea. Was it tea? It smelled like something that should go straight down the toilet without the need for processing by a digestive tract. But it was her ticket
to silence, so Tess remained where she was. Mark. He was doing accountancy, seemed decent enough apart from motorbike and leathers, and he knew John Lennon. Anne-Marie had been a devotee of the
Quarry Men for at least three months, so perhaps Mark was merely the key to a golden gate? Children were so secretive these days.

Anne-Marie would favour a move to Menlove Avenue. To be near her hero, the girl would probably move to the moon. Sean was different. For a start, he was male and not particularly communicative.
Anne-Marie, now under the influence of a male, was slightly less talkative these days. Men were the deciders, the breadwinners, the leaders. But not in Tess’s household. Her husband had
returned damaged by his very brief war. Because of his disability and periods spent in hospitals, Tess had taken the reins, and she had held on to them tightly.

Look what you’ve done today
, she chided herself silently. Should she cancel the carpet? Should she take the policy money and move to Menlove?
Answers on a postcard, Tess. No
matter what, you’ve lost him. So. Do you want to be abandoned on Smithdown Road or on Menlove Avenue? Answers, as already stated, on a postcard to . . . I am definitely going strange. If I
don’t buck up. I might well find myself in a padded room strapped down in a straitjacket, and that’s not my style.

A degree of intelligence prevailed. While the greasy tea cooled, Tess Compton found some of her senses. On Smith-down Road, Don’s abandonment of his family would be noticed immediately,
and she would be stuck in that flat with boisterous women and noisy washing machines below. On Menlove Avenue, fewer people would comment at the start, and she would own a house. It was time to
talk to the children. It was time to take the money and to plan a graceful exit.

Tess Compton left the café. She returned to the carpet shop and cancelled the order, offering as reasons the fact that her husband hated Skaters’ Trails, and the almost-lie that
they had decided to move from the flat. ‘I’ll be back,’ she promised. ‘I’d no idea about his plan to buy a house. It was meant to be a surprise.’

She walked homeward, though she passed the launderette and carried on all the way up to Menlove Avenue. There were two for sale at this end, both stating
Apply within
. So she applied
within. Each house had separate living and dining rooms, a decent hall, three bedrooms and a bathroom. The kitchen was small in one, extended in the other. There were gardens front and back. The
extended house had a slightly smaller rear garden because of the improved kitchen, but the owner was leaving carpets and curtains at no extra cost, and the front sitting room had Skaters’
Trails, the grey version, of course. Surely this had to be an omen?

Tess sat down there and then in ‘her’ new kitchen and wrote a contract of sorts. She left a small cheque as deposit, returnable should a survey find fault. Meanwhile, the For Sale
sign must be removed. And that was that. She stood in the front garden and admired the house. It was beautiful, newly painted in black and white, while Anne-Marie’s hero lived diagonally
opposite. Also, this was a good address, since Woolton was, for many people, a statement of arrival. Don worked just outside Woolton, so the children would be able to see him . . .

She looked up and down the avenue, her heartbeat suddenly louder and erratic. Lots of trees, houses well cared for, several cars and . . . And he had another woman. This sudden realisation
arrived like a punch in the solar plexus.
Why did I never turn to face him when he was ready in the bed? Why was I stupid enough to make him use me in that way? Even a prostitute would serve him
better. I am a cold country, and he has gone somewhere with a warmer climate. How stupid am I? Men need relief and release – my mother warned me about that. Who is she?

Joy about her semi-detached paradise evaporated. How much did she have left after that deposit? Was there enough to pay Injun Joe, the private detective? But there was really no point, because
she couldn’t apply for a divorce. Still riveted to the spot, she worked on her breathing. A panic attack threatened. Sometimes, she had one because of worrying about having one. And she
couldn’t have one here, not on Menlove Avenue. People here owned new cars and Skaters’ Trails, bay windows, even an oriel in the smallest bedroom, and decent net curtains. Some had gone
as far as Venetian blinds and pretend shutters on outside walls . . .

No, she couldn’t have a panic in this place. It was a coffee morning area, a cheese and wine evening location, a keep-your-garden-nice avenue. She managed her breathing before walking back
towards home.
You did well, Tess. A person looking for a house is expected to stand and stare at neighbouring buildings. But keep taking the pills, woman.

No. She couldn’t apply for divorce, but he might. Wasn’t there a get-out-of-jail card after seven years of separation? If there was, she wouldn’t contest it, because she was
being bought out, wasn’t she? It was a house, a house, my wifedom for a house. That was Shakespeare’s King Richard, she seemed to remember from school, but his had been a kingdom and a
horse.

The only other way to get a quick divorce was via Injun Joe and his photos. Joey Dodds had earned his nickname in childhood, because he’d always chosen to be an Indian rather than a
cowboy. Now, he’d decided to be a private detective, and he earned most of his money by catching people in flagrante and in seedy hotels. Well, Don would find no evidence of that behaviour
from her, though she could get it from him and his partner in adultery. Because there had to be another woman. But was proof required? The truth was that no matter what, a Catholic remained
married. Even if Don had the marriage terminated after seven years, she would not be free to marry again. She would never do that, anyway. Once was enough for any woman with a degree of common
sense.

Yet if she looked at it another way, knowledge was power. She wanted the extended-kitchen house, so she needed to move fast. If she knew the identity of his mistress, she might be able to apply
pressure and negotiate for some new furniture and a washing machine. It was September, and she didn’t want to spend another winter in that flat if she could help it.

Even so, there was a huge void where her stomach had been, because she was losing a massive thing – her status. She was going back on the shelf, would be considered soiled goods, a reject,
even a danger. A pretty divorcee was to be avoided in case she made a move towards someone else’s husband. It worked the other way round, too, as many men didn’t want their wives to
associate with a female who might lead them astray. Did they think separation was a communicable disease?

She’d never been inside Injun Joe’s wigwam. It was above a tobacconist shop, and was reputed to have totem poles, feathered head-dresses and, on the walls, pictures of native
Americans. That was where Joe’s flamboyance began and ended. Access to his office was through a rear yard, and he was the soul of discretion. Dolly Pearson was reputed to have used him,
though no one was completely sure.

Tess lingered outside the wool shop. At this time of year, she had used to start on her children’s winter knits, but they were beyond the winter knit stage. Should she make one for Don?
No, he’d think she was trying to get round him. Was she thinking of arranging another attempt to get round him? Seduction had failed, so she couldn’t imagine a cable knit making any
difference. But she went inside, picked up a pattern and some blue double-knit wool. It would emphasise her startling, bright blue eyes. Tess would begin to knit for herself and live for herself,
since the kids would leave sooner or later.

She entered the launderette where four women were doing their weekly wash. ‘I’ll be upstairs, ladies. If you need change for something or other, just ring the bell. Oh, and
you’ll have a tea and coffee machine soon. I ordered it about a week ago. I think it even serves cocoa or drinking chocolate of some sort.’ She then delivered a beaming smile before
climbing the stairs. The expressions on those four faces had been priceless.

Becoming nice was not going to be easy. ‘We’ll have to work at it, won’t we?’ she asked her shepherd’s pie before leaving it next to the oven. It would be heated
through for tonight’s meal, and the children would remain at the table this time, because they needed to be told properly and by both parents. Menlove Avenue. She kept saying the name in her
head. She needed to continue excited.

Sitting near the window, she began to cast on the bluebell-coloured wool for her new sweater. No one could have everything. There was even space for a small breakfast table in that kitchen. A
house was nearly everything, and a husband was not absolutely essential. And the gardens were neat and simple. It was her pride that was giving her pain, and pride was expensive. She might assume
the air of the grievously wounded, one whose man had been whisked away by a younger woman. That would work with other single females, she supposed as she began the first row of ribbing.

He was on the stairs. Her insides trembled slightly, and her knitting picked up speed when the door opened.