The Liverpool Trilogy (128 page)

Anna placed her burdens on the floor. ‘You never went there of all places. Haven’t I always told you to keep away after what they did to our fellow countrymen? No Catholics? It was
the Irish they objected to, because a man from the Church of Ireland got the knock-back as well.’

Rosh nodded. ‘Well, I went. They took me into a little room for an interview. There were three of them. I even got the guided tour—’

‘So, they had you marked for possible management?’

‘I don’t know, Mam. But they wanted to start me off in ironing, so I could see that they were looking for someone to learn the business from the bottom. Anyway, I knocked them back
about the no Catholic thing. But I was wrong.’

‘You? Wrong? Did the sun turn blue?’

The younger woman smiled briefly. ‘They were Collingfords, all three of them. And it wasn’t their fault. They’d fought for that stupid rule to be changed, but the older
Collingford insisted on it till the day he died. I was hitting the wrong people. I hate myself at the moment, because I didn’t even realize who I was talking to.’

‘Ah, forget about it. You’ll be better off here in newspapers and tobacco. I can walk down any time I like and have a chat with you.’

Rosh thought about that. The concept of Anna at loose in a corner shop was not attractive. Mr Bailey had always kept a couple of chairs in the place so that customers could sit and chat. Perhaps
the season of chair-burning was about to occur. Though Rosh had other plans, too . . .

‘It’s a shame he died, but. Mr Bailey was a good man, so he was. And you’ll be working for his widow, a grand soul with a house near the water. Are you going to tell her
you’ll accept the job? I saw her walking along not five minutes ago. See? That’s her motor car parked outside the butcher’s.’

Rosh nodded, turned to walk away, then turned again. ‘Who’s got the mumps?’ she asked rather tardily.

Anna picked up her purchases. ‘Mary Henderson’s chap. They live above the greengrocery. Protestant, of course. He never could stand children, even when he was one himself.’

It occurred to Rosh in that moment that her mother’s jokes about non-Catholics were as full of prejudice as the Collingfords’ sad history.

Anna rolled on smoothly. ‘She’s Catholic, and we all know what that means. So he goes and gets the mumps, and the mumps travel downstairs to his underneath regions, and his legs are
up in stirrups to relieve the pain in his private bits, and he’ll come out of it infertile. So she’ll never have a child, will she? The primary purpose of marriage is
procreation.’

‘You sound like a catechism.’ Rosh shook her head. What was the point? ‘One of these days, you’ll cut your own throat with your tongue. You’re talking stupid, and
you know it. So why go about making bother? Leave all that to people like Hitler and the IRA.’

‘I’m joking,’ Anna yelled. ‘Did you hear me? This was a joke.’

‘Well, I’m not laughing. I hurt an old man today, and his mother. She looked to be in her nineties. And his daughter chased after me and told me the truth about her uncle. One of
these days, some sick-to-the-back-teeth non-Catholic will chase after you, but with a cricket bat. Just stop being such a damned nuisance, Mother.’

Mother. Anna knew she was in trouble whenever she was awarded that title. ‘Oh, go and get your job.’ She marched off in the direction of home and peace. Some people didn’t
realize how lucky they were to have a mother who did all the housework, the shopping, most of the cooking, who looked after grandchildren and . . . Ah. Here came Eric. He’d be happy to carry
the bags for her.

Rosh had slipped into a little café and ordered two cups of coffee. Roy was never late. He had booked time off work to help her with a monumental decision, because she
had two choices. Mrs Bailey didn’t want the shop. It had been her husband’s pet project, and he was dead, so its usefulness was minimal. An investor had expressed interest, and Rosh
could work for him, but there was an alternative about which she had spoken only to Roy. She had been given first option. The shop was hers for the taking, stock included, for a very reasonable
sum. Phil’s insurance policy had paid off the mortgage on the house, so Rosh would own two buildings outright if she took this further step, and she needed Roy’s advice and support.

He arrived. ‘This place gets dingier by the day,’ was his greeting. ‘Are we safe drinking their coffee?’

‘Be an adventurer,’ she advised. ‘Take a walk on the dark side. If we drop dead, we’ll take that as a sign that we needn’t look at Mr Bailey’s shop after
all.’

He sipped, swallowed, shuddered, then pushed cup and saucer to the centre of the table. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘How did Mrs Bailey get on with the powers that be? What did they say
about the rest of it?’

‘Fine,’ Rosh said. ‘The plans are not out of date, so I can open a little café round the side of the shop. Let’s hope my coffee’s a sight better than this
muck. So. I’ll have to employ women to bake at home, at least one waitress, and somebody to run the shop from two to six. I’m hoping Mr Bailey’s assistant will carry on doing the
morning shift, sorting out newspaper deliveries and dealing with tobacco. The new café will be my baby.’ She paused. ‘Is it a good investment, Roy? Am I doing the right
thing?’

‘I think so, yes. And I’ll keep your books tidy. Right. Shall we go? I’m not prepared to drink any more of that muddy stuff.’

They left their table and their coffee, but no tip. Gratuities, like respect, needed to be earned. They lingered outside and looked at Rosh’s future domain, which was diagonally opposite
the greasy building they had just left. She would scarcely need to shine in order to keep in the shade the café she had just left. ‘Roy?’

‘What?’

‘Thanks for being here for me. You’re very good, and I’m grateful.’

‘It’s OK.’ He would have gone to the ends of the earth for her, but he kept quiet.

‘Since I lost Phil, you’ve been a godsend. For my children, for my mother—’

‘I love them all,’ he said. ‘Even the terrible cats.’

‘My mother is worse than Winston and Lucy-Furr.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘but I wouldn’t like a world without her in it.’

Rosh suddenly felt shy and silly. She’d always known, hadn’t she? So why did she feel like a fifteen-year-old on a first date? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t already noticed
him, yet he had been like wallpaper, a backdrop against which life was played out. But since the death of his father, Roy had emerged from his shell, and he was admirable. She mustn’t think
like this. Her business head should be forced to take over, while her heart needed to be in cold storage – she’d only been widowed for just about a year, for goodness’ sake.

Mrs Bailey was in the shop, which had been open infrequently in recent weeks. She was seated in one of her husband’s chairs when Rosh and Roy walked in. ‘He loved this place.’
Her tone was sad. ‘Anyway, I must get rid of it. I’ve decided to sell up completely and go to Australia where our son lives. That house was big with two of us in it. It’s like
living in some sort of echo chamber now; I can hear my own footsteps bouncing off the walls, as if someone’s following me.’

‘I know,’ Rosh said. Even with Mam and the children, those first weeks without Phil had been as empty as a freshly dug grave.

‘I’m sure you do know, dear. So, have you thought about it?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ve thought about little else. And I’d like to work for myself. Roy considers it a good investment, so yes, please. I’m happy with the price, and very happy
that the plans for a café are still in date.’

‘That’s settled, then.’ Mrs Bailey rose gracefully from her chair. ‘The legal and financial side will take a few weeks.’

‘It will be cash,’ Rosh told her. ‘No mortgage.’ How proud of Phil she felt in that moment. He had left her and his children comfortably provided for, and now it was up
to her to capitalize on his foresight. This was her business, her own place. She shook the older woman’s gloved hand. ‘May we look round for half an hour?’ she begged.
‘We’ll bring the keys back later.’

But Mrs Bailey’s instincts told her to trust this young woman. ‘Keep them. You’ll want to be in and out to take measurements. Oh, and get a surveyor. I wish you good fortune,
Mrs Allen. You deserve it. I’ll talk to Mr Cuttle, make sure he knows what happening.’ She left the scene, leaving in her wake a waft of expensive perfume.

Rosh looked at the dozens of jars of tobacco, old newspapers still on display, sweets, chocolate, out-of-date magazines. She was troubled not by any of this, but by the man who was her
companion. He’d always been there. Through senior school, he, she and Phil had been the three amigos; as adults, they had been neighbours and now, in widowhood, Rosh couldn’t imagine
coping without him. But it wasn’t enough, was it? The numbness that had punished her after Phil’s death had faded away, and the Allens were managing quite well, thank you. But he was
here. And he loved her.

She swallowed a sigh. Did she want his love? Would she ever return it?

Roy left her side and went to measure up the intended café. Rosh was tense, and he decided that the cause of her discomfort was the size of the decision she had just made. Very few women
went into business alone. She had bought a going concern, but she also had plans to extend and expand. Rosh had guts; but he had always known that. He ached less these days; he seemed to have
settled into the role of escort, but how would he feel if she met someone else? Murderous and heartbroken, he decided.

‘I’m not going the traditional gingham route,’ she said as she entered the room a minute or two later. ‘Floor-length covers in a dark colour, replaceable white cloths on
top. The menu will be small at first, but top quality. I’ll get a hatch to the kitchen cut in the wall for when we become a bit more adventurous; might as well get all the mucky jobs done
before we set off.’

‘I can make cakes and pies,’ he said.

Roy reminded her time after time not to be surprised. Rendered lame by football and poor surgery, he managed. No. Managed was not the right word, because Roy overcame. His house was a miniature
palace, and he’d had very little help from Eric Holt while the transformation was being accomplished. ‘Yes, I’ve eaten your stuff often enough. It’s good. A man of many
talents, eh? And you’re blushing.’ She had to treat him as she had always treated him. But . . . Oh, she should pull herself together. He was Roy, an old friend, and he’d always
been attractive. ‘You did the house up, you can cook – what else?’

‘I grow my own produce, of course. You enjoy it.’

‘Oh, yes. Mr All-Rounder, eh?’ Once again, she was shy and had trouble meeting his steady gaze. Something was happening, and she didn’t know what it was. To find out what it
was, she needed to be alone, and the only ‘alone’ time she got was in her bedroom. ‘I have to go and tell my mother what I’ve done.’ ‘Alone’ time would be
postponed until much later, it seemed.

‘Yes. I’ll stay out of that if you don’t mind.’

‘Coward.’

‘I know,’ he sighed. ‘And I suppose I’ll never live it down. You won’t let me live it down, will you? Even at school while you protected me, the pair of you made
fun of me.’ He tried to sound hurt, but failed.

‘You loved it,’ was her answer. ‘Now, get back to work before you lose your job.’

She watched as he walked down to the bus stop. He was tired. The limp worsened when he did too much, and he often did too much for her. She owed him. Was this pity, gratitude, sisterly
affection, friendship, love? Life was about to become complicated. Music exams, psychological assessment for Alice, a business to build. Roy would want to be involved with all those things. And
Mam’s voice echoed: ‘Snap him up before he gets taken off the market by some woman more sensible than you. He thinks the sun shines out of your ears, and you treat him like a servant.
And he was reared Catholic, because his mother was Catholic. That heathen father of his didn’t count when he was alive, so he’s worth nothing dead.’

Rosh continued to stare at him. There had been Phil, only Phil, and Phil had been the for ever person. Nothing was ever going to separate them, yet all it had taken . . . She wiped her eyes. All
it had taken was ten seconds in time, a careless driver, a beloved man who had stepped out too soon or too late. And that man was her man, father of her children and the love of her life.

After revisiting the shop for half an hour and working out the stock cupboard, she had timed the stroll home. It took under ten minutes, and that was reassuring. Thoughts of
bus and train rides to and from work had not been happy ones. Rosh didn’t realize that she was being followed, that a man with whom she would soon be in uncomfortably close contact was
shadowing her every step. With her head full of maroon table drapes and lace-edged tablecloths, she had little time to notice much else, especially when maroon-and-white striped curtains entered
the equation. She was a businesswoman, and businesswomen had much to prove in this male-dominated world.

Anna was still feisty and quick on her feet when her daughter walked in. She bounced about slapping things on the kitchen table, all the while muttering under her breath about people who always
knew best. Was it not enough that she’d five to feed without being accosted in the street? She wasn’t sure that joking about a non-Catholic with mumps was a hanging offence. All this
was said to herself; Rosh might as well have been just another brick in the wall. Eric, who had clearly heard the whole tale during the walk from College Road, excused himself and exited via the
back door.

Rosh repaired to her room to take off the good suit. It didn’t hurt this time. She remembered the day they’d chosen it, remembered her husband’s pride shining in his eyes each
time she’d tried on an outfit. ‘I’m nearly all right now,’ she told her reflection. ‘Except for her down there and him over the road.’ Her down there was still
slamming doors; him over the road wasn’t over the road, because he was on his way back to work, bless him.

She pulled on a flowered day dress, combed her hair and sat on the bed.

Pity was akin to love, but was this pity? Roy was a rather fine man, handsome, hard-working, personable. As for the limp, it was part of who he was, who he had been since childhood. She was
sorry about the limp, as it gave him pain, but she didn’t mind it. ‘We’re probably meant to take care of each other. The kids like him, Mam thinks the sun rises out of him, and I
. . . I don’t know, do I? Send me a sign, Phil.’