The Liverpool Trilogy (134 page)

‘Oh, give up, Roy. You lost me with the abbreviated Gordon and his abbreviated leg. Have you been taking your tablets?’

‘I don’t have them any more.’

‘Well, get some for me. I think I’m going to need them.’

‘He won’t know where we are.’ Maureen’s Tom was carrying the umpteenth cardboard box into their new house. He’d passed a few remarks about always
having wanted to be a dray horse, a pack mule or a slave, but nobody took any heed. Roy had been on his mind for weeks. ‘I’ll have to go and see him. I wrote when he was in Whiston
Hospital and got no reply, so then I sent a letter to his home address, but we’ve moved now and there’s nobody left in any of the prefabs to—’ He stopped and surveyed the
state of his son, who seemed to be legs only for the time being. ‘Seamus, put that dolly tub down before you do yourself or somebody else a mischief.’

Seamus, who had elected himself chief of an elite Martian force invading Earth, dumped his spaceship. He hadn’t banged into anything, had he? And Mam had a new Hoover twin-tub with rubber
wringers, so she didn’t need the dolly and posser any more. Everything always had to be so serious. Even Reen, his married sister, was in a bad mood because of moving house. They’d
waited ages for these three-in-a-row homes, and they still weren’t satisfied. Taken all round, remaining a child seemed a jolly good idea, because children were the only people capable of
making the best of a situation. Imagination was what the adults lacked.

Maureen, in her oldest clothes and with a headscarf transformed into a turban, faced her husband. ‘Do you have plans to stay alive today? You and our Reen and her Jimmy have to help my mam
as well. It’s three households moving all at the same time. This is a very important day for all of us. So concentrate and stop moaning. You can think about Roy tomorrow. There’s loads
of stuff to carry, and some of it’s heavy.’

‘I know all about heavy lifting,’ he answered. ‘It’s called moving a mountain. It was bad enough shifting your mother’s furniture every time she wanted a change in
the prefab, like about once a week.’

‘Me dad’s too old for messing about with wardrobes. We don’t want him ending up with a hernia. He’s aged a lot just lately.’

Paddy had that effect on people, Tom thought, though he kept the opinion to himself. Folk deteriorated quickly in Paddy’s company. With Maureen in a mood, Paddy in a paddy and Seamus now
head-first in a tea chest, this was hardly the time for clever quips. But Roy Baxter was in all the papers, as were Roisin Allen and her children. Roy was a hero. Even before the killing of Clive
Cuttle, Roy had been Tom’s hero.

‘Seamus, get out of that box before I nail a lid on it,’ Maureen snapped.

‘He saved my life as well as hers,’ Tom said, shifting a chair to one side of the fireplace. ‘And you’ve seen her photograph in the papers. You know she has to be a
Riley. She’s the spitting image of—’

‘Who has to be a Riley?’ Seamus emerged from his coffin.

‘Shut up,’ chorused his parents.

‘Can I have a—‘

‘No, you can’t.’ Again, the response arrived in perfect unison. They hadn’t even waited to see what he wanted, had they? He might have needed a plaster for a cut, an
aspirin for a headache, an ambulance to save his life. But he didn’t matter, because he wasn’t a chair or a box of bedlinen. He stood in the front doorway. It was an all right street,
he supposed. No air raid shelter for secrets, but there again, there was no war, was there? Or was there? There wasn’t much peace, that was certain.

Moving house seemed to put everybody in a bad mood. Seamus alone was making the most of the experience. Reen kept moaning because she hadn’t enough furniture for a two-and-a-half-bedroom
house with bathroom plus downstairs lav, Jimmy was fed up because Reen was moaning, Seamus’s parents were at loggerheads about photos in the papers, while Gran kept screaming at Granddad
because his legs couldn’t keep up with her tongue. Nothing could keep up with Gran’s tongue. Even a huge jet engine would have its work cut out to catch up with her.

The lad went out to explore his new setting. As he passed his older sister’s house, her voice echoed. ‘I want a dining suite. That’s a dining room, so it stands to sense we
should have a . . .’ Seamus ran away before she added anything else to her list. Some folk were never satisfied. Building was still ongoing at the other end of the street, and it all looked
very interesting. There was a cement mixer. If he wore his best smile, they might let him have a bit of a go with that.

Inside, Maureen faced her beloved opponent, who was showing signs of flagging. She didn’t want the poor soul breaking down again. ‘Sweetheart, he’s a good man. What Roy Baxter
did for you that day when you were so ill speaks for itself. And you know why he went to bits, because killing anybody, gangsters and serial killers included, can never create happy or even . . .
or even acceptable memories. He followed in your footsteps, Tom. Like you, the poor beggar had no choice. He fell apart, but you’ll see him soon. For now, can we get on with this move? Even
though we’re in November, I shan’t be lighting a fire till later, because this is hard, warm work.’

‘It’s certainly that, all right.’ Tom went next door to check on the elders and borrow a screwdriver while Maureen sorted out her new kitchen. He found Paddy sitting on the
stairs in her hat, coat, gloves, scarf and fur-lined winter boots, the ubiquitous black shopping bag by her side. ‘You all right?’ he asked. ‘You look wrapped up ready to move
into an igloo with Eskimos and a fish supper.’

She nodded. ‘Me old bones is froze stiff. Kevin’s gone for more stuff. And you can tell Maureen and Reen that we’ll have plenty of help later, because some dock workers are
coming along – I’ve just now had word. But for a bit of a minute, I need to talk to you about something important.’

It was one of those hardly rare enough moments when Tom felt he should have signed the Official Secrets Act; she was about to give him information he didn’t need, didn’t want, and
couldn’t pass on in some sort of attempt to share the burden. ‘Right,’ was all he managed to say. There was an almost indefinable edge to her tone, which confirmed his belief that
she was about to impart knowledge he would be ordered to keep to himself. It wasn’t fair. Why him? Why not some other poor bugger for a change?

‘Tom, if I do something that you might call out of character, will you tell them I’m all right?’

‘No, I won’t do anything of the kind.’

‘But Tom, you’ve always been the one to back me up when—’

‘No. Tell your husband. I’m fed up with being your storage box. It’s not as if I got democratically elected. What am I supposed to be? Some sort of chief whip put there to keep
order on the back benches? And we’re hardly a quorum, just the two of us.’

‘I can’t tell Kev.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’d go into a purple fit with yellow spots. He would find a way of putting a stop to me, I know he would. You might all think I’m in charge, but once he puts his foot
down, well . . .’ The last word hung in the air, and she made no attempt to add to it.

Tom, knowing full well what was on her mind, maintained his stance. ‘Then I’m with my father-in-law. If he wouldn’t want you to do whatever it is you’re going to do, then
I wouldn’t want you to do it.’

She nodded, a grim smile on her lips. ‘You’re picking up on the Irish way of expressing yourself. And I know that you know what I’m talking about.’

‘I don’t.’ He did. Of course he did. Every adult in the family knew, though they never spoke about it.

‘Well, then. We’ll leave it there, shall we? See, I know you’re a grand chap. When I do what has to be done, it will be noticed. Deal with it. And don’t let me down,
Tom.’

He’d forgotten what he’d come for, and had to root about in the memory department. Women were truly gifted when it came to the messing up of a fellow’s mind. You went to borrow
something or other, only to return with a head filled with rubbish, and often without the article you’d gone for. ‘Screwdriver,’ he exclaimed triumphantly.

‘Same to you.’

‘Have you got one?’

‘Mantelpiece, front room, next to the clock. Why do you need it?’

Tom jerked a thumb in the direction of next door. ‘Your daughter has a screw loose.’

‘I see. I think I was already aware of that, thank you.’

‘On a cupboard door.’

Paddy chuckled. ‘Then she has more than one screw loose.’ When he turned to leave, she called after him. ‘Don’t say anything to her. Don’t tell anyone.’

He turned in the front doorway. ‘How can I tell anybody something I don’t know? Do I lead her to believe that her mother’s told me a secret and I don’t know what it is?
You’ll have me as daft as the rest of you.’

Paddy shrugged. ‘Please yourself. Whatever, I’m doing it, and I’m doing it alone.’

Tom fled before she could reveal any more of her plan. Months earlier, she had announced her intentions, but she’d said nothing of late. He guessed that she’d been waiting for the
move from prefab to house before embarking on her mission. That there was sense in her argument could not have been denied then; nor could it be denied now. London gangsters seldom hurt or killed
women. Unless some poor soul got in the line of fire, no female would be hurt. Even among the bad boys, there existed a code of sorts.

‘Where’ve you been?’ Maureen snapped. ‘Three-course lunch and a pint, was it?’

Talk about frying pan and fire! He was stuck between a cauldron and the Liverpool Blitz. ‘I had to look for it. Get out of my way while I fix the hinge properly. Builders? They
couldn’t make a sandcastle in Blackpool.’

Maureen gazed round her new home. It was all right, she supposed, though it needed a bit of colour. ‘When can we paint and decorate?’ she asked. ‘I fancy a nice shade of mauve
in the kitchen.’

‘Three months.’

Maureen’s jaw dropped. ‘Three months? Three months living with this dirty pink stuff all the way through?’

‘It’ll go lighter as it dries.’

Maureen was further appalled. ‘You mean we’re living in a damp house? More to the point, are you telling me that my mam and dad are living in a damp house?’

Tom descended to terra firma. He slammed down the screwdriver and awarded his wife a laboured smile. ‘Right. Go and get the removals men again, pack up here, tell your mother and our Reen
to pack up, and we’ll go back to our prefabs. All right?’

‘No. I don’t want to live in a tin hut either.’

‘A tent?’ he suggested.

‘No.’

‘The Park Lane in London?’ He wagged a finger under his wife’s nose. ‘Now, think on before chucking stuff. I kept the right sized window glass down yonder for the prefab,
but I’ve nothing for here, so don’t go throwing the pans.’

She glared at him. ‘When was the last time I threw things?’

‘When Seamus took the school camp money to run away and find his brothers.’ Tom looked round. ‘He’s disappeared again, hasn’t he? No flaming wonder, with his mam
and dad going at it hammer and tongs. Maureen, this is a fresh start in a new house. Don’t quarrel with me. Don’t turn into your mother, queen of all she surveys, controller,
nuisance—’

‘There are kids round here who wouldn’t eat except for Mam lending families a few bob.’ Maureen calmed herself. ‘But she’s up to something. I can feel it. I can
almost hear it crackling in her head like a wireless not tuned in properly.’

Tom recognized his chance, but said nothing. If he started a war between mother and daughter, it could take a document far more complicated than the Treaty of Versailles to straighten things
out. With three houses stuck together in the terrace, any argument would spread like plague before becoming the subject of gossip throughout the whole neighbourhood.

The rest of the day passed without incident. Dockers arrived, beds were carried upstairs effortlessly, as were wardrobes and chests of drawers. Seamus returned, muddy and frowning. When asked
how his circumstances had deteriorated so terribly, he made no reply, but was heard muttering under his breath about poor drainage at this side of Bootle, and he wasn’t going to be a builder
when he left school.

Maureen placed him on the stairs and went to light a fire. ‘Don’t move,’ she called while balancing coals on newspaper and firewood. ‘Don’t even think about moving;
don’t think at all. In fact, don’t even breathe deeply, cos this is a new house. The water will be hot enough for a bath once this fire gets going.’

Seamus sat on the uncarpeted stairs and thought about not thinking. But thinking about not thinking was thinking, wasn’t it? How could a person not think? Even asleep, he thought about
things. That was called dreaming. The trouble with adults was that they had all the authority but no sense. ‘Straighten your face before the wind changes.’ ‘Don’t swallow
chewing gum, because it’ll wrap itself round your heart and kill you.’ Where were their brains? On holiday somewhere? He was fed up.

Mam arrived with a paper poke containing chips. ‘There you go, my lad. From the chippy. After your bath, I’ll do you a nice fried egg butty. That’s if I can work out the
flame-throwing monster in the kitchen. Then you’ve got that great big bedroom all to yourself, a lot bigger than in the prefab. We can’t decorate till the plaster’s gone off
properly, but when we do, it’ll be red and white for Liverpool FC, eh?’

The nice thing about mams was that they kept you right. You got cooked meals, clean clothes with no creases, and your hair looked at every week for nits. They tucked you in, helped with homework
and saved up for a television set. Dads were OK, too. They mended bikes, built go-carts out of pram wheels and wooden boxes, took you on the ferry or for a kick-about with a football. So life
wasn’t all mud and tellings-off. It was a mixed bag with a fried egg butty for supper. Oh, well. The chips were good, but his hands were filthy . . .

Don’s head couldn’t rid itself of a picture of Molly floating round in that big house all by herself. Was she still going out George Formbying? Was she eating
properly, was she happy, had she found someone to talk to? She and Matt had been so close, so wrapped up in each other. After his death, poor Molly had fallen apart until Don had entered the
picture. Had he not become close to her, the business might have died of neglect and— Oh, what a mess. He’d caused more trouble than enough, hadn’t he?