The Liverpool Trilogy (138 page)

‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked.

‘You.’

She placed her head on his shoulder. ‘Tell you what, kid. They loved your cottage pie today. One bloke did an Oliver Twist, brought his plate back and asked for more.’

Roy chuckled. ‘Did you make him pay?’

‘Course I did. We’re not a charity.’

‘But whatever, we look after your mother, because that’s not charity.’

‘Of course we look after her. She thinks it’s the other way round, of course, and that she looks after us.’

‘Take the girls and their dresses to your dressmaker. Anna’s showing the strain, love.’

‘What?’ Rosh sat bolt upright. ‘I know she’s not young, but she’ll go mental if I do that. She’ll take it as criticism, you know she will. There’ll be
weeping and gnashing of teeth, moaning about nursing homes, scrap heaps and lack of appreciation.’

But he had an answer to that. The wedding cake was made and ready for decoration. ‘Let her do it. I’ve got it in three tins, and I keep prodding it with a knitting needle and pouring
in brandy, but I’ve no idea when it comes to icing and marzipan. She can do a lot of that sitting down, Rosh. Anyway, mothers don’t last for ever. Let her be in a bad mood. At least
she’s still with us.’

Rosh knew how dreadfully Roy had missed his mother. She’d done her best to talk him out of the guilt he felt. According to her fiancé, his father had been as bad as Cuttle, though
his body count was lower. Baxter Senior had sent his wife to an early grave, and Baxter Junior, who had seen and heard much suffering, had done nothing about it.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Rosh said yet again.

‘I should have poisoned his tea.’

‘And put yourself at his level? At Cuttle’s level?’

Roy shook his head. ‘Poisoning would have been much kinder than Cuttle, and a hundred times less nasty than the way my old man treated my mother. She was a wonderful woman, and so is Anna,
but in a different way.’

It was Rosh’s turn to laugh. There could be no two women as unalike as Roy’s mother and hers. Roy’s mother had received bruises both mental and physical, while Anna had
inflicted damage, mostly with words and attitude. ‘My father was the saint in our house,’ she said. ‘Mam was sort of corrosive. Is that the right word? Or is it erosive? She wore
everybody down till she got her own way. It’s taken years, but she’s got the Collingfords on her side at last.’

‘I thought you were handling the dry-cleaning stuff.’

‘Well yes, and he’s paying rent to me. But Mam will come down on a Thursday and check that the tickets match the tabs. It makes her feel as if she won, because they gave her a job in
the end. They’ll be paying her a wage, you see. So that’s a victory for her.’

‘Marvellous. Give us a kiss.’

‘Hello?’ Anna’s voice crashed through the letterbox.

‘Beer and pork scratchings,’ Roy exclaimed. ‘We all know she reads minds, but there are a couple of gardens, two pavements and a road between her and us.’

‘Never underestimate my mother.’ Rosh went to open the front door.

Anna joined them in the front room. ‘Now don’t start,’ was her opening salvo. ‘I’ve been to the doctor’s and got a diagonal nose is. All right, diagnosis.
Arthritis in me hands. That’s why I keep impaling your daughters on pins. So will you please ask your dressmaker to deal with the girls’ dresses and my suit? Oh, and I’ve found
somebody to decorate the cake. Is that all right?’

‘For goodness’ sake, Mam. You should have said something about the pain. Did you get some pills?’

‘I did, but I don’t like the looks of them. Purple, they are. A very lurid shade of purple. They’re in a drawer, Morecambed.’

Roy scratched his head.

Rosh translated for him. ‘The pills are a last resort. She nominated Morecambe as the same. So anything Morecambed in our house is there only in case nothing else works.’

‘What’s wrong with Morecambe?’ Roy asked.

Rosh sighed. ‘Torrential rain the day she visited. She’s got it into her head that Morecambe will be washed into the bay any day now. Last resort she’ll consider visiting,
because it’s going to be flooded. In my opinion, my mother’s decision to stay away is good news for Morecambe.’ She was trying to make light of the situation, but she knew that
her mother must have been in great discomfort if she’d visited the doctor. Doctors were for cowards and layabouts. Yes, they were yet another Morecambe. She turned to Anna. ‘You know we
love you. Whatever, you’ll be looked after.’

Anna tutted. It had taken time for her to pluck up the courage to confess her failing. ‘It’s not sympathy I’m after, Roisin. And I’ll not be giving up using my hands,
since they’re the only pair I happen to have just now. It was all the cutting out and tacking that did for me.’

Rosh disagreed. ‘You’ve been a workhorse all your life, Mam. Phil had so much respect for you – remember? He always called you Mother. What you have to know now is that you can
rest sometimes. Slowing down isn’t a sin. Roy and I can cope with meals, and I’ll go part-time when I’ve found a couple of dependable girls for the café. Start thinking
about yourself.’

Anna folded her arms. ‘Well, I have been thinking. I’ve a great big cleaning-up job to do, and it can’t be left.’

‘And what’s that?’ Roy asked. ‘Can we help you?’

‘It’s the rubbish in the kitchen. I’m going to shift it, and not before time.’

It was Rosh’s turn to look puzzled. There was no rubbish in the kitchen. It sometimes looked like a war zone after all six of them had eaten, but that was easily sorted out. ‘My
kitchen’s not messy,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve always kept a clean house – with your help, of course.’

‘It’s not your mess, not the kids’, not Roy’s. It’s mine. I shall take it away the day you get married. I’ll bring it back from time to time, and I’ll
try to stop it standing there, twisting its cap in its hands.’

‘Mam?’

Anna took a very deep breath. ‘My name is Mrs Holt. Well, somebody has to look after him, so. We didn’t want to steal any of your thunder, so we did it quietly. Yes, for once, I was
quiet. We’ll be living at his house after your wedding, but if I stay out all night before then, I’ll be just at the bottom of the road with my husband. Ah, he’s a lovely man,
but. So don’t be worrying about me, because Eric can do all the fretting from now on.’

Rosh burst into tears.

Anna wriggled herself into the space next to her daughter on the sofa. ‘See? You’ve the both of us here now, me and Roy like bookends propping you up. So why are you keening? Are you
not happy for me?’

Rosh nodded. Of course she was happy. All she wanted was for Mam to be content and safe. But the happiness was mixed with a selfish sadness, a childish emotion that bubbled up and spilled out
down her face. This was her mam, and her mam was meant to stay. Why did she want to go getting married at this stage in her life?

Once again, Anna read her daughter’s mind. ‘Marriage isn’t there just for young folk, you know. We’re put on this earth by the good Lord to look after each other. Eric
needs me, and I need him, somebody of my own generation. He’s a good man. There’s not a bad ounce in him. Though he has come out of his shell, and he tries to tame me.’ She
sniffed. ‘He won’t win.’

Rosh raised her head. ‘The children will miss you. Alice doesn’t like too much change—’

‘Neither do you, madam. I’m doing nothing wrong, am I? Sweetheart, I need no permissions. The last time I looked, you were my daughter, and God knows I love the bones of you, but
I’m not dead, Roisin. So we know where we stand. Until the day I die, I’ll be here for you. All of you. I’m worried, but.’

Rosh dabbed at her damp cheeks. ‘Why?’

‘Kieran. Have you seen his reading matter just now? Naked people and private parts. Last time I saw him, he had his nose in some woman’s perjacker.’

‘Per-what-er?’ Roy’s eyebrows had travelled north and were almost hidden by his hair.

Rosh sniffed. ‘Her word for female parts. Goodness knows where she found it.’ She turned to face her mother. ‘They’re only drawings, Mam. It’s not as if
they’re photographs of real folk. He’s studying.’

Anna stood up. ‘Studying, is it? And what if a priest happens to call? Or a pair of nuns? Can you imagine that, now? We’d be needing smelling salts. There’s Alice at an
impressionable age, Philly trying to concentrate on her piano, and he leaves the darned book open at a page showing a man’s wotsit in a state of doo-dah.’

Roy fled the scene as quickly as botched surgery would allow. In the kitchen, he wept into a tea towel; he couldn’t let the laughter out of his mouth, so it took a route via tear ducts
down his cheeks. Yes, he was getting a wonderful, vibrant wife, but the rest of the bunch might be termed interesting, at least. Wasn’t eccentric nearer the mark? Life would never be
dull.

‘You should make him study upstairs,’ Anna was saying now.

‘And make a big fuss of it? I’m glad he’s such an open book.’

Roy swallowed another chuckle. Open books were the basis of Anna’s argument. There wasn’t going to be a minute of normality, was there? He’d moved from the dry, dusty
atmosphere of the law into a kitchen where he did what he loved best – cooking. He’d be leaving the peace and deadly silence of this house to move into relative chaos across the road;
he would share a life and a bed with the woman he adored, while Anna’s house was going to be very near. Eric would be henpecked, of course.

‘Come out of that kitchen immediately, if not sooner,’ Anna ordered.

He thought about that. It was his house, his bloody kitchen, yet she still ordered him about.
He
was being henpecked, never mind poor old Eric. Like a naughty schoolboy, he returned to
the front room. ‘You rang, ma’am?’

‘Don’t you get cocky with me, Roy Baxter. I knew you when you were snotty-nosed and covered in mud. You make sure you look after my girls and my boy. And if he carries on looking at
those books, put your foot down. The good foot, not the other. Tell him to study that kind of thing in private.’

Roy nodded soberly. ‘Privates in private, then.’

Anna looked at her daughter. ‘Do you ever feel like hitting Roy?’

Rosh nodded. ‘But only in private, and never in the pri—’

‘That’ll do.’ Anna marched out of the house, slamming the door in her wake.

The two remaining adults howled like children. It was the sort of laughter that gives rise to pain and tears. ‘Where did you find her?’ Roy managed. ‘Under a witch’s
broomstick?’

Anna shrugged and dried her eyes yet again. ‘She’s elemental. She’s like earth, wind, fire and water. My mother just
is
. She’s probably the result of a mating
between a Titan and a Valkyrie. And I’ll bet you any money the Titan suffered more during the encounter.’

‘Rosh?’ He pulled her close. ‘Let’s give them a surprise party in the café.’

‘Why?’

‘Celebrate their wedding.’

She frowned. ‘Are you sure they said you were all right in your head when you left Whiston?’

‘Listen, you,’ he answered. ‘I have a certificate to say I’m sane. Have you?’

‘No. But I can tell you this much: my mother doesn’t like surprises. You already know that.’

‘Pretend Mr Collingford wants to see her at the shop. Then she’ll get all dressed up like a Christmas tree. We’ll let Eric in on the secret. Though if he owns a suit,
I’ve never seen it.’

‘Course he has a suit. Must have. Can you see my mother marrying somebody in a flat cap and overalls covered in paint and sawdust? But listen to me properly, Roy. We’ll just have
champagne, lemonade for the kids, and a wedding cake. If she’d wanted a shindig, she would have had one, believe me.’

They went upstairs. Conversation seemed easier when they lay down together. Anna would not come back; the closing of curtains informed her that shenanigans were ongoing.

But on this occasion, there were no immediate shenanigans. Like a long-married couple they lay, spoons in a drawer, his mouth in her hair near the left ear. ‘Irish stew,’ he said.
‘With beetroot and red cabbage. Apple crumble and custard. A few finger things like vols-au-vent, some crudités, a bowl of punch. Dips and—’

‘Shut up. I’m sick unto death of menus. My whole life is menus, both work and home. I know you do the cooking in the café, but we all bake at night, and I decide what’s
what and who’s which and why.’

‘She’s your mother. We should do something.’

‘Eric would spill beetroot-coloured vinegar down his shirt.’ She wriggled backwards, could not have been closer without sharing his skin.

Roy smiled as sleep claimed her. Sometimes, his happiness became almost too big to be contained, and this was one such occasion. He couldn’t laugh, couldn’t cry or speak, because his
precious girl was asleep in his arms. So he thought about her, remembered her.

The bullies. She and Phil had dealt with them. Phil left bruises; she gathered handfuls of hair, torn clothing, books. Blood under her nails, screams, threats and curses pouring from her throat,
no pause for breath, no thought for self. Goal shooter in the first netball team, top scorer at archery, top scorer in the secret, hormone-fuelled dreams of every boy in Upper School. His Amazon,
quieter now, yet more powerful than ever.

‘Touch him again and your head will be so far up your arse, you’ll be dining on your own shit.’ That line from Phil, of course. Even in a fight, even bloody and breathless,
Rosh had managed to retain a degree of dignity. Roy had loved her then, and he loved her now so much that it hurt, as if it wouldn’t fit in the space he had inside.

Best man day. Their wedding, his purgatory. Long white dress, she wore. Simple, almost unadorned, just a whisper of lace at the throat. Phil, strong and handsome, no stupid leg, no ill-tempered
father mocking him, dragging him down. Roy would look after her now; daily, he reminded Phil of that, hoped that his huge spirit approved of the new liaison.

She turned in his arms. ‘Love me,’ she commanded.

‘It will be my pleasure, ma’am.’

‘And mine. You’d best make sure of that.’

Roy leaned over his captive audience. ‘Would you like to see the wine list? Or a selection of my crudités?’