The Liverpool Trilogy (2 page)

She stood up and walked round her seven-bedroom terraced mansion. It overlooked the Mersey, a solid house that was huge for one woman. But she wasn’t going to be idle. She needed just one bedroom and a tiny boxroom for an office. So there were five spares, an en suite bathroom for herself, and two further bathrooms for guests. Bed and breakfast, she had decided. Perhaps she would install a few more en suites, but that wasn’t important yet. Or she might live downstairs – there were enough rooms to create a bedroom and an office on the ground floor, plus a shower room that would take a corner bath at a push. A fresh start, people in and out of the house all the time – that was a wonderful prospect. Also, it was a beautiful house.

Its listing was Grade Two, and a planned fire escape for the rear had been approved. It was an adventure, she told herself repeatedly. How many women her age got to have a brand new experience, a fresh start? She must remain positive, needed to stop looking over her shoulder, because the bad times were gone. ‘You have moved towards something,’ she said quietly. Even softly spoken words bounced back in this hollow house. It would be all right. It had to be all right.

She didn’t know where the shops were, had no real idea of the community into which she had moved. Crosby was supposed to be posh, though she had already heard Liverpool accents thicker than her grandmother’s porridge. The few people she had dealt with had been straight and businesslike, so she wasn’t worried about living here.

It was just lonely. ‘You’re used to loneliness,’ she told an ancient, pockmarked mirror. ‘You’ve always been lonely.’ Yes, the real poverty in her life was isolation. To attempt a new start in an unfamiliar place in her fifth decade seemed a mad thing to be doing, but there was no alternative. The children might have talked her round. Especially Lizzie, who had occupied from birth the position once held by Diane, Lucy’s dead sister. While Lizzie loved her mother, she adored her dad. And Lucy almost worshipped the daughter she would miss beyond measure. A shining light at RADA, Elizabeth Henshaw was beautiful, gifted, and had a promising future in the media. Diane had been like that – singing, dancing, writing little plays. Lizzie would live the dead Diane’s dream of performing in theatre, and—

A huge van arrived from Waterloo Furnishings. For the better part of three hours, Lucy leapt from room to room while carpets and other floor coverings were laid. Upstairs was to be left for now, as most of it needed painting and decorating, so the decision was made – she would live downstairs.

At the end of it all, she threw herself into an armchair and opened a bottle of red wine. After a couple of glasses, she made a decision and picked up the phone. She had changed her mind, and she burdened Glenys with a terrible chore. The cat was to be kidnapped.

Glenys Barlow was very taken with Stoneyhurst. ‘It’s palatial,’ she declared after dumping Smokey on a brand new leather sofa. ‘All the mouldings and cornices are definitely original – just look at that fireplace! This is Georgian at its grandest. There’s a summerhouse – and have you noticed the light on the river? Oh, this is simply spectacular.’

But Lucy was too busy nursing her cat to reply. Until he settled, Smokey needed to regress and return to the cat litter of his youth. He was a Bolton cat, a Lancashire cat, and he might not understand the mewlings of foreign felines from Merseyside. Smokey, a pedigree blue Persian, was only too well aware of his superiority. At Tallows, he had enjoyed total freedom, since the estate had been big enough for him to come and go as he had pleased – would he get used to being downgraded to a mere terrace? ‘Poor puss,’ Lucy whispered. ‘But I’m here. We’ll get used to this, I promise.’

‘You’re not listening,’ Glenys accused her.

‘Sorry.’

‘He was pissed.’

‘Who was?’

‘Your husband. He was sitting outside near the conservatory, and there were quite a few empty cans on that wooden table. He was talking to himself. I saw his lips moving.’

‘I can build a wire roof over the back garden. Then at least I’ll be sure you’re safe, old lad. I know you’ve had more space, but this will turn out to be a good move, just wait and see. At least you’ll get your dinners. Just you and I, eh? The two musketeers.’

‘What?’ Sometimes, Glenys failed to hold Lucy’s attention.

‘He wouldn’t have fed Smokey,’ said Lucy. ‘And with Lizzie and the boys away for the summer, I thought I’d better have him here with me. I should have brought him with me yesterday, but I was in too much of a hurry to look for him. Alan had phoned to say he was on his way. Sorry, I wasn’t listening.’

Glenys shrugged. ‘No problem – I’m used to you. You owe me for the cat carrier – he wasn’t too happy about being shut in there, by the way. He was sitting on a gatepost – I think he was waiting for you – so he was easy to catch. I had a quick shufti down the side of the house and saw Alan in his cups. He was away with the fairies, in a right mess.’

‘Did he see you?’

Glenys chuckled. ‘The state he was in, he wouldn’t have noticed Big Ben on wheels, let alone a little fat woman with a cat carrier.’

Lucy nodded thoughtfully. ‘This is where it gets difficult, Glen. Can you write to the children? Get the letters posted in London or Birmingham or somewhere – anywhere but up here. Don’t sign. Or get a clerk to do it – you’re used to fooling people, it’s your job. Tell them Smokey’s with me, and they aren’t to worry. Don’t use your letterhead or the kids will mither you to death. I don’t want them going back to Tallows and searching for the cat.’

‘The kids are your weak spot, Lucy.’

‘I know. I sent notes to tell them I was going, but I didn’t give much of a hint as to why. I posted them to where they’re spending their summers, but I also left copies at Tallows. They say one thing and do another, these students. They could arrive home any time, so I had to cover all possibilities. It’s tricky.’

‘You really should keep your distance for months, if not years. Well, you shouldn’t – you know how I feel about that. They ought to have the complete truth, you know. He’ll fill their heads with nonsense, paint himself in shining armour and blame you for bankruptcy, abandonment, theft and just about anything short of murder. You’ll come out of it blacker than hell, while Alan’s going to—’

‘I know,’ Lucy repeated. ‘And when they’ve all finished with exams and what have you they can be shown copies of the truth if I so decide. Until then, it’s enough for them to have an absentee mother – the rest can wait. I don’t want them confused. Let them blame me for now.’

Glenys disagreed, though she had voiced her opinions too many times. The Henshaws’ offspring should be told everything right away. Even now, Lucy was placing herself on a shelf marked
Unimportant
, was allowing herself to wear the villain’s hat. But the urge to speak overcame Glenys yet again. ‘What if Lizzie leaves RADA to come home and look after her dad? What if Paul gives up pharmacy and Mike abandons his history degree? That husband of yours can’t even boil an egg. One or all of the kids might decide to stay at home to take care of their father.’

‘They won’t give up their education.’ Lucy placed the cat in a brand new basket bought this very afternoon from a place on St John’s Road. The shops she had discovered were brilliant, the people had been helpful, and life had worn a pretty dress today. This was a good place. It had welcomed incomers for centuries, and all were treated the same. She had been told how to get to Bootle Strand, to Sainsbury’s, to a Tesco on the Formby bypass. ‘Yer’ll be all right, queen,’ one old lady had said. ‘We’ve our fair share of criminals, like, same as everywhere else, but you’ll settle.’

‘So you’re going to live downstairs?’ Glenys asked.

‘I think so. I can let six rooms, but the boxroom’s like a big cupboard. That can be for linen – towels and sheets and so forth.’

‘Right. And you won’t go back to nursing?’

Lucy smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m hardly up to date with current practices, am I? If I returned to hospital nursing, they’d need to retrain me for years – not worth it. And I don’t think I could stand the noise. No. I’ll live and work here, and I’ll employ a couple of locals.’ A tanker was drifting into port. The new owner of Stoneyhurst stood at the window and watched the scene. ‘I’ll be fine here,’ she said. ‘When I stuck that pin into the map, God must have guided my hand. The river’s so peaceful.’

Glenys Barlow made no reply. The Mersey was a notoriously changeable body of water. It had swallowed whole houses in its time, but there was no point in mentioning that. She had done her best to persuade this client and friend to be more open about her intentions, to sue the bastard she had married, but Lucy was stubborn enough to stick to her guns. At least she held the guns, and all were fully loaded. With that, the lawyer was forced to be satisfied.

*

Lucy decided to make her apologies before chaos began. She penned notes to neighbours on both sides, informing them of her intentions and promising that noise would cease by five in the afternoon, and would not begin until after nine o’clock in the morning. Since they had raised no objections when advised by Glenys of Lucy’s plan to open a guest house, she hoped they wouldn’t be fazed by the promised disturbances, but she was determined to be polite. As an invader, she needed to be courteous.

After posting the notes, she returned to Stoneyhurst, pausing for a moment to admire the heavy front door. This was a well-built house, which description could scarcely be applied to the flimsy structures her husband had erected all over Lancashire. He was a cheat, a liar and a fraud, and she was by no means his only victim. Once his houses started to fall down, he’d be up to his neck in the smelly stuff. He would kill himself, though not quickly; he would drink until he fell into the grave.

So here she was: new beginning, clean sheet, to hell with him. Bed and breakfast was no easy option, though. Already, there were fire regulations, a possible inspection of the kitchen, and a list of dos and don’ts as long as her arm. She could do without upsetting the neighbours, and—

No sooner was she back in her own hallway than the doorbell rang. She turned, re-opened the door she had just shut behind her and found a tall, handsome man outside. Without saying a word, he grabbed her hand and pulled her down the steps. Was she being kidnapped? Was the cat shut safely in the kitchen? But no, Lucy was dragged into the house next door, so it wasn’t kidnap. At last, the man released his hold. ‘Can you deal with the top half?’ he asked breathlessly. ‘It was a pretty bad fall. I’ll get her legs. There’s nothing broken.’

A woman lay on the parquet floor. Nearby, a walking stick had fallen next to a coat stand, while slippers had clearly parted company somewhat abruptly with feet and with each other, as one was near the cane, while the second had landed against a door in the opposite wall. The woman was sweating profusely, and her spectacles, their lenses misted over, were perched at a rakish angle on her face. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Moira.’

‘Louisa, but usually Lucy. I take it you’ve fallen downstairs? How many stairs?’

Moira nodded. ‘Four or five. He can’t manage me any more. Not by himself, anyway. He’s getting older and I’m getting fatter. It’s the bloody steroids.’

The he in question sighed heavily. ‘She won’t do as she’s told, I’m sad to say. She just wants to make me look a failure, don’t you? Why don’t you shout when you need help?’

Moira giggled like a child. The sound didn’t match the body on the floor, as this was a woman well into middle age, yet she acted like a young girl. Lucy thought she knew the reason. It was, she suspected, an attempt at bravery, a stab at separating the illness from the sufferer. Moira wanted to be seen as a person rather than as a bundle of cells attached to some disease, so she giggled and tried to stay young and well in her head. Sometimes, life was excessively cruel.

Between them, Lucy and the man dragged the patient to a sofa. ‘Dump her here,’ he said almost cheerfully. ‘I’ll nail her to the blessed couch – it’s the only way, I’m afraid.’ He stood back and placed a hand on the mantelpiece. ‘Lucy,’ he said, ‘thank you for the note. Feel free to make as much noise as you like, because you’ll keep this one awake during the day, then I’ll get some sleep at night.’

‘Cheeky bugger,’ said Moira. ‘It was you kept me awake when we were first married, eh? It’s the other way round these days – and no sex, Lucy. Who wants sex with a woman who’s doubly incontinent?’

The intruder felt her cheeks reddening. Scousers, she was discovering fast, were very open. They called a spade a bloody shovel, and if someone disapproved, they could dig with their bare hands. ‘I . . . er . . .’

‘Multiple sclerosis,’ said the husband. ‘I’m Richard Turner.’

‘Dr Richard Turner,’ announced his wife, who was still prone on the sofa. ‘But he can’t cure me. Can you, Rich?’

There was tension in the room, and Lucy sensed it more acutely with every passing beat of time. It was as if Moira blamed her husband for her condition, yet . . . yet there was a kind of love here. But physical love could no longer be expressed, and the woman was upset, while the man was probably frustrated.

‘Surgery and waiting room are at the other side of the hall,’ he explained. ‘I have to work from home, since Moira can’t be left to her own devices.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘You can see for yourself what happens if I close my eyes for a moment.’

‘What about your home visits?’ Lucy asked.

‘A nurse comes in sometimes to cover for me,’ he replied. ‘And we have a cleaner built like the
Titanic
– though I can’t imagine any self-respecting iceberg daring to confront her. She’s fierce. She’s also retiring soon, because this one has probably worn her out. Even the
Titanic
goes down. She was a powerful woman till she came up against my wife.’

‘Deadly,’ agreed Moira. ‘Drags me round like a piece of jetsam dumped to make room for something better. You’re not from these parts, are you?’

Lucy hesitated. ‘Lancashire,’ she said.

Moira marked the pause. Because she was confined to a wheelchair, she watched life rather more closely than most, and had become a collector of people. This woman was in trouble. She might well cause trouble too, since Richard seemed quite taken with the new neighbour. Lucy was tall, elegant and well dressed. And she tried unsuccessfully to conceal a chest that was probably magnificent. Richard was handsome, lonely and, at the moment, hormonal. After twenty-seven years of marriage, Moira knew her man well. He needed sex and was attracted to Lucy, who would be living next door. ‘Husband?’ she asked.