The Liverpool Trilogy (33 page)

‘Right.’

‘I’m supposed to say nothing about people’s illnesses and confidences.’

‘I understand.’ At the door, she turned. ‘What did she put through your door, doc?’

‘Dog dirt.’

‘Filthy bitch.’

He sighed. ‘Remember, Carol. Sick people don’t always know what they’re doing. And I don’t want my wife to know what’s happened while she’s been away. Her heath is precarious enough without any further pressure.’

Outside, Carol stood for a while on the pavement. She looked left, right, to the front and to the rear, but Lexi was nowhere to be seen. Richard Turner was a sly bugger, but Carol would believe him before she’d believe anything out of the mouth of Lexi Phillips. Something had gone on between him and Lexi, and his tongue hung out whenever he saw Lucy, so he wasn’t to be trusted completely, but he was only a bloke, and they understood nothing beyond sex and car maintenance. Yes, this one was a doctor, but he still kept his brains behind his fly and under the bonnet of his precious motor.

She re-entered Lucy’s house. Dee was having five minutes with
Heat
magazine and a cup of coffee. ‘What’s up?’ she asked her mother.

Carol delivered her tale. ‘There’s something wrong,’ she concluded. ‘That private dickhead was following Lexi – him with the limp what I told you about. Maybe the doc’s telling the truth and she’s away with the mixer, but he’s one of them men you can never be sure of.’

Dee agreed. ‘He’s after sex, Mam. Poor Moira can’t do nothing no more. She’s like our Beryl, all tablets and nappies, but he still wants his oats, eh? Well, he’ll get nothing off Lucy, however hard he sniffs. She’ll be wed by Christmas, I reckon. And depending on where she lives, you could be here running the bed and breakfast. So you can chase Lexi in your spare time if you live here. I couldn’t be bothered with her, to be honest.’

Carol got her cup and sat down. She was glad Moira had gone away, because this Lexi business was pressing. Anybody who posted dog muck through the door of a posh house had to be mad, evil, or both. If this wasn’t nipped in the bud, it could make Moira a lot worse. ‘Shall we go and see her, Dee?’

‘Litherland Lexi?’

‘No, Princess Anne, you daft bat. Of course I mean Lexi. What do you think?’

Dee pondered for a few moments. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘This is our livelihood – you, me, my kids and our Beryl will soon depend on this house and next door. If we get involved and the shit hits the fan, you and me’ll be covered in it. Not him, though. Not Dr Fancypants and his rambunctious hormones. Stay well out of it. I mean that, Mam.’

Carol drained her cup. Dee spoke a lot of sense. She was right: if something untoward got uncovered, it would be best to stay away from any resulting flak. ‘OK, missus. Finish your bathrooms and get home to Beryl. I have to stop here, but I’ll keep meself to meself. He knows where I am if he needs me.’

Moira was having the time of her life. She loved the shed, and declared on several occasions that she’d be happy to spend the rest of her life in it. Further confidences forced on Lucy were less pleasant. Moira was sure that Richard was up to no good, that he had overstepped a mark, and she said that she was enjoying being away from him. ‘Simon and the girls were easy to raise. He’s bloody impossible, and I didn’t realize that until lately. So bloody selfish. He needs a good hiding.’

At first, Lucy didn’t say much on the subject. The me-too speech would not have been suitable, since Moira already knew the extent of Alan’s sins. Lucy was aware also that there was a deep and abiding love between Moira and Richard, and that no amount of sexual straying on his part would diminish that love. ‘Well, we have to go back soon,’ she said after one of Moira’s longer tirades.

‘Not yet. Please, not yet. Just because I’m sometimes in a wheelchair doesn’t mean I have to stay with him. I can liquidate some of my share in the house – equity release, I think it’s called – and put myself away where I don’t have to put up with prostitutes looking for him.’

‘You’re not sure that she was looking for him.’

‘I flaming well am sure.’

Lucy sat down. ‘There are many kinds of love, Moira. And no, I’m not going to deliver a lecture, but I want to remind you. There’s the silly, romantic kind where you stop eating, drift through a dream and wake up either still in love, or decidedly out of it. Then there’s the merely physical that has no roots. Lastly, there’s the one that abides. It’s almost spiritual, and it contains elements of the first two, while being a meeting of minds. You and Richard have that.’

‘Do we?’

‘Absolutely. How many women care enough to look for a second wife? You know none of us lives for ever, so you tried to . . . well, you know what you did. If he fell for someone, he wouldn’t abandon you. In fact, it’s more positive than that, because I’m damned sure he’d do anything and everything to make your life better. He’s having a stairlift fitted, isn’t he? A small thing in a way, but just for you.’

Moira sniffed. ‘He’s been with a prostitute.’

‘He made a mistake. We are all victims of our own frailty.’

‘Are you? Have you slept with him yet?’

Lucy smiled. ‘I have, and we slept. David and I are lucky, because we seem to have what you and Richard have. We rag one another mercilessly, we need each other, and we’re getting him out of his doldrums before starting to jump around like a couple of kids. It’s real.’

‘And the wedding?’

‘Christmas, but I haven’t told him. Then we get the big house done up for sick kids and we have a honeymoon next summer.’

‘But he doesn’t know.’

‘Of course he doesn’t know. He’s too busy curing people and counting rubber bands.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. I’ll tell you when you’re old enough. For now, I am going to chase your son and my daughter. They can’t leave it to us, love. Richard needs telling, and they are going to do it.’

She left Moira to her own devices and went to the big house. In the kitchen doorway, she ground to a halt. Her daughter, white-faced and clearly tense, was washing dishes. ‘Hell’s bells,’ Lucy exclaimed. ‘Housework? Are you ill?’

Lizzie stuck out her tongue. ‘I have many talents, Mums. It’s just that I have chosen not to employ them until absolutely necessary.’ Her hands slowed. ‘I’m terrified of Simon’s dad.’

Lucy grinned. ‘He’s just a man. Men are tall little boys. Do you want me to come with you? David has the week off, and we’re meant to be out for the day, but he’ll sit with Moira if I ask him to.’

Lizzie shook her head emphatically. ‘No. Richard wants to get into your knickers, so his reaction would be a false one if you’re there. Simon can deal with him. We won’t come back. Is it OK if we use my bedroom at Stoneyhurst? I don’t think I’m up to sharing living space with Dr Turner.’

Lucy stayed to wave them off. Of course they’d be welcome on Mersey View. Who could resist two such beautiful creatures? Simon had to work some notice at the Royal, after which they would travel to London so that he could take up his new post, while Lizzie would return to RADA.

She went upstairs and found that Lizzie’s room had been left in pristine condition. An effort had been made, and that was good enough. ‘I spoiled all three of you,’ she whispered. A thought struck. What if Mike and Paul got serious about Alice and Steph? ‘My life would become hyper-medical,’ Lucy told herself. David, Richard, Simon, Steph and Alice – they could staff their own private hospital.

The mobile rang. At first, she didn’t recognize the sound, until she remembered that David, while in his cups under the famous
Financial Times
hat, had loaded ‘Amarillo’ as her ring tone. ‘Hello?’

‘Lucy?’ It was Glenys.

‘Yes, Glen. How are you doing?’

‘OK. I finally got hold of Howard Styles’s widow. She wasn’t in Cheshire – she has a second house in Blackpool. I got her on her dead husband’s mobile.’

‘And?’

‘He’s with her. She asked him to put the kettle on, and she used his name. I know Alan’s not an uncommon forename, but I’m guessing it has to be him. They’re going back to Alderley Edge on Thursday. I’ve arranged to meet her in a coffee shop on Friday morning. When she asked why, I told her it was personal and connected to the death of her husband. She knows I’m a lawyer, and she has all my phone numbers.’

‘Thanks, Glen.’

‘Are you up for it? It could get nasty, Lucy.’

‘I have to warn her. It would be subhuman not to. Let’s face it, you should really have got the police, because Alan stole money from a building society. We’re not being cruel.’

‘OK.’

Lucy turned off her phone. Sitting on a chaise, she looked through the landing window. David had arrived with what Moira termed the fasten-me-down van. Dressed in his version of casual clothes, he looked as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards. Like many Englishmen, he managed to confuse casual with disgraceful. Yet it was in these moments that she loved him most. He was the other half of her, and she wished she’d met him again years ago, wished she’d been there to help when Anne and Tim died. It was time to buy him some decent leisure clothes – if she could get him into a shop, if she could force him to try things on.

Today, they were taking Moira over the Pennines to visit Yorkshire. She had never seen it and, in Lucy’s opinion, no one should go through life without looking at what she called God’s temper tantrum, the wild and wonderful area that she always thought of as unfinished, as if the manufacturer had run out of steam and decided to leave it half done. Tomorrow, Mags Livesey was coming to give them both a new hairdo and a facial. That would cheer Moira no end, because she hadn’t seen a beautician in years.

‘Louisa?’ The cry drifted upstairs.

She laughed quietly. David often used her full handle, the name she had been given, the one her parents insisted on until Father and Grandfather had started the Lucy-Lou game.

‘Coming,’ she called.

They met halfway down the stairs.

‘When?’ he asked.

‘When what?’

‘Bed. Together. You and I.’

He was coming along nicely if she could just ignore the clothes. ‘Soon,’ she promised. ‘Now, what if we decide to take Moira somewhere nice for lunch? They won’t let you in.’

‘Ah.’ He looked down at himself. ‘I forgot. Had some trouble with the van, did a bit of engine-tweaking, and should have changed afterwards.’ He smiled at her. ‘How soon is soon?’

‘Soon. We’ll call at your house on the way and find something decent for you to wear. When Moira’s settled back on Mersey View, I’ll come and stay in your very clean home if you’d prefer there to here.’

‘Next week?’

‘Probably the week after.’

‘Good. That gives me time.’

‘Time? You said there was no time. Didn’t Einstein—’

‘Shut up, Louisa.’

‘OK.’

They walked downstairs together.

‘Why do you need time?’ she asked again.

‘I’m not going to tell you. It’s meant to be a surprise, and I need to get . . .’

‘Get what?’

‘Stuff.’ He turned on her and pulled her roughly into his arms. ‘Not all your own way, Louisa. Never, never all your own way. I love you far, far too much to let you get away with mayhem.’

Yes, she was doing a good job. In warning him that she could manage him, she had thrown down a gauntlet, and he refused to be managed. Underneath the academic, the man survived, and within that man a child endured. Behind the dreadful grief, a flicker of hope had been lit, and it burgeoned now into a flame that warmed him and allowed him to consider coming back to life. He could love again, and she was to be the happy recipient of his affections.

They travelled to his house, and Lucy stayed in the van with Moira while he changed. The place was smart, detached and at the better end of Chorley New Road, within spitting distance of golf club and crematorium.

‘What are you laughing at?’ asked the passenger in the back.

‘Well, he can play golf there in the winter, and warm his hands across the road afterwards.’

‘Lucy?’

‘What?’

‘Did anyone ever tell you your sense of humour’s warped?’

‘Not until recently. I led a very quiet married life.’

‘And now you’re making up for it.’

Lucy turned in her seat. ‘Watch this space, Moira. I’m still warming up. You ain’t seen nothing yet, babe.’

He came out of the house in suit and tie. It was becoming plainer by the minute that he did consultant or mechanic, with no stations in between. ‘I’ve got a catalogue at home,’ Moira said. ‘Get his measurements, and we’ll see what we can do. He’s hopeless, isn’t he?’

‘Delightfully so. Don’t way a word.’

They drove to Yorkshire and had a wonderful day.

Alan knew how Atlas might have felt had someone lifted the world from his shoulders. The sun shone more brightly, sand and sea suddenly became colourful, while even bingo improved, especially when he won a national prize of a hundred grand. His cheque remained in a drawer, as he was still an undischarged bankrupt with a possible prison sentence hanging over his head. ‘I could have bought you a better ring,’ he told Trish. She didn’t know he was a criminal, did she? With luck and a strong following wind, she would never know.

‘I don’t want one.’ She looked at her Ceylon sapphire and diamonds. ‘This is beautiful, we chose it together, and I’m not parting with it. Anyway, come Friday afternoon, you’ll not be bankrupt. The payment will be on its way to the Halifax, and I hope that ex-wife of yours is proud of herself.’

In an untypically honest mood, he was feeling proud of Lucy. She could have sent the cops to the hospital, could have had him locked up by now. The fact that she hadn’t made sure he was in jail meant a great deal to him. She was straight, honest and generous. He couldn’t remember his last real conversation with her, and that fact made him feel terrible. It was a bit late in the day to start developing a conscience, but guilt pursued him every inch of his new life.

Then Trish’s second mobile rang. He watched as her eyes filled with tears, because she hadn’t heard Howie’s ringtone in weeks. She answered it. ‘Hello?’

While listening to the party at the other end, she asked Alan to brew some tea. He stood just inside the kitchen, and his heart sank. She was making arrangements to meet a lawyer on Friday. They were going for coffee at the Boule Miche, a pretentious and overpriced joint in Cheshire named after some famous street in Paris. Napoleon bloody Bonaparte had a lot to answer for, he mused irrelevantly. Friday. The very day on which the money would begin to walk from her account into the Halifax.