A Liverpool Lass (33 page)

Scrabbling along the mantel, Lilac found the matches and the candle. She lit a match, scraping it smartly along the iron grate, then held the candle high. The room was deserted; Aunt must have gone up to bed, tired out after the celebration.

The fire was out, though. A pity, because Lilac could have done with a nice cup of tea. Still, she could go back outside, with Art and the other youngsters, and see if someone had a kettle going. Better check Auntie first, though. She might want something, though it was far likelier than she was snuggled down and fast asleep.

Candle in hand, Lilac mounted the steep and narrow stair. She pushed open the door of her aunt’s room. Ada was in bed, the covers pulled over her, only her greying head clear of the blankets. There was a rather unpleasant smell in the room, a heavy, sickly sort of smell. It brought a crease between Lilac’s brows because it reminded her of something, though she did not quite know what. She stole forward, not wanting to wake Aunt Ada yet anxious to check that she was all right.

The older woman lay on her back. Her face was suffused and by her mouth was a pool of something wet and dark. Lilac gasped and her heartbeat speeded up. Aunt Ada was ill! She leaned further forward and pulled down the blanket. The edge caught against
Ada’s lank, greying hair and her head rolled sideways, jerkily. Lilac gave a muffled scream and stepped back, heart really pounding now, as though she’d been running a race. Something was badly wrong, the way Auntie’s head had moved you’d have thought ...

‘Auntie? Auntie Ada, it’s Lilac; are you ill?’

No answer. No snoring, no sighing, no breathing, even.

No
breathing
?

Lilac touched her aunt’s face. It was cold. She pushed the blankets down further and saw that the stain on the pillow and on the mattress was an ugly puddle of vomit.

She backed away from the bed. She was telling herself that Auntie was ill and needed help, that she must fetch someone at once, to take Aunt Ada back to hospital.

But in her heart she knew that Ada was dead.

It was a terrible thing to have happened, and it could not have happened at a worse time. With the party scarcely over, Lilac was arranging – or trying to arrange – a funeral.

Art was a help and Mrs O’Brien was good, but oddly enough it was the Jewish Coppners who really arranged the funeral in the end.

‘A good girl you’ve been; a faithful little servant,’ Mr Coppner said, stroking his long, grey beard. ‘Now you are in trouble – Ruth told us – so we will do what we can to help you.’

And despite being Jewish, Mr Coppner knew a lot about such things. He went and saw the doctor who had done the post mortem on Aunt Ada, and told Lilac, sadly, that she had died because her airways had become blocked.

‘She wasn’t used to drink, you see,’ he explained. ‘She’d not touched a drop for weeks and weeks. Then someone gave her glass after glass of strong ale, she felt ill, vomited, choked ... and died.’

‘Who gave her drink?’ Lilac asked, stony-faced. ‘She’d been so good, she was gettin’ well ... she was all I had in the world till our Nell comes home.’

‘Who?’ Mr Coppner shrugged. ‘Who knows? Some well-intentioned neighbour, perhaps. What’s done is done, child. Now is the time to make all tidy and start to arrange your future.’

There was a service in the church on the corner of Wilbraham Street and the Scottie, then a funeral procession to Anfield Cemetery, where Ada was to be buried. Lilac, who had often played in Stanley Park with never a thought for the cemetery on the opposite side of the road, trudged along through the chilly November mist and wished that she was a heedless kid again, running on the grass with Art whilst Nellie looked on and smiled at their antics.

‘Mrs Threadwell paid into a burial club, so that will cover the funeral expenses,’ Mr Coppner assured Lilac. ‘I think, in the circumstances, that it might be better not to have a wake.’

Lilac was happy to agree. The thought of feeding all the people who attended the funeral was frightening, but fortunately no one seemed to expect it and after the committal they all went off to their own homes, leaving Lilac with the Coppners, Art and Mrs O’Brien.

Mrs O’Brien was looking totally unlike herself in a clean black coat and hat and shiny black boots. She wore a large mourning brooch and had scraped her greasy hair into a bun at the back. Mr Coppner had ordered a cab and offered the O’Briens a lift home when he saw Art and Lilac standing beside one another
by the graveside. Mrs O’Brien, smiling and nodding and patting Lilac’s arm whenever she got the chance, agreed with alacrity.

‘We’ll tek good care of ’er,’ Mrs O’Brien said when they reached the entrance to the court. ‘What else is neighbours for, I’d like to know?’

Lilac noticed Art glancing a little uneasily at his mother, but she was too tired, frightened and unhappy to worry about it overmuch. Indeed, that night she refused Mrs O’Brien’s offer of hospitality and went straight back to her own home. Not that it was hers, of course, but she would worry about that, she decided as she got into bed, in the morning.

‘If you’re goin’ to insist on stayin’ at number eleven, then you’d best ’ave a word with the landlord,’ Mrs O’Brien said the next day, when Lilac had politely but steadfastly refused her renewed offer of a place under her roof, just until Nellie got home. ‘Mr Jackson ain’t too bad; you tell ’im ’e’ll get ’is money same’s before an’ likely ’e’ll let you stay.’

It had not crossed Lilac’s mind that anyone might try to turn her out, but she did not say so to Mrs O’Brien. The more Mrs O’Brien dangled the bait of her own home before Lilac’s eyes, the more Lilac realised she must avoid such a fate at all costs. She would share a room not only with mucky Etty but with five other assorted O’Briens, since the two tiny bedrooms meant everyone had to share. And though Mrs O’Brien had bidden her bring her own bed, she had seen at a glance that there was no room for it. No, she would have to sleep on the floor, like Etty and the others did, wrapped in whatever rags Mrs O’Brien had been unable to sell or pawn.

What was more, Lilac enjoyed her food and Mrs O’Brien’s idea of cooking was to bung whatever food she had into an encrusted old cauldron, add water and boil for as long as the fire remained lit. She ate well enough herself – shop-bought cakes and puddings, meat pies, chips – but her children rarely fared as well. And anyway, whenever she saw Mrs O’Brien’s piggy eyes on her, a most peculiar sensation of fear and dismay sizzled along Lilac’s spine. The older woman meant her harm, she was sure of it, though by no means certain how Mrs O’Brien intended to bring it about. And she saw no reason, either, why she should say anything at all to the landlord. In fact unless it was brought to his attention, he was unlikely to know that Aunt Ada had died. Mr Jackson had a rent-man who collected money owed weekly, but provided the money was there, he was unlikely to be at all interested in who paid it over.

‘So long as I pay the rent,’ she said now, rather coolly, ‘there’s no reason for Mr Jackson to evict me or indeed, to take any interest in me. So if you don’t mind, Mrs O’Brien, I’d rather you said nothing to him whatsoever.’

Mrs O’Brien sniffed and gave Lilac a malevolent look out of the corner of her piggy eyes, but she said nothing more and Lilac quickly changed the subject.

On the day following the funeral, Lilac got herself ready for school and went out wrapped up well in her brown overcoat with a long scarf over her head and shoulders. She took a sandwich for dinner since there was no point in her coming home like most children did. She had not lit the fire, which would only go out before she was back, but it was laid and ready. She would light it when afternoon school was finished and until then, she felt a good deal more comfortable as far away from Mrs O’Brien as she could get.

On the way to school she voiced some of her unease to Art.

‘Art, what does your mam mean when she says Mr Jackson might kick me out? And why does she want me to come and live at your place?’

Art shrugged. His eyes slid about, clearly trying to avoid Lilac’s frank gaze.

‘’Ow the ’ell do I know?’ he said almost irritably. ‘I suppose she thinks we’d all ’ave more to eat with Nellie’s money comin’ in. You wouldn’t ’ave to pay us rent, see? But you’re best off keepin’ your own place, our Lilac. What ’ud Nellie say if she come ’ome and she didn’t ’ave no ’ouse? No, gal, you stick to your guns.’

‘I will. I’m awful glad you don’t mind, Art, but it worries me when your mam keeps on the way she does,’ Lilac said a little timidly. Art grinned at her.

‘Oh aye, I know the feelin’,’ he said. ‘Wait for me after school, chuck, an’ we’ll take a look round Paddy’s market. You can get a lovely dish of pea soup for three ha’pence and a big chunk of soda bread for a ha’penny. That’ll do you for your tea, save you cookin’.’

And it’s an excuse for not going round to Mrs O’Brien’s, Lilac thought; Art was a good friend. But they were nearly at their respective schools so she slowed, smiling up at him.

‘Thanks, Art, that’ll be really good. Will you come round, later? I’ll have homework, we could do it together.’

He nodded, then raised a hand.

‘Sure I will. Thanks, Lilac.’

A week later, Lilac was spread out across the kitchen table, writing a letter to Nellie, when someone knocked at the door.

With a sigh, Lilac sat up. Art sometimes came and did his homework with her, the two of them sharing the table, but tonight Mrs O’Brien had demanded her son’s presence. She was taking the younger children to buy coats at Paddy’s market later in the week and since her mother-in-law had said she would pay for the garments, a visit was important. The older Mrs O’Brien lived some way away, on Fairclough Lane, so Art had agreed to go along – and to sag off school, an activity of which Lilac disapproved. Art, seeing and rightly interpreting her look, had called her a tight-mouthed little proddy and Lilac, taking exception to this, had called him a thick cogger with more hair than brains. Art had rushed off in a temper, Lilac had stalked into her house and slammed the door. So who was it, knocking to come in at nine in the evening on a cold and wet November day?

But it was no use sitting here and wondering; she would never find out that way. Reluctantly, because she was still only halfway through her sums and because she would have to discard Aunt Ada’s old black shawl, which she wrapped round herself in the evening to combat the multitude of draughts, Lilac got up and made her way across to the door.

‘Who’s there?’ she asked, and that was an odd sort of thing to do, but on the other hand most people announced their presence along with the first knock ... Art would just have pushed the door open.

She swung the door back a bit and peeped out through the crack. A thin, sharp-faced man dressed in a bowler hat and long black overcoat stood there. When he saw her he took off his hat and bent slightly at the waist.

‘Mrs Threadwell?’

‘Oh ... no, I’m sorry ... but I’m her niece. Can I help you?’

‘Ah, then you’ll be Miss Threadwell; may I come in?’

Lilac swung the door wider and the man came in and stood for a moment, looking appreciatively round the room.

‘Very nice, very cosy,’ he said with almost official approval. Lilac stared at him as he put his bowler hat down on the table and turned towards her. She saw, now that he was inside in the lamplight, that he had pale red hair and a thin, pale red moustache. His eyes, rimmed with white lashes, looked colourless and his mouth was wide and narrow-lipped, his ears so flat to his head that for one awful moment Lilac thought that he had none.

‘Now, Miss Threadwell, perhaps you would like to explain to me just where your aunt has gone and why you’ve remained here without her?’

‘My aunt died some weeks ago,’ Lilac said, annoyed that he should ask what he so obviously knew. Otherwise, she reasoned, he would have assumed Auntie to be either already abed or out visiting. ‘As for remaining here without her, what choice have I? And who are you, anyway?’

The man smiled and bowed again; mockingly, Lilac thought crossly.

‘I’m Rudolph Jackson. My Pa owns all the houses in Coronation Court, or did, rather. He passed them over to me six month ago. So I’m your landlord, Miss Threadwell. So now we’re introduced.’

He held out a thin, pinky-red hand. It reminded Lilac of a loin of uncooked pork, but since he was her landlord she supposed she had better be polite. She shook his hand gingerly; it was as cold and damp and thoroughly nasty as it had looked.

‘How d’you do,’ she said gloomily. ‘Nice to meet you. Well, if that’s all ...’

Rudolph Jackson smiled. He had pointed teeth which all seemed to angle inwards. Lilac saw that he looked weaselly and sly when he smiled and sinister when he did not; on the whole, she preferred the sinister look, she decided, though neither was exactly pleasant. Besides, she did not see why he was here. Her rent was paid weekly, she gave the money to kind Mrs Lennox who lived at number six and was old and infirm, so was always there when the rentman called.

‘No, my dear, it is not all. Your name isn’t Threadwell, for a start.’

Lilac frowned.

‘No, it’s Lilac Larkin, but people often call me either McDowell or Threadwell. It doesn’t seem important,’ she said. ‘Anyway, Larkin’s only a made-up name, because they didn’t know my real one at the Culler.’

His pale eyebrows rose and his eyes rounded. So no matter what he might think, he did not know everything, Lilac saw with satisfaction. But the eyebrows came down again, to scowl over his pale eyes.

‘So it’s an orphan brat,’ he said softly, almost to himself. ‘Now I wonder why I wasn’t told that?’

‘Probably because it isn’t true and it’s no one’s business but mine anyway,’ Lilac snapped. ‘Look, Mr Jackson, I know this is your house, but I pay rent for it, and ...’

He was shaking his head, smiling. His eyes glowed in a peculiar way and he kept licking those wide, thin lips.

‘No, Missie. Mrs Threadwell’s my tenant and she should pay the rent. If she’s dead then you’ve no right here, and I’d be obliged if you would pack your bags tomorrow and get out.’ He smiled again when she fell back involuntarily, her mouth dropping open. ‘That’s
to say, Missie, it’s my
right
to tell you to go, and I
could
tell you to go. But I ain’t going to do so ... not if you’ll do right by me.’