A Mersey Mile (45 page)

He opened the gates and stood back while she lifted her suitcase and walked towards her own door. As ever, she moved gracefully, perfectly, every inch the catwalk clothes horse, the socialite,
the beauty. But he knew what she was. He knew she had acquired a key to the back stairs, that it had been copied and that her ‘customers’ used it.

To keep things looking tidy, those same men brought their wives to supper or cocktail parties; on those occasions, they used the lift. He knew them, knew they were figures of importance. He also
had friends in Fleet Street . . .

Alice and Mark awaited the arrival of Elaine. Mother and son, they worked for Miss Lewis and were well paid to guard her secrets. Alice was supposed to be the maid, while Mark
played the part of fiancé to the owner of the establishment. Although his natural orientation lay in the area of other young men, he was happy to help Mum and Miss Lewis in their
business.

Alice’s real function was mostly secretarial. She kept the diary, lined up appointments, arranged bedroom equipment to suit each of Madam’s clients, supervised cleaners and looked
after her employer’s many special garments. There were men who wanted chastisement, others who preferred a nurse or a schoolgirl, a few who needed straightforward and unadorned sex, a couple
who required near-strangulation in order to be satisfied.

Alice admired her boss. She had a cool, pragmatic view of this area of her life, and was always ready to experiment, because she was one of the few who actually enjoyed the work. There were a
dozen regular clients, all in dire need of absolute discretion, every one of them certain that they could trust Elaine and Alice. Mark, who lived elsewhere, was brought in for dinner parties, since
he was a shield behind which Elaine could be concealed during such events. Fortunately, Alice was a good cook, so the social occasions were always successful.

Elaine came in.

‘How was it?’ Alice asked.

‘Dim, small and boring. Hello, Mark. Get me a gin and tonic, large, no ice.’ She dropped her suitcase and fell into an armchair. ‘Still, I don’t have to worry about my
mother, do I? She’s married a private detective, so she’ll be well guarded.’

Alice nodded. ‘The phone’s been red hot. I told them to wait until the Milan show’s over. Sir Naughty Boy was rather petulant.’

‘Let them wait, Alice. They’re so grateful when they finally get to see me. Am I packed for Milan?’

‘Yes, indeed. Did your mother enjoy her day?’

Elaine took her drink from Mark. ‘I think so. She was beautifully dressed, so it seems he can keep her in the manner to which I encouraged her to become accustomed. I made sure they
didn’t get this address. Can you imagine them turning up while I’m chasing Lord Whip-me through the flat? They’d have heart attacks, I’m sure.’

Alice chuckled. Even she retired to her own room when some of the clients were here. ‘Did you give them the Paris key?’

‘Yes. No one’s in Paris for a month or so. My manager approved the arrangement. So.’ She drained her glass. ‘Hair, nails and facial Tuesday, rest day tomorrow. Must look
my best.’ She left and went into her bedroom.

Alice eyed her beloved son. ‘We’ll be all right,’ she told him.

‘Oh, will we?’

‘Of course. She has as much to lose as anyone.’

‘She could bring down a government,’ he said.

‘But she won’t. She’s a cool customer.’

Mark nodded. ‘Needs no ice in her drinks because she’s made of it.’

‘Stop it. She pays our wages, so remember that. And don’t tell any of your boyfriends about what goes on here unless you want to go back to a grubby bed-sitter while I serve my
sentence in jail.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not stupid. But I’m telling you now, Mother, she’s sailing close to the wind. The comings and goings will be noticed.’

She nodded. ‘Perhaps. But if I get wind of trouble, you and I will be two of the goings. I’m too old for prison. Off you trot now. Geoffrey will be waiting for you.’

He kissed his mother and carried Elaine’s empty glass into the kitchen.

When her son had left the flat, Alice sat for a while, hands folded in her lap. She was almost sure that Desmond, who awarded Miss Lewis some strange looks, knew what was going on. He hated her.
Should she mention that? Not yet. Alice’s investment fund needed topping up, so she must take the risk. The Elaine Lewis Show had to go on; the main attraction enjoyed the work, anyway, liked
dressing up, liked sex. Oh well. It took all sorts to make a world . . .

‘It’s not just us, then.’ Ida bit absent-mindedly into one of Hattie’s apples. ‘What?’ she asked when the shopkeeper glared at her.
‘Can you not afford a Cox’s Pippin, then? It’s coming to something if you can’t let a friend have a bit of fruit.’ She returned her ally’s glare with compound
interest. ‘All right, all right, misery guts.’

Hattie folded her arms tightly. ‘That’s a top-layer show apple – I’ve polished it.’ Like many traders, Hattie knew how to make her display of goods look attractive.
‘If you were a kiddy, I’d be reporting you for shoplifting. Do I pinch magazines from your shop? Do I pay for me newspapers every week?’

‘No and yes,’ Ida replied. She rummaged in the pocket of her pinny and slapped a couple of pennies on the counter. ‘And as I was saying, it’s not just us on Scotland
Road. They’re threatening Egypt as well. There’s been discussions and all that since Disraeli was in charge, but the French and our lot are going to start chucking some bloody big
fireworks. It’s in the papers all the time, something to do with a canal everybody wants to drive their boats through.’

Hattie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Ships,’ she said. ‘It’s a ship canal between two seas.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘Then there’s all these White
Russians,’ she murmured. ‘They’re not even Russians; I think they’re from Hungary.’

Ida emitted a long sigh. ‘Poor buggers. It’s Russia’s fault, though. The Reds are messing about in somebody else’s yard, then telling us, the French and the Israelis to
leave that canal alone. I think Nasser sold it, so Egypt doesn’t own it. Nobody likes Nasser, and some say our lads are looking to shift him while they’re at it over the Suez Canal. The
world’s gone crackers.’

‘Our Turnpike protest won’t be noticed.’ Hattie sighed. ‘The government’s more interested in money than people, anyway. Flaming Tories.’

Ida sat in the customers’ chair. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, queen. They’re all the bloody same whatever the colour or cut of their cloth. They get corrupted.
There’s something soaked into all that fancy panelling and green leather down yonder, and it gets under their skin sooner or later like scarlet fever. It’s the whips, too.’

‘The whats?’

‘Whips. A three-liner means you’ll be dragged off your deathbed to vote. You go in at the start a free man trying to work for the folk who put you there, then you get whipped.
Voting’s up to you, but the big boys put pressure on.’

‘With a whip?’

‘A whip’s just a bloke. Three lines is three lines marked under the order to attend. If you vote wrong, you’re finished. It’s just a different type of
dictatorship.’

Hattie leaned on her counter. Ida was a great deal less daft than she usually appeared. ‘Been reading again, love? And talking to our Pol?’

‘No law against it as far as I know, Hat. I’ve got this library book at home called
Westminster, Mother of Democracy
– something like that. A Lord Somebody wrote it.
It’s opened my eyes, I can tell you that for no money. Democracy? They’ve no flaming idea. We’ll be swept under the carpet like dead flies. See, we don’t want them wasting
lives and money over in Egypt, but we don’t get a choice. Like I said, it’s a bloody dictatorship hidden under a thick layer of . . . oh, I don’t know. Of pretending to be decent.
Why should they take notice of Scotty Roaders?’

‘Then why are we doing the march, Ida?’

‘Because we can. Because there’s no law stopping us. If we took farm animals with us, we could bring London to a full stop. As things stand, we’ll be just another semi-wotsit
on their bits of paper. Semi-colon,’ she finished triumphantly.

They were silent for a few minutes, each contemplating the non-existence of real freedom. Ida, in revolutionary mode, was seething inwardly. She wondered whether the whole country could be
persuaded not to vote at all at the next General Election. A nationwide strike would take some organizing, and some soft bastards would vote anyway. Hattie was pondering taxation levels. ‘If
we all refuse to pay tax,’ she said eventually, ‘they’d soon notice that.’

Ida nodded. ‘Or if we refused to go out and vote . . .’

‘It won’t happen,’ they said simultaneously. They both grinned. After many years of near-sisterhood, each was attuned to the other.

‘Polly’s in today, so you don’t need to be a waitress,’ Hattie said. ‘Mrs Moo’s minding the baby.’

‘They don’t call her that any more.’

‘I know. Polly’s tamed her, got her trained. Mrs Lewis – I mean Mrs Pearson – had a lot to do with it, too. She thinks the world of our Pol now, does the old cow.’
Hattie sighed. ‘Still, I suppose it’s just as well, because she babysits Beth for Polly.’

‘It’s all changing, isn’t it, Hattie? There’s a mood on round here these days, as if hope’s dead. Little things like no hairdresser above the cafe, Carla plating up
breakfasts and dinners, me having help in the shop so I can do the waitressing, you selling less stock, Polly and Frank living bloody miles away, Cal training to be Cordon Blue, Sergeant Stoneway
retiring.’ She lowered her head sadly. ‘No matter what we do, it’s over.’

Hattie shrugged. ‘That can’t be allowed to count, because we’re going to London. Polly’s worked hard at this plan.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Come on,
let’s get our breakfast. God knows we’ve earned it. Politics is exhaustifying.’

Polly was radiant. The glow came from within, radiating outward to tint her face, brighten her eyes and make her dark curls shiny and bouncy. She’d imagined that things
would be different after the arrival of a baby, but she’d been wrong. Frank continued affectionate, spoiling his wife to a point where she was sometimes embarrassed, because he wasn’t
afraid to show his devotion even when they had company.

And they often had company, since they loved entertaining friends, and the ex-Mrs Moo stayed with them a couple of nights each week. Norma Charleson doted on her granddaughter, though she
usually remained in the granny flat until needed. However, she’d caught the pair of them canoodling on several occasions, and a sight that might once have infuriated her now made her smile.
They were so right together, so deeply in love. And it showed in Polly even when she was away from Frank.

She was away from home this morning. Ida and Hattie arrived at Polly’s Parlour. ‘Look at her,’ Ida whispered.

‘I am looking at her, you soft girl. My word, she’s happy. That’s what a good marriage does.’ Hattie’s tone was tinged with sadness. She automatically raised a hand
to her face, which had often sported bruising in the bad old days. ‘She deserves him, Ida. And that lovely house and the baby. It’s like watching a flower opening, isn’t
it?’

‘Yes. A real English rose.’

The real English rose was currently demonstrating the sharp tips of her thorns. ‘Jimmy, you asked for mushrooms. See, I’ve got it written down here.’

‘That’s not mushrooms; it’s a number five.’

‘Number five
is
mushrooms,’ she enunciated slowly, as if addressing a deaf person or a young child. ‘There’s no time to write the full words. One’s bacon,
two’s eggs fried, three’s eggs scrambled, four’s—’

‘It’s you what’s scrambled, Pol,’ Jimmy said, grinning broadly at her.

‘Four’s eggs boiled, five’s mushrooms, six is black pud—’

‘I’ll have that instead.’

‘You’ll have the back of my hand, Nutter. And you’ll be wearing your bloody breakfast if you don’t behave yourself. You like mushrooms, anyway.’

He clicked his tongue at her and winked. ‘You’re lovely when your dander’s up, Pol. I must try this more often. Thanks for the mushrooms and the floor show, babe. You should
get one of them jukeboxes like they have in the milk bar, then you could show us how to bop.’

She bridled before flicking a tea towel at him. ‘Entertainment’s extra,’ she snapped. ‘Come next week, I’ll be doing the seven veils dance, but yous will all be
blindfolded and glued to the chairs.’ She stopped, turned, then turned again. ‘And number thirteen’s weedkiller, so watch it.’

Jimmy scanned the whole room, a huge smile on his face. ‘I feel sorry for Frank,’ he announced before winking again.

The cafe door was flung inward. The subject of Jimmy Nuttall’s sympathy stood on the step, his daughter in his arms. ‘Here you are, Polly,’ he called. ‘You needed a joint
for dinner, and there’s plenty of meat on this one.’ He passed the baby to Hattie. ‘A bit of mint sauce, and she’ll go down lovely with spuds and veg.’

Hattie cuddled the pretty bundle. ‘He’s right – she’s very well upholstered.’

Frank stood back to allow his mother into the parlour. ‘I’ve got the pram in the back of Frank’s van,’ Norma Charleson announced. ‘Oh, he’s lifting it out
now. You can walk Beth about if you like, Hattie, or take her to your shop. I’ll have a boiled egg, please, Polly. One slice of toast.’ She sat down in the very basic cafe she had
damned not too long ago and smiled at everyone.

‘Coming up, Ma,’ Polly replied. She swivelled on her heel and clouted Jimmy Nuttall again with her tea towel. ‘Behave, or I’ll set my Beth on you. She’s got teeth
now, you know, and I sharpen them for her.’

Frank returned after parking the pram outside the cafe. ‘I’ll pick you up in a couple of hours, Mother. Watch the pram; kids like the wheels for go-carts.’ He winked at his
wife. ‘Next one had better be a boy. I’m out-bloody-numbered.’

‘Oh, go away,’ Norma scolded. ‘You love being surrounded by women, and you know it. Shoo. Buzz off and build your empire; leave us to eat in peace, son.’

Ida stole Beth from her best friend and stood near the window to watch the pram.

Frank decided to go for the kill. ‘Polly?’