Laceys of Liverpool (15 page)

‘How dare you countermand my orders?’ he’d demanded. She’d never seen him look so cross. ‘Did you intend keeping the extra money for yourself?’

‘Of course not,’ Cora insisted, though she had been wondering if she could get away with it. It would have depended on whether Alice paid by cheque or with cash.

‘Have you done anything like this before?’ His little round eyes flashed angrily.

‘I only did it the once,’ she said humbly. ‘Only because it was personal.’

‘Ah, yes, that reminds me. Why didn’t you tell me the hairdresser’s partially belongs to you?’

‘I didn’t think it mattered, if you must know.’

‘Of course it matters,’ he snapped impatiently. ‘It was clearly your intention to cause your sister-in-law some harm. You made the mistake of letting your emotions cloud your judgement.’ He left, saying he intended going very carefully through the books to make sure he hadn’t been done. It was a pity, but he didn’t trust her any more.

Since then, he hadn’t given her any more work, nor dropped in for a spot of titillation and to give her the five quid that always followed. Even worse, one day she’d seen him coming out of Lacey’s hairdresser’s, so had kept watch and seen him twice again.

It was a good job she had the money from the hairdresser’s, because all of a sudden she found herself paying the full rent for Garibaldi Road, which she could never have afforded on the pitiful amount Billy earned.

It was vital she get back in with Horace Flynn. He wasn’t particularly old, only in his fifties, but he was a sick man – you could tell by his unhealthy colour. There was something wrong with his heart. It didn’t beat proper. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he dropped dead any minute. In fact, she often hoped he would, because he hadn’t a close relative in the world, just some far-off cousins in Ireland. They’d actually talked about it once.

‘I don’t like the idea of some person or persons I’ve never met benefiting from all my hard work when I pass on,’ he’d said.

‘Surely you know someone closer you could leave it to,’ Cora had said innocently, knowing there was only her.

‘Hmm.’ He’d eyed her speculatively. ‘In that case I would have to make a will.’

Since then, whenever she went to his house and he wasn’t looking, she’d searched for a will, but if he’d made one it must have been left with his solicitor, because she never found it.

‘I’m sorry, luv, but she’s gone to the pictures,’ Alice said to the distraught young man outside.

‘Again!’ Micky Lavin said wildly. He ran his fingers through his black hair, as if about to tear it out. ‘She went to the pictures last night. I stood outside the Palace in Marsh Lane until the picture finished, but I didn’t see her come out.’

‘She didn’t go to the Palace last night, she went to the Rio in Fazackerly with some girl from work. I’m not sure where she’s gone tonight,’ she added, in case Micky stood outside again.

‘Can I come in and wait?’ His bottom lip quivered like a child’s.

‘I was just about to go to bed, luv,’ Alice lied. ‘It’s not really convenient.’

‘I’ll sit on the step, then, till she comes.’

‘I’m not sure if she’ll come in the back way or the front.’

‘I’ll do me best to keep an eye on both.’

Alice felt dreadful as she closed the door on his desperate, unhappy face. She went to the bottom of the stairs and called, ‘Orla?’

‘Yes, Mam?’

‘That’s the last lie I’m telling Micky Lavin on your behalf. He’s a nice lad and he’s obviously mad about you. If you don’t want to see him again, then tell him so to his face. D’you hear me, our Orla?’

‘Yes, Mam.’ In the bedroom, Orla buried her face in
the pillow so no one would hear her cry. It had been awful listening to Micky’s anguished voice. She tried not to imagine him walking down Amber Street, as miserable as sin – as miserable as she felt herself, if the truth be known. It was all she could do not to rush out of the house and call him back. But look what had happened when she’d called him back the other night! Jaysus! It had been out of this world, totally wonderful. She ached for it to happen again.

But, she reminded herself, she wasn’t the sort of girl who made love in back entries. She was going to
be
someone one day, someone dead important. Why, only yesterday Bertie Craig had suggested she practise her shortand, make it faster, so that she could become a verbatim reporter.

‘When you’re interviewing a politician, say, it helps if you can take down every word. If he later denies he said a certain thing, you can flourish your notebook and prove he did.’

A politician! One of these days Orla Lacey might actually interview a politician, beside which marrying Micky Lavin came a very poor second.

Oh, but if only she could get him out of her mind!

‘I didn’t realise until yesterday that you were the mother of the genius,’ said Neil Greene.

‘Eh?’ It was Saturday and the salon had just closed. Alice was transferring the takings to her handbag to tot up later.

Neil had obviously been shopping in town. He was carrying several Lewis’s and Owen Owen’s carrier bags. ‘Cormac Lacey, he’s your son, right?’ He raised his perfect eyebrows.

Alice swelled with pride. She nodded. ‘He is so.’

‘Going to pass the scholarship with flying colours, so I
understand. They’re always talking about him in the common room. I knew you had a son at St James’s, but I thought it was the other Lacey, Maurice. He has the look of Fion.’

‘Maurice is me nephew. We don’t know who Cormac takes after.’

Fionnuala emerged from the back where she was washing cups, eager to bathe in some of her brother’s reflected glory. Alice felt slightly irritated by the look on her face, like a sad little puppy waiting to be noticed by its lord and master. Fion was useless on Saturdays, on edge waiting for Neil to pop in and out.

‘Ah, Fion!’ Neil’s smile was wonderful to behold. The customers claimed it made them go weak at the knees. ‘I’ve bought you a present.’ He rooted through one of the bags and took out a little red box.

Fionnuala almost collapsed with gratitude before she even knew what the present was. ‘Oh, ta,’ she gasped. She opened the box and took out a large silver brooch in the shape of an ‘F’. ‘It’s lovely,’ she breathed. ‘Oh, and it’s got a little diamond in.’ She clasped the brooch against her chest. ‘I’ll treasure it all me life,’ she said shakily.

‘I’m afraid the diamond isn’t real. It’s called a zircon.’ Neil beamed as he handed Alice a green box. ‘And one for you. It’s an “A”.’

‘Thank you very much.’ Alice deliberately didn’t look at her daughter’s face, knowing that she would be shattered that Neil hadn’t bought a present just for her.

‘That’s by way of an apology,’ Neil said.

‘Apology for what?’

‘For not putting “Mister” on my letters, for inadvertently letting you think I was a woman. With the flat, situated as it is over a hairdresser’s, you might have preferred having a female of the species upstairs. You
showed admirable restraint when I turned out to be the wrong sex.’ He grinned. ‘Another person might have given me a good bollocking and told me to take my bags elsewhere. I just hope I don’t disturb the customers too much when I come in and out.’

Alice assured him he was no bother and he went upstairs. ‘That was nice of him, wasn’t it?’ she said warmly to Fion. ‘And he must think a lot of you, buying you a brooch as well as me. I mean, if it’s by way of apology like he ses, there was no need to include you, was there?’

Fionnuala’s face brightened – she was very easily pleased, Alice thought sadly.

‘Not really, Mam.’ Fion couldn’t wait to show the brooch to Orla who didn’t have a boyfriend at the moment, having gone completely mad and ditched that gorgeous Micky Lavin.

She’d had to tell him to his face eventually. She’d taken him into the parlour because she didn’t trust herself in a place where he could take her in his arms and touch her the way he’d done before. They’d only end up doing that crazy, wonderful thing again and she’d be lost.

Oh, his expression when she told him! She would never forget it – shocked, disbelieving, close to tears. His eyes were black with despair.

‘But I love you,’ he’d said, as if this were the end of the matter.

‘Well, I don’t love you,’ Orla said spiritedly.

‘You do! Of course you do. You know you do. I can tell. What we did together was magic. Wasn’t it, Orla?’ He shook her arm. ‘Wasn’t it?’

She looked straight into his eyes. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It was all right, that’s all. I quite enjoyed it.’

‘You’re lying. You thought it was magic, same as me.’

Orla shrugged and longed for him to go, get out of the house, out of her life, for ever. She folded her arms and wished him goodnight.

‘And that’s it, then?’

‘That’s it.’

‘So it’s tara?’

‘Tara, Micky.’

‘You’ve broken me heart,’ he said in a cracked voice.

‘It’ll soon mend,’ she said carelessly.

The front door slammed. Arms still folded, Orla began to rock backwards and forwards on the settee. Tears dropped on to her knees, her skirt, made wet patches on her shoes and the floor around them.

It was Cormac who found her, rocking like a maniac and flooding the parlour with her tears. ‘Why have you told Micky to go away when you want him to stay?’ he wanted to know, which only made Orla cry even more. Her alarmed mother came in, did her best to soothe her, then sent her to bed with cocoa and a couple of Aspro.

That was weeks and weeks ago, and Orla still couldn’t forget Micky’s face, though now she hated it. She hated every single thing about Micky Lavin.

His face was in front of her now, staring at her from the sheet of paper in the typewriter. She resisted the urge to pull the paper out, rip it to shreds, because the face would only appear again when she put more paper in.

Another woman worked with her in the small office, Edie Jones, Bertie Craig’s secretary. Edie and Orla didn’t get on. The older woman seemed to resent the younger one being such a favourite of her boss.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Edie asked as Orla sat scowling at the typewriter.

‘There’s nothing the matter with me,’ Orla snapped.

‘Then why do you look as if you’ve lost a pound and found a sixpence?’

‘Perhaps I have, that’s why.’

Edie shrugged. ‘I was only asking.’

Orla wondered what her reaction would be if she shouted, ‘I think I’m pregnant,
that’s
what’s the matter. I bloody well think I’m bloody pregnant. And I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be bloody pregnant more than anything in the world. I
hate
Micky Lavin. Men are supposed to take precautions, wear things. But Micky didn’t and now I’m bloody well pregnant.’

‘Are you sure you’re all right, Orla?’ Edie sounded worried. ‘Now you look as if you’re about to burst into tears.’

‘Wouldn’t you if you’d lost a pound and only found a sixpence in its place?’

‘I’m only trying to help, dear.’

Perhaps it was the ‘dear’ that made Orla start to weep. ‘I’m sorry for being rude,’ she sobbed. ‘There
is
something wrong, but I can’t possibly tell you what it is.’

‘Why don’t you go home? I’ll tell Bertie you weren’t feeling well. He’ll understand.’

‘I think I will. Ta, Edie.’

She wandered along Liverpool Road towards Bootle. She’d missed two periods, which had never happened before. She was definitely up the stick, had a bun in the oven, as some people crudely put it. Approaching Seaforth, she passed a doctor’s surgery and contemplated going inside and asking the doctor to examine her. But she looked so young and wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. What would the doctor say?

Orla had never cared particularly what people thought, but having a baby without a husband was just about the most shocking thing a girl could do. There was a girl in Opal Street who’d done it. That was ten years ago and the girl was now a woman, but it was still talked
about as if it were only yesterday. The baby had been sent to an orphanage.

‘
Mine won’t
.’ Orla clutched her stomach. It was no use asking a doctor, because she knew in her bones that there was a tiny baby curled up in there waiting to be born. She also knew that she had to keep it, that to have it taken away would be wrong. And if she didn’t want her baby growing up with the stigma of having an unmarried mother, the equivalent of having a sign saying ‘bastard’ hung round its neck, then she would have to marry Micky Lavin. Furthermore, she was only seventeen and needed her parents’ permission, so she would have to tell Mam and Dad.

A young woman approached, pushing a large, shabby pram. The baby inside was shrieking, as if it was being severely tortured. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut your gob,’ the woman said in a despairing voice as she passed by.

Orla turned and watched her walk away, bent and weary. ‘That will be me in a year’s time,’ she thought with horror. ‘I’d sooner be like them.’

She glanced across the road at two girls, slightly older than she was, strolling along arm in arm, talking animatedly. They were smartly dressed in tweed costumes and little felt hats. One carried a big grey lizard handbag that Orla badly coveted. The girls were everything that she had one day planned to be herself.

Horace Flynn had taken to dropping in at the hairdresser’s at least once a week. ‘Just to see how things are going, Mrs Lacey,’ he would say.

‘Things are going fine, Mr Flynn. Thanks for asking.’

‘He’s got a crush on you,’ announced Fionnuala. ‘What on earth did you do on Boxing Day when you went round to ask about the lease?’

‘I just fluttered me eyelashes a bit, that’s all,’ Alice replied uneasily.

‘If you’d fluttered them some more, we might have got the lease for nothing.’

‘Oh, Fion, don’t!’ Alice squirmed. ‘Anyroad, it’s your fault he comes so often. There’s no need to make quite such a desperate fuss of him, taking him into the kitchen, plying him with cups of tea.’

‘I feel sorry for him. He’s got sickly skin. He probably comes because we’re the only people in the world who are nice to him. Everyone else hates his guts.’

‘With good reason, luv. He’s a horrible man.’