Laceys of Liverpool (17 page)

‘We’re all very happy for Orla, if you must know. Micky Lavin is a fine lad who’ll make a good husband. And we’re dead pleased about the baby.’

‘Yes, but . . .’

‘But what?’

‘She’s so young to be a mother,’ Mrs White said lamely.

‘She’s seventeen. I was only a year older when I had our Fionnuala.’

‘You’re fastening the curlers too tight, Mrs Lacey.
Would you mind undoing the last two and rolling them up a bit looser.’

Alice sniffed. ‘Sorry.’

‘I understand you’re about to expand.’ Mrs White must have decided this was safer ground. Alice Lacey was a brilliant hairdresser, the best in Bootle, and it wouldn’t do to annoy her. She was relieved to be rewarded with a smile.

‘Yes, I’m taking on a trained assistant, if you can call that expanding: Doreen Morrison, only part-time. She used to work in this exclusive salon in town till she retired.’

‘She’s old, then?’

‘Only fifty. She retired because of a heart complaint, but feels she can manage four afternoons a week and Sat’days. She only lives down Cowper Street, so she won’t have that big journey into town.’

The salon was getting busier. Women were coming from further and further afield, and Alice was often booked solid for weeks ahead. As well as taking on an assistant, she had felt obliged to have a telephone installed.

She placed a net over Mrs White’s curlers, tucking two large cotton wool pads inside to cover her ears, sat her under the dryer, then went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, leaving Fion in charge. Though not for long — there was a trim arriving any minute, followed by a tint, and Mrs Nutting would shortly need combing out.

It was a lovely, hot August day. The schools had broken up a fortnight ago – Cormac had gone to Seaforth sands with his mates and stern instruction only to paddle, not swim. Alice took her tea into the backyard to drink, glad to escape from the salon for a few minutes and not just because it was so warm in there.

The trouble with Bootle, which she loved with all her heart, was that everybody knew everybody else’s business. She was sick to the teeth with women making remarks about Orla, who’d only been married five months, but was already as big as a house. The baby was due at the end of next month and she wondered, grimly, what people would have to say
then
.

It was annoying that Mrs White had taken some of the sheen off Cormac’s achievement – she must go round and tell Orla as soon as the salon closed. It might cheer her up a bit.

Only might! Alice sighed. Orla was behaving as if the world had ended, giving poor Micky a terrible time. His mam, whose patience seemed inexhaustible, was full of sympathy.

‘I was out of sorts when I was having a couple of mine. She’ll be all right by the time the baby comes.’

Somehow Alice doubted it. Being confined to the Lavins’ cramped, noisy parlour with a baby to look after was likely to make Orla even worse. What was it that film star, Jimmy Durante always said? ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet!’

If only she could afford to rent them a little house! Hopefully, once Doreen Morrison started, the profits would go up and she’d ask Horace Flynn if he had a place going.

There were all sorts of ‘if onlys’. If only John earned a bit more from the business. Instead, he gave her less housekeeping than when he’d been working as a turner. He was always vague when he handed over the money, muttering about needing new tools, more stock, increasing overheads. If it hadn’t been for the hairdresser’s, Alice wouldn’t have been able to manage. She would, though, insist John contribute towards the cost of
Cormac’s uniform and all the other stuff required – she remembered there was a tennis racquet on the list.

‘When will I see Dad so I can tell him?’ Cormac had asked that morning when the letter came.

Alice pursed her lips, angry that John was never there when something nice happened – or something bad, like that business with Orla, with whom he had cut off contact altogether. ‘I dunno, luv. Not till Sat’day, probably.’ It mightn’t even be then. They seemed to be seeing less and less of him, even at weekends. ‘I’ll wait up late and give him the news,’ she promised.

‘Can I come down if I’m still awake?’

‘Of course, luv.’

There was yet another ‘if only’. If only she hadn’t been so stupid as to sign away a third of the business to Cora! It was galling to think that the money her sister-in-law took every week would have been enough to pay the rent on three, or even four, small houses.

‘Mam!’ Fion yelled. ‘Geraldine O’Brien’s here for her trim.’

‘Coming, luv.’

Maurice Lacey had had nothing to eat or drink all day, having been confined to his room ever since the letter had come to say he’d failed the scholarship. Now he reckoned it was nearly teatime, and he was starving hungry and aching for a drink.

‘You’re bloody thick, you are,’ Mam had screeched. ‘Get up to your room, I’ll punish you later. I daren’t do it now, else I might kill you I’m so bloody mad. I thought you’d be dead clever like your dad.’

This was a very strange remark, as Mam usually claimed his dad was as thick as two short planks. He wondered if Cormac had passed and would like to bet he
had. He’d also like to bet that Auntie Alice wouldn’t have made a huge big scene if Cormac had failed. He felt envious of Cormac, having Auntie Alice for a mam. She didn’t hug him and squeeze him and kiss him, the way his own mam did, but nor did she hit him either — there was no sign of a cane in Amber Street.

For the first time in his eleven years, Maurice was struck with the thought that life wasn’t fair. There’d been nearly forty children in his class, but only a few had been expected to pass the scholarship. Were all those others who’d failed shut in a dark bedroom with the threat of the cane hanging over their heads? They were more likely playing football in the street or in the park, or had gone to the shore, like Cormac. Why was he always treated differently from everyone else?

‘It’s not fair!’ A ball of misery rose in his parched throat, where it stuck and he couldn’t swallow. He badly wanted to cry because he felt so unhappy.

The front door slammed, indicating his mam had gone out. Maurice tried his own door, but it was locked from the outside. He glanced out of the window, where the sun was shining brightly enough to split the flags, and felt a longing for fresh air, the company of his mates from school. He was rarely allowed out on his own.

In a garden behind he could hear the sound of children playing and through the trees he spied a swing. They actually had a swing of their own!

His heart in his mouth, he slid open the window, climbed out on to the kitchen roof, then shinned down the drainpipe to the ground.

He was free! There’d be hell to pay when Mam got back and found him gone, but right now Maurice didn’t care. He’d always done his best to be good. He was never naughty, never got into trouble, never answered
back. He’d tried with all his might to pass the scholarship. It wasn’t his fault that the questions were too hard. Anyroad, his brain had gone numb. He couldn’t think.

Without any idea where he was going, Maurice began to run. If he went to North Park he’d be sure to find someone to play with. Instead, some ten minutes later, he found himself outside Auntie Alice’s hairdresser’s. He wanted to see her pretty, kind face light up in surprise when he went in. She was fond of him, he could tell. He’d only been in the hairdresser’s a few times, but he liked it very much. It was a cheerful place and everybody there seemed happy.

He opened the door and a bell chimed. His cousin, Fion, was brushing the floor and another lady was washing another lady’s hair. There was no sign of his aunt.

‘Hello, luv,’ Fion exclaimed. ‘Is your mam with you?’

Maurice shook his head. He liked Fion, who was inclined to make a fuss of him, but it was her mam he wanted.

‘You look hot. Would you like a glass of cherryade?’ Fion enquired. ‘We’ve got some in the kitchen.’

‘Yes,
please
!’

‘I’ll get it you in a minute, as soon as I’ve finished this floor. Me mam’s in the yard, having a quick breather. It’s been like a Turkish bath in here today. Fortunately, we’ll be closing soon. Why don’t you go and say hello.’

Maurice trotted down the salon, through the kitchen and into the yard, where Auntie Alice was sitting on a chair. Her face was a bit sad, he thought, but brightened considerably when she saw him.

‘Hello, Maurice, luv.’ She beamed. ‘Are you out on your own? That makes a change.’

He had no idea what came over him, because all of a sudden he’d thrown himself at his aunt and she’d dragged
him on to her knee, and he was sobbing his heart out, and she was stroking his face and saying, ‘There, there, luv. Tell your Auntie Alice what’s wrong.’

‘I’ve failed the scholarship,’ he bawled. ‘Me mam shut me in me room and tonight she’s going to kill me.’

‘Oh, she is, is she!’ his aunt said in an ominous voice.

‘I didn’t mean to fail. I tried dead hard, honest.’

‘I’m sure you did, luv. The best anyone can do is try.’

‘I’m dead stupid.’ He sobbed.

‘If everyone who failed the scholarship was stupid, then the world would grind to a halt,’ his aunt said wisely. ‘None of our girls passed, nor did I, nor your Uncle John. Neither did your mam, come to that. Anyroad, you’re good at other things – footy, for instance. You’re a much better player than our Cormac.’

‘I suppose so,’ Maurice conceded with a hiccup.

‘And you’re dead handsome.’ She ran her fingers through his dark curls. ‘I bet you’ll break lots of hearts when you grow up, by which time you’ll find yourself good at all sorts of things. Me, now, I used to think I was as daft as a brush, until I discovered I was good at doing women’s hair.’ She hugged him very tight. ‘Now, don’t you ever call yourself stupid again, do you hear?’

The bell went on the door and his aunt said, ‘That’s probably me final customer. All she wants is a trim. You can keep me company in the salon for a while, then I’ll take you home.’

He pressed himself against her. ‘I don’t want to go home!’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to, luv, otherwise your mam will call out the bobbies and I’ll be charged with kidnapping.’

‘I’m hungry, Auntie.’

‘In that case I’ll give you your tea,
then
I’ll take you home.’

It’s not right, Cora,’ Alice said. ‘To deprive an eleven-year-old of food and drink all day just because he didn’t pass a silly exam . . . well, it’s just not right.’

‘It’s none of your business,’ Cora argued hotly. ‘How I treat me son is nobody’s affair but me own.’

‘It
is
my affair when I become involved,’ Alice replied just as hotly. ‘The poor little lad was forced to come to mine for summat to eat. He drank a whole bottle of cherryade and I don’t know how many glasses of water. His throat must have been as dry as a bone.’

Cora cast around for something to say in excuse, but could think of nothing. She’d thought about Maurice with mixed feelings while she’d been out at the shops. She was slightly uneasy that he hadn’t been fed all day, but at the same time her blood was boiling because he’d let her down and failed the scholarship. If Cormac had passed, which seemed likely, it meant Alice Lacey had got one up on her again. She’d give Maurice a good thrashing when she got home, teach him a lesson. A little thrill ran through her when she thought about afterwards, after she had forgiven him. He would fling his arms around her neck, tell her how much he loved her and she would hold him close, so very, very close. Then they’d have a lovely tea.

She went into the greengrocer’s and bought a pound of new potatoes and a pound of peas, then to Costigan’s for four slices of boiled ham, but remembered she had a husband and increased the order to six. Finally she bought a large cream cake in Blackledge’s, Maurice’s favourite, with raspberry jam as well as cream.

She was at home, putting the things away, unaware that Maurice wasn’t in his room, when there was a knock on the door and Alice Lacey was outside, looking very cross indeed and holding a sulky Maurice by the hand. Cora had always thought her sister-in-law
wouldn’t say boo to a goose and hadn’t realised she had such a temper.

She stood in the parlour, angrily waving her arms. ‘It’s not right,’ she kept saying. ‘In fact, it’s cruel.’

It was a good half-hour before a strangely inarticulate Cora got rid of her. She slammed the door and stood with her back against it, breathing deeply. With each breath her own anger mounted – anger that it was no use directing against Alice. Anyroad, it was Maurice who was the cause of her shame.

She advanced on the living room, where he’d been sent out of earshot of the shouting women, and found him standing by the window. Children were playing in the house behind and their cries carried sharply on the calm evening air, emphasising the stillness and quietness of their own house.

‘Don’t you dare go round that bloody hairdresser’s again,’ Cora said in a grating voice. ‘And if I shut you in your room, you bloody stay there. Do you hear me, lad?’

‘Yes,’ Maurice said distantly.

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, Mam.’

‘You made a right show of me today, going to see Alice, telling her you were hungry. What the hell must she think of me?’

Maurice shrugged. ‘Don’t know, Mam.’

She had never known him appear so indifferent to her words and it only made her more angry still. Her head throbbed and she felt dizzy with rage. Hadn’t he realised what he’d
done?
Didn’t he understand she had to feel better than everyone else? She
had
to. As a child, dirty and unkempt, always hungry, the continual butt of her two elderly aunts’ brutality, she had vowed to herself that one day she would
be
someone. She’d hardly ever gone to school, though hadn’t minded, because the other kids
made fun of her ragged clothes and lack of shoes, the nits in her hair and the fact that she smelt and was useless at every single lesson.

‘It won’t always be like this,’ she used to tell herself as she lay down to sleep in the bedroom that was bare of everything except a mattress and a few flea-ridden blankets. ‘When I grow up I’ll live in a palace.’