Laceys of Liverpool (23 page)

And now Maurice was going the same way. He’d become a labourer, just like Billy, though she hoped, unlike Billy, he’d learn a trade: bricklaying, plastering, something. Now he was earning money of his own and she hardly saw him. Even at weekends he went to the football with his mates and didn’t reappear till all hours. Sundays he did the same disappearing act after a late Mass. She suspected he haunted pubs – well, he’d been shown a good example by Billy. Only sixteen, he could have passed for twenty.

There were times when she could have cried at the way things had turned out, but she’d never been given to crying and wasn’t sure if she knew how.

Feeling restless, Cora edgily circled the room, picking up the occasional ornament that had given her so much pleasure to buy, but gave no pleasure now. What point was there in the place looking nice when she was the
only one who saw it? Whom was she impressing with the house in Garibaldi Road, so much superior to the one in O’Connell Street? No one except herself.

There should be people to show it off to – friends, relatives, but Cora had never had a friend and she’d seen off her only relatives, the Laceys, years ago. Maeve Lacey was twenty-one today and getting engaged at the same time. Perhaps that was where Maurice was, at the party. He continued to be friendly with Alice and her kids, despite his mam’s coldly expressed disapproval.

She’d heard about the party on the grapevine. Cora shopped in Marsh Lane and found it a simple matter to keep up to date with the Laceys’ affairs. She knew Alice was taking over Gloria’s and that Cormac had done so well in his exams that he was likely to go to university.

The key turned in the front door and Maurice came stumbling into the hall. ‘Where have you been?’ Cora demanded. He looked drunk, she thought.

‘A party, Mam. Had a smashing time.’

‘Was it Maeve Lacey’s?’

‘Yeh. I’m going to save up for a gramophone, buy some records. Fion had records and they were really the gear. Elvis Presley.’

‘I’ll buy you a gramophone,’ she said. It would be painful, drawing the money out of the bank, but she was often driven to buying him things in the hope of winning him back, though nothing so far as expensive as a gramophone.

She was pleased when his face brightened in gratitude, but would have appreciated a kiss. ‘Ta, Mam,’ he said. ‘I’m off to bed. I’ll sleep in tomorrer, go to midday Mass.’

‘I’ll bring you up a cup of tea around half-eleven,’ Cora promised. She watched him go up the stairs two at
a time. He was every bit as good-looking as his dad, but was turning out to be a bitter disappointment. But how was she to have known that?

It was time she went to bed herself, except she hardly slept. Her mind never felt rested, never at ease. It used to be full of plots and plans for the future, but now it was more concentrated on the resentments of the present and the past.

It would have been nice to have gone to the Laceys’ party. Much better than being at home by herself, with no one to talk to and the house like a tomb. Orla was likely to drop her baby soon and there’d be another big do for the christening. Cora wouldn’t have minded going, buying a new frock, even getting her hair set.

Well, she knew what had to be done if she was to get back in with the Laceys. She’d have to tear up that agreement, rip it in two in front of Alice’s eyes and give her the bits. After all, the investment, if you could call it that, had been returned a thousand times. It might even result in a resumption of relations with Horace Flynn-these days he only came round to Garibaldi Road to collect the rent.

She’d do it Monday, call in the haidresser’s when she went to Marsh Lane shops. She might even buy a present for Orla’s baby so they’d feel obliged to ask her to the christening.

Her mind wasn’t at its normal feverish pitch when she went to bed and she fell asleep with unusual speed. During the night she was woken by the familiar creak of the third-to-top stair. Either Billy or Maurice was going to the lavvy. But the lavvy was on this floor and there was no need to go downstairs. The creaking sound must have come from the landing, though she could have sworn it was the stairs.

‘I think,’ Alice announced, ‘I’ll nip round the salon and practise a bit with them new mesh rollers.’

‘Why don’t you practise at home?’ enquired Fion.

‘Because the rollers are at the salon. They only arrived yesterday.’ Alice wished she’d thought of another excuse. On reflection, this one seemed rather weak.

‘Can I come with you?’ Fion said eagerly. ‘I quite fancy a bouffant hairdo. They’re all the rage in London.’

Alice tried to think of a reason for saying no, but couldn’t. It was Sunday afternoon and, as usual, Fion was the only one in the house besides herself. Apart from two cigarette burns on the parlour carpet, the house was pristine after Maeve’s party the night before.

She was about to say, ‘All right, luv,’ because it would have been cruel to say anything else, when Maurice Lacey came in the back way, apparently to see Fion for some odd reason, and she was able to escape.

Alice always felt as if she was entering a different world from the one she knew when she went into Neil’s flat. Wedding lines had given her and John permission from the Lord to make love, but lying in Myrtle Rimmer’s old bed with Neil made Alice feel another person altogether, as if she’d removed her cloak of conventionality and left it outside Neil’s door.

There was something faintly indecent, yet at the same time totally delicious, about letting Neil’s tongue flutter against her nipples, his hands caress her body, every single part of it. Sometimes the sensations were so intense, so amazing, that she cried out, which Neil said later when she expressed embarrassment was perfectly all right and women did it all the time.

On the Sunday after Maeve’s party Alice unlocked the salon door and went inside.

‘Is that you?’ Neil called.

‘No, it’s me.’ Alice laughed and ran upstairs.

She couldn’t find it anywhere. In the end, Cora removed every single piece of paper from the bureau and went through them one by one, but there was no sign of the agreement Alice Lacey had signed ten years before.

Could she have put it somewhere else? No, Cora decided. The bureau in the parlour was where she kept all the paperwork – the electricity and gas bills, receipts for this and that, Maurice’s vaccination card, birth certificates. Everything.

It
had
to be here somewhere. She went through the papers again, emptying envelopes in case it had been mistakenly put inside. She was frantic by the time she’d finished and it still hadn’t come to light. Perhaps it had been thrown away. Every now and then she sorted out the papers, threw away the old bills, but she surely wouldn’t have been so daft as to throw away that agreement, even accidentally.

Mind you, finding the paper wasn’t important. All she had to do was
tell
Alice she’d torn it up, that she wouldn’t be asking for her share no more – and she’d be accepted back into the Lacey clan. Today was the day she called for her cut, but today she’d tell them they could keep it, though in a nicer way than that.

Cora fetched her shopping bag from the kitchen, put on her camel coat and zip-up boots, tied a headscarf round her pale, greying hair and set off for Marsh Lane.

She did her shopping first. Outside a shop that sold baby clothes she paused and examined the window display. A matinée coat would be nice for Orla’s baby, white or lemon so it would do for a boy or a girl, booties to match. She’d get them tomorrow and ask for them to be wrapped in tissue paper before they were put in the bag.

There was a funny sensation in her belly when she turned into Opal Street. She’d made a mint out of that
agreement, but it had caused a lot of bad blood and she wasn’t sure if it had been worth it. Alice Lacey might be out of pocket, but
she
was the one who’d suffered most.

The bell tinkled when she opened the door. The salon was getting smarter with the years. There were tiles on the floor that looked like polished wood and three gleaming black dryers with leather chairs underneath. The colour scheme had been changed from mauve to orange, though Alice referred to it as ‘apricot’. Just inside the door an elegant white desk housed a telephone and the appointment book. The old sinks had been replaced with shallow cream basins on which fat, stubby taps sparkled beneath the neon strip lights.

Although it was Monday morning, the place was already busy. The dryers were all occupied and two of the sinks. That Patsy woman, whom Cora had never been able to take to, was collecting dirty cups.

Alice looked up at the sound of the bell. Her eyes went cold when she saw Cora. ‘The envelope’s in the left-hand desk drawer as usual,’ she said shortly.

‘I’d like to talk to you,’ Cora said eagerly.

‘I’m busy right now, as you can see.’

‘I’ll talk to her.’ Fion abandoned the tint she was applying and made for the kitchen.

Cora followed. It wasn’t quite what she’d planned, but she couldn’t very well say what she’d come to say in front of a crowded salon. And Fion would do just as well as Alice to be told the agreement no longer stood, perhaps better. She quite looked forward to seeing the girl’s face collapse when she heard the news.

A kettle simmered in the kitchen. Cora coughed importantly, ‘I’ve come . . .’ she began, but Fion interrupted.

‘I know quite well why you’ve come. Aunt Cora, to collect the money you’ve been doing me mam out of for
years.’ Fion glared at her aunt. ‘You’re not getting another penny off Lacey’s and I’ll tell you why.’ She smiled unpleasantly. ‘No, I won’t tell you, I’ll
show
you.’ She produced a yellowing sheet of paper from the pocket of her overall and waved it in front of Cora’s eyes. ‘Recognise it? It’s the agreement me mam was daft enough to sign. Now just watch, Aunt Cora.’ The girl was clearly enjoying herself. She thrust the paper in the flames spurting from beneath the kettle and it immediately caught alight.

Cora watched numbly as the burning paper was thrown into the sink where it quickly became a few charred scraps. Fion turned on the tap and the scraps disappeared down the drain.

‘There!’ she said with a loud, satisfied sigh.

‘Where did you get it from?’ Cora whispered.

‘I’ll leave you to work that out for yourself.’

‘Maurice! Maurice gave it you.’ She remembered the footsteps on the stairs on Saturday night. Fion must have asked him to get it at the party, to
steal
it, actually to steal it from his own mam. Cora felt sick to her stomach. ‘Can I use the lavvy?’

‘You know where it is.’

‘Fion,’ Alice called. ‘What are you doing? Mrs Finnegan’s only had half her tint.’

‘Coming, Mam.’ Fion smiled slyly at Cora. ‘Mam’s going to be dead pleased, I’ll bet.’

‘Yes.’ Cora scarcely heard. Everything had been turned upside down. Maurice had betrayed her. Her son’s loyalty lay, not with her, but with Alice and her family. No one wanted her: not her husband, not her son. No one.

He was beautiful, but then all her babies had been
beautiful. Orla looked proudly down at Paul, her new son.

‘He’s a fine little chap,’ Micky said, equally proud. ‘Can I hold him for a bit?’

Orla carefully put the baby in his arms. ‘I suppose your mam’s spoiling the other three something rotten.’

‘Well . . .’ Micky grinned. ‘Not quite as much as me dad. They’re being stuffed with sweets that came from you know where.’

‘I know exactly where. The lorry some Lavin or other always seems to be at the back of.’

‘Your mam’s having them all day tomorrow. She said the salon’s overstaffed at the moment, so she can take time off. We’re very lucky with our families, Orl.’

‘I know,’ Orla said soberly. ‘We’re dead lucky with the kids, too. Some woman had a baby just before me and it died within an hour.’

‘Are we dead lucky with each other, though?’ Micky glanced at her from beneath his long black lashes.

Orla hadn’t thought it possible to blush in front of a man by whom you’d borne four children, but blush she did. ‘I reckon so, Micky,’ she said in a subdued voice. ‘I reckon we’re lucky all round in every possible way.’

Their lips met over the new baby and Orla felt the inevitable swirl of desire. She realised that, even if she wore an iron chastity belt, Micky would only have to sneeze and she’d get pregnant.