Laceys of Liverpool (45 page)

‘Sorry, Orl. Anyroad, you always look nice, whatever you wear.’

‘Oh, yeah! That was a typical man talking.’

She would start on Monday and was already looking forward to it. Tonight she’d tell Micky, not that he’d be interested. It might prove difficult when she went far enough away to have to stay overnight, but she’d cross
that bridge when she came to it. She finished the tea and went to check the pathetic contents of her wardrobe in case anything needed washing. On her way downstairs with a denim skirt and two white blouses she heard the backyard door open and footsteps in the yard. Micky must have come home, which didn’t surprise her, as his cold was really bad.

To her horror, when she entered the living room by one door, Vernon Matthews was coming in by the other. He must have waited for Micky and the children to leave. He looked overdressed for the warmness of the day, in a dark suit, collar and tie, black, highly polished shoes.

‘Thought I’d give you a surprise.’ He smirked.

‘Get out of this house immediately!’ She could hardly control her rage, which was mixed with panic and a feeling of fear. There was no one in the houses on either side.

She might as well not have spoken. ‘I thought we could have a little chat.’ He sat in Micky’s chair under the window and, although he must have known he was less than welcome, he had the air of a man who felt entirely at home in the strange surroundings. Orla, disorientated and confused, could almost believe he belonged there.

‘I don’t want to talk to you –
ever
!’ But she had already learnt it was a waste of time trying to reason with him. He didn’t listen, or he didn’t want to know, or perhaps it was just another way of tormenting her, taking not a blind bit of notice of what she said.

‘Oh, come on, Orla. We had a lovely talk that first time, didn’t we? Followed by an experience I shall never forget. I’d very much like to do it again, in fact. Now seems an appropriate time, when there’s no one around.’

Orla leant limply against the sideboard, wondering
what to do. If she ran down the hall and out of the front door, she could scream for help. Or she could dial 999 and ask for the police. Except what would she tell people: the police, whoever came to help if she screamed?

He was watching her through lowered lids, still smirking, as if he recognised her predicament. ‘Have you met this man before?’ was the first question she’d be asked and it would all come out, the details of the afternoon they’d spent together in the pub in Rainford. Even if she tried to deny it, how could she explain how he knew where she lived? She had no idea what would happen then, whether he would be arrested, charged. Birds’ wings of panic fluttered in her chest.

‘Oh, come on, Orla. What harm would it do?’

He was actually getting up, coming towards her, smiling. Orla seized a large statue of Our Lady off the sideboard, ready to strike if he so much as touched her.

‘Let’s go upstairs. Just for a little minute, eh?’

‘I’ll swing for you first.’ She raised the statue but he easily caught her wrist in his hand. The statue dropped to the floor but didn’t break. The birds’ wings were beating madly now, painfully. He slid his other arm around her waist and tried to pull her against him, groaning. ‘I’ve been waiting too long for this.’

Orla tried to raise her knee and thrust it in his stomach, but her legs, her body, were trapped by his weight against the sideboard. She spat in his face instead.

‘
What’s going on here?
’

Micky! Feverishly red, face glistening with perspiration, eyes black with anger and tinged with incomprehension. He must have felt too ill for work after all.

‘Just trying to renew my acquaintanceship with your wife,’ Vernon said lightly.

‘Out!’ Micky seized his collar, flung him through the
kitchen, into the yard, into the entry that ran along the back, as if Vernon had only the strength and weight of a small child. Orla had never dreamt her husband was so strong, though she realised it was a strength born of uncontrollable rage.

Micky slammed the yard door and slid the bolt. He returned inside and Orla shrank back in the face of his anger. ‘How long’s he been coming round?’

‘He’s never been before, Micky, honest,’ she stammered, more terrified of him than she’d been of Vernon. Micky looked as if he could easily kill her. ‘He came when I was upstairs, just walked in.’

‘Then what was that about renewing his acquaintanceship with me wife?’ Micky snarled.

‘I met him once, more than a year ago. He’s been pestering me ever since.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Because . . . because . . . oh, I don’t know, Micky.’ She had no idea about anything any more.

‘You slept with him, didn’t you?’ His eyes had narrowed to slits.

She hadn’t the strength to deny it. She nodded.

All Micky’s rage subsided in a slow hiss of breath. He sank into the chair Vernon had recently vacated and buried his face in his hands. ‘I used to love you once, Orla,’ he whispered.

‘I
still
love you, Micky.’ She had never felt such total love as she did now, staring at him, hunched in the chair in his shabby working clothes. He had started to shiver. In a minute she’d make tea, get him aspirin, put him to bed. She wouldn’t take the job Cormac had offered. And she’d give up reporting, find an ordinary job in an office not far away. The car could be sold. She’d never feel fed up or bored again. Somehow, in some way, she would talk Micky round into them starting again. She had been
sorry about Dominic Reilly, but at the same time was too annoyed with Micky to care that they hardly ever spoke, never made love. This time she would work on him,
make
him love her again. She felt a surge of excitement at the idea of them recovering the feelings they’d had for each other when they were teenagers, when they’d first moved to Pearl Street.

‘I’ll just pack a bag,’ Micky said, easing himself out of the chair.

‘Why?’ she asked, bewildered.

‘I’m leaving, that’s why. Surely you don’t expect me to stay after what happened today?’

‘But I love you, Micky!’

He looked almost amused. ‘You have a funny way of showing it, Orla.’

‘I’ve been a terrible wife, Micky. But I learnt me lesson today.’ She took hold of his hands. ‘Let’s start again. Remember what it used to be like? Remember the first time in the entry behind our house in Amber Street?’

He removed his hands from hers, none too gently. ‘I remember. You made me life hell and you’ve been making me life hell ever since. You always thought yourself too good for me, didn’t you?’ He looked at her thoughtfully, head on one side. ‘Perhaps you were, still are. All I know is, luv, that I’ve had enough of you. I was going to hang on till the children were a bit older, till Paul reached eighteen. Under the circumstances I’ll be off today. We’ll sort out the divorce later.’

Orla felt herself go cold. ‘You mean there’s someone else?’

‘There’s been someone else for two years.’ He smiled gently. ‘If you hadn’t been so wrapped in yourself you might have noticed.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Just an ordinary woman without your airs and graces who makes me feel good about meself for a change.’

Orla’s voice rose. ‘Who is she, Micky?’

‘I hope you’re not going to lose your temper, luv.’ Micky’s voice was mild. ‘It doesn’t sit well, considering what’s just happened. If you must know, it’s Caitlin Reilly from Garnet Street who used to live across the road. Her husband was killed in an accident on the docks when they’d hardly been married a year. She’s got a lad the same age as our Paul.’

‘She was in our Maeve’s class at school. She used to come round to our house sometimes. Her married name is Mahon.’ Caitlin was a pretty, round woman, the image of Sheila, her mother. ‘You’ve got a nerve, Micky Lavin,’ Orla said hotly, ‘going on about what happened today when you’ve been having an affair for two whole years.’

‘We’ve both done wrong, Orla, though don’t forget you were the first. I was bloody mad earlier, I admit it, but what man wouldn’t be if he came home and found a strange bloke trying to rape his wife?’

Wordlessly, Orla went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Over the years, despite the contempt she felt for Micky, the impatience, deep inside she still loved him. The fact that he no longer loved her shook her to the core. There had always been an unshaken conviction in her heart that, no matter what she did, no matter how much she riled or offended him, Micky would remain steadfastly loyal through thick and thin. She considered pleading with him to stay, coaxing him to bed so that she could show him how much she cared.

But common sense prevailed. If Micky stayed, in a few weeks’ time, when she’d got over her fright that morning, she would feel discontented again and start nagging him to do things she knew he never would.

The kettle had boiled. Orla made the tea, found the aspirin and took both into the living room, where Micky was leaning against the mantelpiece, staring into the empty grate.

‘I’d like you to stay,’ she said. When he opened his mouth to argue, she said quickly, ‘I’ll leave instead. Ask Caitlin and her son to come and live here. It’ll set a lot of old tongues wagging, but who cares?’

Micky’s jaw dropped. ‘It’d break the kids’ hearts if you left, luv.’

‘They’d be just as upset to lose you. Anyroad, I won’t be far away. I’ll find somewhere nearby to live – Mam’ll put me up for now.’

‘But what will you do with yourself all on your own?’

‘Our Cormac’s offered me a job. I was going to tell you about it tonight. I’ll do me best to make something of it.’

She would put her heart and soul into the job with Lacey’s of Liverpool, drive all over the country, stay away for as long as she liked, knowing her children would be safe with Caitlin Reilly.

Orla’s spirits soared. She was free to do the sort of things she’d planned on doing twenty years ago before she’d met Micky Lavin.

‘Where are you off to today, luv?’ Alice enquired.

‘Bury, Rochdale, Bolton,’ Orla said briskly. She wore a smart black costume and was thrusting the new leaflets Cormac had brought the night before into a briefcase, checking she had enough samples. ‘I’ll probably be home dead late, Mam, so don’t wait up.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of waiting up, luv, considering the hours you keep. I don’t know how you keep going to be frank.’

‘Enthusiasm keeps me going, Mam: commitment, ambition. The things you felt when you started Lacey’s.’

‘I didn’t feel any of them things, Orla. I just wanted to get out the house away from your dad.’ Alice smiled. ‘I’m glad you’re happy, though. I thought you’d be dead miserable, breaking up with Micky, though you never stopped complaining about the poor lad since the day you married him – and before, if I remember right.’

Orla closed the briefcase with a snap. ‘I miss the kids,’ she said soberly. ‘I miss them coming in for their tea, making cocoa at bedtime. I even miss – only a bit –doing their washing. Still, Lulu’s gone and I think our Maisie’s more serious about this Sammy than she’ll admit. Gary was talking about joining the Navy. Soon, there’ll only be Paul left.’

‘And he’ll have Caitlin’s lad, Calum, for company.’ Alice always made a point of not sounding as shocked as
she felt by all this switching around, as if marriage, relationships, were just a game of musical chairs. Pol had left Cormac for Maurice Lacey, Orla had walked out on Micky and, before you could blink, Caitlin Reilly had moved in and there was talk of divorce. She knew of other respectable women whose children were divorced or living in sin. That policeman, Jerry McKeown, that Fion had taken up with, had been married before, leaving Maeve the only one of Alice’s children who led a conventional married life. At least, so far!

‘Are you off now, luv?’

‘Yes, Mam.’ Orla kissed her. ‘I’ll see you when I see you. D’you realise what time it is? You’ll be late for work.’

‘I’m taking the morning off.’ Alice flushed. ‘I’m having another driving lesson.’

‘Good for you, Mam,’ Orla sang as she slammed the door.

An increasing number of cars were appearing in Amber Street, so Alice didn’t feel too ostentatious buying one herself. It was only a little car, a Citroen Ami, though she was beginning to wonder if she’d ever get the hang of the damn thing.

She was on edge, waiting for the instructor to arrive in his own car, when the telephone rang.

‘Mrs Alice Lacey?’ a male voice enquired.

‘Speaking.’

‘I’m calling regarding a Mrs Cora Lacey. She’s your sister-in-law, so I understand.’

‘That’s right. Is something wrong?’

‘You could say that, Madam. We would be obliged if you would come to Bootle Police Station straight away.’

‘Why?’ Alice asked irritably and immediately regretted it. Cora might have had a bad accident.

‘Because the lady concerned has been apprehended and gave your name as her closest relative.’

‘Apprehended! Why?’

‘That will be explained at the station, Madam.’

Cora was in a cell, hunched in her camel coat as if it were a blanket, her small, sallow face expressionless. She’d been caught shoplifting, according to the desk sergeant, trying to nick two woollen vests from a shop in Strand Road. It was a first offence, so charges wouldn’t be pressed, but Cora had better keep her hands to herself in future, he said warningly, else she’d find herself behind bars.

‘Cora!’ Alice said reproachfully when the women were alone. ‘What on earth possessed you?’

‘Needed vests for the winter, didn’t I?’ Cora shrugged her shoulders churlishly. ‘Me old ones were in shreds. It must be twenty years since I last bought some.’

‘I would have bought you vests, Cora.’

Cora snorted. ‘Oh, you would, would you?’

‘Rather than see you steal them, yes. Look, can we go home? I feel uncomfortable here.’ Alice glanced at the barred window, the hard bench on which prisoners were supposed to sleep. ‘I’ve come in a car, not mine, the driving school’s. The instructor turned up for me lesson just as I was leaving. I’ll just have to forget about this week’s lesson.’ Lord knows what the instructor would think, being asked to take her to the police station – such a nice young man too.