Laceys of Liverpool (51 page)

Lulu came home from New York for a week to see her mother. Gareth’s paintings were selling like hot cakes, she announced, and they were buying an apartment in Greenwich Village. She also announced that she was expecting a baby late in October. ‘You’ll be at the
christening, won’t you, Mum?’ She squeezed her mother’s wrist, as if daring her to say no.

‘In New York, luv?’

‘It costs the earth to have a baby in America. I’ll have it here, in Liverpool.’

‘Then I’ll be at the christening, luv. I promise.’

The house was besieged by visitors: family, friends, neighbours. Orla had passed the point of thinking she would get better, that there was hope. It made things easier for the visitors, not having to pretend. She imagined being the star of a terribly moving drama that would make a fantastic film – Vanessa Redgrave would be marvellous in her part.

Once she had got over the trauma of the operation, she felt well enough to go out, though she tired easily. She bought a stiff padded bra and filled it with cotton wool, so no one would guess she had no breasts when she went with Micky to the pictures and to the theatre when a couple of tickets managed to flutter off a lorry. After two visits to the hospital for radiotherapy, she decided not to go again. It made her feel washed out and she knew it was a waste of time.

The actual act of dying Orla tried not to think about. Only in the dead of night, lying in the double bed with Micky asleep beside her and the glimmer of the street lamps peeping through the gap in the curtains, would she let herself visualise closing her eyes for the very last time on the people she loved most dearly. She would never see them again. She would be gone from their lives for ever. They would miss her, grieve for her, but after a while they would have no alternative but to get on with their own lives and it would be as if she had never existed.

Sometimes she would start to cry, waking up Micky, who would take her in his arms and she would sob that
she didn’t want to die, to leave him and the children. But what could Micky say except, ‘Shush, luv. There, there, sweetheart, don’t cry.’ He never said, ‘Everything’s going to be all right,’ because they both knew it wasn’t.

Micky was a saint for taking her back. When she thought about her moods and tantrums in the past, the bad-tempered scenes that were all her fault, she felt ashamed and embarrassed.

‘I was horrible to you, wasn’t I?’ she said one night when the children had gone to bed and they were sitting on the settee in the parlour having just watched an old Humphrey Bogart film on television.

‘You certainly were,’ he agreed.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said penitently. ‘I decided the other night that you’re a saint for putting up with me for so long.’

He smiled ruefully. ‘I’d sooner have married you, luv, than any other woman on earth. I just wish I’d been able to make you happy.’

‘No one could have made me happy. I wanted too much.’ She linked his arm. ‘But you’re making me happy now, Micky. I feel wonderful, being home. I remember thinking, it was the night in Sheffield, just before I came back, about how much I was missing Pearl Street and me family. I longed so much to be here I felt an ache in me heart.’ The encounter with Louis Bernet she kept to herself. She’d told everyone she’d noticed the lump when she was having a bath. ‘Though I’m worried about the children. It’s not good for them, watching their mother die in front of their eyes. Our Maisie hardly ever goes out these days – I remember I used to nag her for never being in – and Gary’s put off joining the Navy until . . . well, you know. Poor Paul’s forever on the verge of tears. He’s more sensitive than the others. As for
Lulu, I daren’t think what her phone bill will be like. She calls every other day.’

‘We can’t shield them from reality, Orla, luv.’

‘I suppose not.’ She chuckled. ‘I’ll be a grandma, won’t I? If I live long enough. It’s strange, because our Fion, who’s a year older than me, has just announced she’s in the club and Maeve’s only got another six weeks to go. I wish . . .’

‘Wish what, luv?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

Later, in bed, Orla said, ‘I’ve been thinking, Micky.’

‘I thought as much, you’ve been dead quiet.’

‘I’d like a baby too.’

Micky gasped. ‘Don’t talk daft, luv. You can’t guarantee . . . That’s a stupid idea, Orla.’

‘You were going to say I can’t guarantee I’ll be alive in nine months’ time, but I will be, Micky, I swear it. I’ll
keep
meself alive to see Maeve’s and Fion’s babies born, as well as me granddaughter and me own baby.’

‘That would be dead irresponsible,’ Micky said, outraged. ‘Who’d look after it, for one thing?’

‘Everybody,’ Orla said promptly. ‘Mam would and me sisters would, and your mam and dad would. And you would, Micky, as well as our children. It would be the dearest loved baby in the world.’

Orla coaxed and cajoled for the next half-hour, but Micky remained implacable. But still Orla persisted, giving all the positive reasons she could think of for having a baby. ‘It would make me so happy, Micky. I wouldn’t feel as if I was dying if I had a baby growing inside me. It would be like knowing me soul would be passed on to me child.’

‘That’s nonsense, Orla.’

After another half-hour of persuasion, Micky said reluctantly, ‘Let’s see what the doctor has to say.’

‘No. The doctor will advise against it. I know he will.’

‘There!’ Micky said triumphantly, as if this proved his point.

‘The doctor can’t do anything else. If he said “go ahead” and things went wrong, he’d be open to blame.’

‘So, you concede things can go wrong.’

‘Things won’t go wrong, but the doctor can’t be sure of that. He’ll advise against it to protect his back.’

‘You might not conceive.’

‘If I don’t, I don’t. But I’d like to try.’ She began to touch him. ‘Please, Micky,’ she whispered. ‘Anyroad, I’m not the delicate invalid you seem to think, not yet, and I feel like making love.’

‘All right,’ he said in a choked voice, ‘we’ll make love tomorrer – after I’ve bought some French letters. As for a baby, I’d prefer you thought about it for a bit longer than a few hours. We’ll talk about it again next week. Oh, don’t stop, luv. Don’t stop. I’ve been dying for you to do that ever since you came home.’

Bernadette Mitchell looked up in surprise one morning when her best friend came storming through the backyard into kitchen.

‘You’ll never guess what our Orla’s gone and done,’ Alice raged. ‘She’s only got herself pregnant. I’ve never known anything so irresponsible in all me life. If circumstances were different, I’ve have torn her off a strip a mile wide. As it was, I felt obliged to keep me mouth shut.’

‘You’d think Micky would have been more careful,’ Bernadette gasped, equally shocked.

‘Orla wouldn’t have let herself get in the club if she hadn’t have wanted to – she learnt birth control the hard way, didn’t she? She could always wrap poor Micky twice around her little finger. I’d like to bet it’s all her idea.’

‘It’s a funny idea to have, Ally.’

‘Well, you know Orla. She always has to be different.
She
can’t just die like ordinary people.’ Alice clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Jaysus, Bernie, that was a terrible thing to say. It’s just that I’m so upset. And you know what she said, our Orla? “It will be like being born and dying at the same time, Mam.” Oh!’ Alice burst into tears. ‘It’s so sad, I could cry for the rest of me life.’

‘What does the doctor at the hospital have to say?’

‘She hasn’t told him yet. I reckon he’ll have a blue fit.’

‘They might make her get rid of it.’

‘Over my dead body, they will. It’s a daft thing Orla’s done, but it’s done, and that’s all there is to it. There’s no going back. Is that kettle on for tea, Bernie? If I don’t have a cuppa soon, I’ll faint. Kids!’ Alice sniffed and dried her eyes. ‘They worry you sick when they’re little and you think it’ll stop when they grow up, except it gets worse. There’s something dead funny going on between our Maeve and Martin, and Cormac’s been moping around like a lovesick rabbit ever since that Andrea girl went back to London. Then there’s Orla . . . I sometimes wish I’d never had children, I really do.’

‘No, you don’t, Ally. We women would be lost without our kids. Here’s your tea. Let’s take it into the other room. Shouldn’t you be at the salon?’

‘No, I should be at me new house in Birkdale measuring for curtains. I’m signing the final contract on Friday.’ Alice sighed. ‘Oh, Bernie. I hate signing things. Remember that bloody agreement Cora had me sign? Ever since, when I’ve signed anything I’ve been worried what I’m letting meself in for.’

‘I wish it were me signing for a lovely bungalow overlooking Birkdale golf course,’ Bernadette said wistfully.

‘I wish it were you too. I’m dreading it, me. Anyroad, only toffs play golf. I’d sooner look out over Anfield football ground or Goodison Park.’ Orla’s news had put her in a bad mood and she was exaggerating. The bungalow was beautiful, with large, luscious gardens front and back, a lounge big enough to hold a dance in, two bedrooms and a dream kitchen. Alice had gasped in admiration when she saw the cream fitted units, matching tiled walls, the plum-coloured floor. There was a pine table almost as big as her present kitchen. The fridge, cooker and automatic washing machine were
being left by the vendors, an elderly couple off to live in Spain.

Mind you, she still felt as if she had been badgered into moving by the children. It didn’t help, either, when she casually mentioned to Billy Lacey she was only
thinking
of moving and he’d leapt on the idea of taking over her old house. In a weak moment she’d agreed it would be a good idea, though she felt certain Cora wouldn’t. Unfortunately, Cora had, and both her and Billy had been in and out of the place like yo-yos ever since wanting to know what she was leaving behind. She wouldn’t need a van to move. The few things Cora and Billy hadn’t collared would fit in the boot of the car.

‘Have you ever been in love, Vic?’

‘Yes, Cormac. Very deeply in love.’

‘Was it reciprocated?’

Vicky shook her head. ‘No.’

‘The chap must be a fool.’

‘He’s a complete idiot.’

‘You’re a prize, Vic. You’d make some man a wonderful wife.’

‘You’re drunk, Cormac. In your present state you’d make some woman a lousy husband.’

Cormac stared gloomily into his beer. He wasn’t drunk, just mildly inebriated, but Vicky was still fed up with him. They’d come for a drink after work because he claimed he couldn’t bear to be alone and all he’d done, for the umpteenth time, was ask questions about Andrea. Why hadn’t she phoned? Why was she never in when he phoned her?

How was Vicky supposed to know? She was glad the affair had ground to a halt when Andrea had gone back to London – she took it for granted it had been a
proper
affair from the sickening way they mauled each other
when they thought no one was looking. Now there was talk of using Andrea again when they promoted their perfume, Tender, in the spring. After all, Andrea was the face of Lacey’s of Liverpool. It would be daft to have a different face, or so Cormac claimed, sensibly as it happened.

Vicky was dreading it because she knew the affair would start all over again. She had no idea whether Andrea was as smitten with Cormac as he was with her, but she was the sort of girl who probably liked having a man dancing constantly in attendance. No doubt she’d been thrilled to bits to find a good-looking single male available when she’d come to Liverpool for the press campaign.

‘Do you think I should go down to London and look for her?’ Cormac asked.

‘Whatever you like, Cormac. I can’t possibly pass an opinion.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s none of my business, is it? You must do what you think is best.’

‘You’re a lot of help, I must say. I haven’t a clue what’s best.’

Vicky scowled and quickly changed it to a smile – she looked plain at the best of times. She’d look hideous if she scowled. ‘If I were in your position, I’d go to London.’

‘There!’ Cormac looked delighted. ‘I knew you’d come up with an answer. I’ll go tomorrow after we’ve seen that rep about the boxes.’ They were contemplating selling their products in sets, covered with cellophane in pretty cardboard boxes.

‘Glad to be of help,’ Vicky said and immediately regretted sounding so sour.

He turned up next morning in his only suit to go to
see Andrea: light-grey flannel with a blue shirt and navy tie. At midday, after they’d placed an order for boxes and the rep had gone, they went together out to his car.

‘Will you be able to manage on your own?’ he asked cheerfully and Vicky wondered if he’d give up the idea of Andrea and London if she said she couldn’t.

She preferred not to find out. Anyway, she’d been left by herself loads of times before. ‘I won’t be on my own, will I?’ Since Christmas, Lacey’s of Liverpool had taken on four more staff. There was a secretary, to type the letters and answer the phone, in an elegant reception office by the door; a young man for the newly formed packaging department; two women for the large room now referred to as the workshop. ‘I thought I might go and see your Orla tonight, take her some samples of Tender.’

He kissed her chastely on the forehead. ‘Give her my love if you do.’

‘I will, Cormac. Have a nice time.’

She watched him leave with tears in her eyes. In a few hours’ time he might well be holding Andrea in his arms. Tonight, they would go to bed together. It hurt so much, just thinking about it, that she got a pain in her chest and wondered if her heart was breaking into a million little pieces.

While Cormac was driving down to London, his sister, Orla, was being examined by an astounded doctor who had just been informed that she was pregnant. Across the room a nurse glared at her, shocked and angry.

‘An accident, I assume,’ the doctor said coldly. ‘You should have been more careful in your condition. I’ll arrange for a termination straight away.’

‘It wasn’t an accident,’ Orla said cheerfully. ‘It was
deliberate. And I don’t want a termination, I want the baby, if that’s all right with you.’