Love Changes Everything (17 page)

Carefully she covered them over again and made sure they were hanging in exactly the same place as when she'd opened the wardrobe. She also made sure that Fred's suits were in place.

For the rest of the day she tried to work out what sort of woman might have owned the dresses and short jackets with their nipped-in waists and eventually she decided that it couldn't have been his wife because she wouldn't be that old, so the clothes must have belonged to his mother.

What she couldn't understand was why he had kept her clothes when there was no sign of a woman's hand anywhere else in the house. If he'd thought so much of her that he couldn't bear to part with her dresses, then why was there no picture of her anywhere in the house, or any ornaments and all the other bits and pieces that most women liked to have on show?

She toyed with the idea of asking him, but if she did that then he'd know she'd been rooting around in his bedroom and she wasn't too sure how he might react. So far, apart from taunting her when she'd begged to be allowed to go and see her mother and Cilla, he'd said very little. Each evening when he came home from work he'd brought in fresh meat and vegetables ready for the next day. He'd told her how she was to cook it all and then had left her to get on with it.

He'd neither praised nor criticised what she put on the table, nor had he asked her how she'd spent her day or if there was anything she needed.

She wasn't exactly miserable because Fred wasn't violent like her father, but she was frustrated by having so little to do. There seemed to be no books in the place and although Fred brought the
Liverpool Evening Echo
home with him each night, he never shared it with her. He sat reading it while he ate his meal and then he took it with him when he moved into his armchair, and he went on looking at it for the rest of the evening.

Sometimes he even stuffed it into his coat pocket last thing at night and took it to work with him the next day before she could have a look at it.

The flat was so bare that there was not very much work entailed in keeping it clean and tidy and Fred never told her of anything that he wanted done. He didn't even make any comment when she cleaned the windows.

The only thing he really seemed to be interested in was what she put on the table for him to eat at night and because he cleared his plate she assumed he'd enjoyed it.

For the greater part of the day after he'd gone off to work and she'd washed up the few dishes they'd used for breakfast, she sat by the window in the front room, staring out, wondering who the people were that passed up and down Cavendish Road. From time to time she'd stand up and even bang on the window to see if she could attract their attention but it never did any good at all. No one ever seemed to look up.

She could see people crossing the road and her heart would still thud hopefully, even though she knew they were only going into one of the shops underneath. She knew there was one on either side of the doorway to the flat and now she watched the people going in and out of them and tried to work out what it was they sold.

She even asked Fred what sort of shops they were but he'd stared at her as if he didn't understand what she was getting at, then grunted and turned back to his newspaper again.

On the Thursday she wondered if Ivy was missing her and whether she'd seen Andrew and if he'd asked why she hadn't made any arrangements to go to the pictures with him. Surely he'd say something to Jake, even if it was only to ask him if he could find out from Ivy if she was still interested in going out with him.

Once Andrew learned that she was missing and found that Ivy had no way of getting in touch with her then surely he'd suggest they ought to do something about it. He was bright and intelligent, so he wouldn't just dismiss it; he'd realise that there was something very strange about her disappearing like she had. He might suggest going around to her home to ask where she was or even that they should tell the police.

She was disappointed that her mother hadn't at least come round to see if she was all right. Even if she knew that it might be impossible to come in they could still have waved to each other and she would have made her understand by making signs at the window that she was being kept a prisoner here. Or she'd have written it down on a piece of paper and held it up to the glass.

The idea that she could write a notice asking for help and stick it on the front window gave her a fresh surge of hope. Surely there was a possibility that someone would look up and see it as they walked down the street.

She began looking for a pencil and some paper to write with and mentally composing her message. She couldn't find either in the kitchen or in any of the drawers. There wasn't even an old copy of the
Liverpool Echo
lying around, or she could have used one of the white areas that often surrounded an advertisement to write on. She went through to the wash-house where there were squares of old newspaper hanging on a nail by the lavvy to see if she could find one with a white space.

When she finally found one that would do she had a fresh problem; she still had nothing to write with, not even a stub of pencil.

She hunted through the kitchen drawers again but there was nothing, not even a piece of chalk in any of them. She went round and round the flat searching to no avail. Then she remembered the bottom drawer of Fred's chest of drawers, where all the brown paper packages were, and wondered if she dared look to see if there was a pen or pencil in there.

This time she lifted the packages out, feeling even more curious to know what was in them because they were quite heavy, but afraid to look. There was nothing at all that she could use to write out her notice.

Determined not to be thwarted, she went back into the living room and stared at the blank walls wondering if there was somewhere she still hadn't looked. The only place left was the very top cupboards in the kitchen but she thought it was highly unlikely that she'd find anything up there.

Now that the idea was in her mind, though, she felt compelled to look and make sure. She couldn't reach the cupboard doors without standing on a chair so she fetched one from the living room because the one in the kitchen was so rickety that she was pretty sure it wouldn't take her weight. If Fred came home from work and found her sprawled on the floor then he'd know she'd been prying.

Climbing up on the chair was easy enough but balancing and prising open the cupboard door was tricky. It wasn't locked but because of the heat and steam in the kitchen the wood had swelled up and it was difficult to pull the door back.

When she did manage to get it open she couldn't believe her eyes. The cupboard was crammed with all manner of vases, ornaments and bits and pieces which, in most homes, would have been out on display. They were piled in there so haphazardly, one on top of the other, that she began to panic in case any of them fell out and got broken so she quickly shut the door again.

This was even more difficult than opening it had been. She was unable to put as much pressure on it as she wanted because the chair she was standing on kept swaying and she was afraid she might fall off it. She was reluctant to slam the door too hard in case she broke something inside.

Her other worry was that Fred would be home any time now so she eventually slammed it shut and started getting his meal ready. If he found her rummaging up there he'd want to know why and if she said she'd been looking for a pencil he was bound not to believe her, it sounded such a feeble excuse.

What was more, he'd want to know what she needed a pencil for and she couldn't think of a reason because he did the shopping so she didn't have to write out a list.

He'd probably think she'd been planning to write a letter to her mother and that would give him something to think about. He'd know that she knew quite well that he wouldn't post it for her so how was she going to send it?

She couldn't sleep that night for thinking about all the things that had been up in the kitchen cupboard. She wondered if they'd all belonged to his mother and, if so, why he had put them away out of sight. Was it because he didn't like them, or because he didn't like having things like that on display?

If she could think of a way of talking to him about them, then perhaps she could persuade him to lift them down and let her see what was there. If she went about it the right way then he might even allow her to put some of the bits and pieces out on display around the place to make it look more cosy.

After all, she told herself resignedly, if she had to stay there for three months then she might as well try and make the place look as nice as possible.

Chapter Fifteen

Maggie Jackson was beside herself with worry. She couldn't eat, sleep or even sit still, knowing that Sam had made Trixie go off somewhere with him. He said it was a new job but from what little he'd told them she didn't like the sound of it. Worst of all, he wouldn't say where it was; only that she wouldn't be coming home again.

Maggie knew there was a man involved and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't help imagining the worst. Even though she told herself repeatedly that Sam wasn't a bad man at heart, and that he would surely never do anything that would put his daughter in danger, she was worried about what might be happening to Trixie.

Added to that, Cilla missed Trixie and was terribly upset and difficult to manage. It was heartbreaking to hear her sobbing and calling out her sister's name over and over again. Several times when she'd tried to cuddle her, Cilla had thrown a tantrum, kicking and struggling and pushing her away. She'd refused to have anything to do with her, screaming out Trixie's name and sobbing and banging her head against the wall in her frustration.

‘Leave the stupid little brat alone,' Sam shouted when she tried to reason with her and explain why Trixie wasn't there. ‘She's too bloody stupid to understand what you're telling her.'

‘Then you try and explain where Trixie is; see if you can do any better,' she'd retorted exasperatedly.

‘Talk to that idiot?' he scoffed. ‘I wouldn't waste my breath. It's high time she was in a home or the madhouse.'

His constant rejection of Cilla upset Maggie and frightened her. She made sure that the child was never out of her sight when he was around because she had a sneaking suspicion that he would take her to one of those places if he ever got the chance and tell them that she was unmanageable and needed proper care.

She'd never understand the change in him, she told herself sadly. Before the war he'd been such a warm and loving man; now he barely gave her a civil word. It was as if all the goodness inside him had been destroyed while he'd been overseas in the trenches, leaving behind only evil and ill will.

When Trixie had been missing for a whole week and there had been no word at all from her, Maggie was missing her dreadfully and was so concerned that she decided to go round to the O'Malleys and see if they knew anything. She'd thought that Ivy would have been round long before now to ask where Trixie was and to see if she'd managed to find herself another job. The fact that there hadn't been a word from her made Maggie wonder if they knew something she didn't.

As she dressed Cilla ready to go out she kept telling her where they were going, knowing that Cilla was very fond of both Ella and Ivy.

‘Trixie! Trixie!' Cilla repeated over and over again, smiling happily.

Maggie was tempted to try and explain that Trixie wouldn't be there but couldn't bring herself to spoil Cilla's obvious delight.

It was enough that the prospect pacified her. When Cilla even began singing nursery rhymes as they set out Maggie felt so relieved by the change in her that she almost had a smile on her own face when she knocked on the O'Malleys' door.

Ella, an apron around her middle and her hands covered in flour, answered it. She looked surprised when she saw who it was.

‘Trixie not with you?' she asked, as she wiped the flour from her hands before reaching down to hug Cilla.

‘No.' Maggie shook her head, trying to blink back the tears that threatened at the mention of Trixie's name.

‘Why's that? Has she found herself another job?'

Maggie hesitated, not knowing quite what to say. ‘I'm not sure . . .' she began, too choked to go on.

‘What do you mean, you don't know?' Ella looked puzzled. ‘Do you mean you don't want to tell me?'

‘No, no, of course not,' Maggie said quickly. ‘In fact, I've come to ask if you can tell me where Trixie is. I was hoping Ivy might know something, or that she might have heard from her.'

Ella looked bewildered. ‘Are you telling me that Trixie's left home and you have no inkling where she might be?' she persisted.

‘That's right. Sam says he's found her a job as a housekeeper to a middle-aged man. He made her pack a bag and I haven't seen her since. I'm worried stiff,' she confided.

‘Oh dear, that's a terrible situation to be in,' Ella murmured as she straightened up. ‘Come on in, take your coat off, sit yourself down, and I'll make a pot of tea and we'll talk about it.'

Cilla had already gone over to her special cupboard and was pulling out toys and spreading them around the floor. As she sat down and began playing happily with them Maggie breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Poor little luv, she's been in a terrible state and crying her eyes out all week for Trixie,' she told Ella.

‘Missing her, is she?' Ella said, smoothing Cilla's hair.

‘She's driving us mad with her tantrums. The trouble is she doesn't understand when I try to tell her that Trixie's gone.'

‘What do you mean by gone? Don't you know where she's working?' Ella's voice was unusually sharp, as well as curious.