The Liverpool Trilogy (117 page)

‘Good. More fuss than an Orange Day parade with King Billy falling off his horse into a sea of good Catholics. Away with you. My grandchildren and I have homework to do.’

Rosh pulled on a cardigan and crossed the street. What was she supposed to say? Though it was more a case of what not to say, because Eric Holt’s dignity must be preserved at all
costs.

Roy opened the door. ‘Oh,’ he said.

‘That’s a good start.’ She waited. ‘Am I to stay on the doorstep? If so, would you pass me a coat or a blanket?’

‘Erm. Come in, Rosh. I’m just finishing his bed bath. Go through and sit. I’ll make a cuppa in a few minutes.’

She entered the hall, turning right for the living room. It was beautiful. Clean fireplace, new three-piece suite, new carpet square, new paint and wallpaper. Roy’s mother’s china
was on display in a glass-fronted cabinet, and her photograph sat on top of the same piece. A beautiful mirror almost covered the chimney breast, while decent prints hung in groups in the recesses.
On the wall opposite the fireplace, a friendly pendulum clock ticked softly.

He’d done the kitchen, too. It sparkled. He’d fitted new cupboards, a nice sink, a central table with place mats and good, solid dining chairs. The room looked so big. The airer, on
a pulley in front of the chimney breast, was used now not for drying washing, but for hanging copper-bottomed pans from butchers’ hooks. Roy had made a huge statement; this was his house, his
décor, his idea of pleasant living. She went back to the living room and sat.

He entered. ‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Roy, this is beautiful. All your own work, I take it?’

‘Yes. I may have a crippled leg, but I can still do most things. Eric Holt helped a bit. Tea?’ The eleventh commandment in Liverpool was that visitors drank tea. If they
weren’t offered tea, they were business folk, and that was a different game altogether.

In the kitchen, Roy leaned for support against the sink. He hadn’t seen her for a while, but nothing had changed. For over twenty years he had loved the woman, and she still made his heart
and his leg ache. The latter gave him pain as if reminding him that he wasn’t whole, wasn’t perfect, didn’t come up to scratch in the presence of the beloved.

‘Can I help?’ she called.

‘No, thanks. Everything’s rearranged, so I need to look for stuff.’ He found a tray, cups with matching saucers, sugar bowl, milk jug, teapot, spoons.

‘Where’ve you gone?’ The less than melodious demand floated down the stairwell.

‘Ignore him,’ Roy shouted. ‘He can dry himself.’ He entered eventually bearing tea and biscuits. ‘You be mother,’ he suggested, ‘while I go and see to
the one above. He is killing me.’

‘How is he?’ Rosh asked politely.

‘As bad as Satan, but twice as ugly.’ Roy left the room.

Upstairs, he finished attending to the man in the bed.

‘Who’s downstairs?’ Baxter Senior asked.

‘None of your business. My house, my life, my company. You’re a lodger till I can find somewhere to dump you. Now, shut up while I have a cup of tea.’

‘It’s a woman. Little beads of sweat on your forehead, Roylston. If I could walk a bit better without losing my breath, I’d come down and have a look at her.’

‘Feel free. Watch the carpet on the fourth stair down, you might break your neck.’

‘You’d like that.’

Roy hung the towel on the clothes horse. ‘I haven’t decorated the hall, stairs and landing yet, so feel free to make a mess. Now. I am going down to drink tea with a
friend.’

With a friend. Roy looked at his image in the bathroom mirror. He wasn’t ugly. Dark brown hair, plenty of it, dark brown eyes, and he was tall enough, though a bit shorter on the bad leg.
With a friend. Phil Allen had been his mate, but Phil’s wife was Roy’s goddess. She was like a jewel in a shop window; unattainable, but looking cost nothing. Not true. Looking had cost
him his whole heart and his whole life. Now he was doing up the house to sell, because he could no longer bear to live near Rosh.

She smiled at him when he returned. ‘Still a nasty old nuisance, then?’

‘Oh, yes. He’s taking full advantage of the order to rest, but I fear he’ll be messing up my decorating any day now. Still, I can’t keep him out of my hair for ever, can
I?’

‘I suppose not.’ Rosh handed him a cup of tea. For her part, most of the expected awkwardness seemed to have dissipated. The gifts of fruit, vegetables and flowers had ceased to
arrive, and she felt settled, almost at home in his company. This was hardly surprising, as they’d known each other since their early years. He was a safe place and a nice man.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Are you here for a particular reason?’

‘Er . . . no. Just to see how you are, really.’ She paused fractionally. ‘I was going to ask you to look after the children’s Christmas gifts, but there’s no need.
Philly’s having a new piano, so we’ll have to lock the dining room until Christmas morning, and I’ll keep everything in there.’

‘Oh. Right.’

He picked up the plate of biscuits. ‘The custard creams are quite good.’

Rosh took one. ‘Thanks, Phil.’

Roy’s hand froze in mid-air for a split second. Phil? Did she realize she’d called him Phil? And how did he feel about that? On the one hand, she was clearly contented and safe in
his presence, yet he wasn’t Phil, didn’t want to be Phil. But she seemed so relaxed, so at ease.

‘How are you managing?’ she was asking now.

He explained about giving the patient breakfast, leaving flasks of tea and soup with a sandwich for lunch, making the evening meal after work. ‘Weekends are hell,’ he said,
‘but I’ve asked Eric Holt to come in at twelve and see to him on weekdays. He can peel veg and start cooking for when I get back at six.’

So here came Rosh’s chance. ‘Eric’s got loads of work on, Roy. When he did my bedroom, he was saying he had too many jobs. So I thought Mother and I could do it.’

Roy closed his mouth with an audible snap. ‘No bloody way. I’ll advertise.’

‘But Roy—’

‘No. It’s my mess, so let me deal with it. You know how he was with my mam. And you can smile, plead, beg all you like, but no way am I leaving you or your mother with a cruel
article like that thing. You don’t know him. I hope you never do get to know him.’

Rosh realized that argument would be futile. Even if she came up with something sensible, Roy was dug in deeply enough to form part of the foundations of a new building. Still, she had to try.
‘Norma Shuttle,’ she pronounced after a ten-second gap. ‘Lives at the St Johns Road end, built like a battleship. In fact, Phil said the Navy was using her as a model for an
unsinkable carrier.’

He covered a smile with his cup. Sometimes, he forgot the fun side of her. Women as beautiful as this one seldom displayed humour, because they were usually too busy messing with their hair or
peering into a handbag mirror. ‘So you mean that tall, round woman with a face like a fit?’

Rosh nodded. ‘She could hold him down with one hand and clean the house with the other. In fact, when a dray horse was resting, they used her instead. She’s pulled more gallons of
ale than any barmaid. The other horses made her an honorary member at the brewery stable; she had her own stall and nosebag, plus Guinness in her trough.’

‘Sounds very attractive.’

‘If you like gargoyles, she is.’

‘I already have a gargoyle.’

Rosh nodded pensively. ‘What about Christmas?’ she asked.

He shrugged. ‘We’ve not had Christmas since Mum died.’

‘Come to us,’ she begged on a sudden whim. ‘I’ll plate a dinner up for him, and you can carry it across. But whether or not he’s well enough, don’t bring him
anywhere near my house.’

Roy considered the offer. ‘Alice doesn’t like new people.’

‘You’re not exactly new. And she’s not exactly in charge. I’m the boss.’

‘Yes. I can see that.’ Roy turned his head slightly. ‘He’s listening at the top of the stairs. Can’t walk to the bathroom, has to have a commode and a bed bath, but
he’s managed to get to the landing.’

‘I can’t hear anything,’ Rosh said.

‘Ah, but I’m wired differently. Like the blokes who find water in a drought, I always know where he is.’

Within seconds, they both knew where he was. The stairs delivered their visitor to a new location just inside the front door. He screamed. It sounded as if he managed to hit every single step
during the fall. And two people remained seated through many ticks of the friendly clock; they were riveted by shock to their chairs.

Rumour spreads faster than measles round here. Joseph Baxter’s in a bad way, possibly clobbered by his son. Well, I won’t blame Roy Baxter. His old man’s a
right bastard from what I’ve heard in the shop while pretending to dust the tobacco jars. I hope he bloody dies. I know what it is to have rotten parents . . .

The desk sergeant was fed up all the way to his wisdom teeth, one of which was severely impacted. ‘Madam,’ he said, manufactured patience etched into both
syllables, ‘you cannot carry on like this.’

‘Oh, she can,’ said the younger of the two women. ‘You should see her when the Orange march is on. You know the row of women who line the route, skirts over their heads,
bottoms facing Prince Billy? Well, my mother makes their emerald-green knickers.’

He sighed heavily. Some days were easy. Some days had burglars, thieves and pickpockets. Even drunken fights were simple to deal with when compared to Mrs Anna Riley. The man in the interview
room was only being questioned, for God’s sake. ‘Sit down, please,’ he begged.

‘Mrs Roisin Allen?’ called a disembodied voice. ‘Interview room two, please.’ The name Roisin came through as dried fruit.

Anna stared at the desk sergeant. ‘You said that without moving your lips. And her name is pronounced Rosheen, nothing to do with raisins.’ She then turned to her daughter. ‘Go
in and tell them what happened. I’m away for a few minutes, but I’ll be back with reinforcements.’ She approached the desk. ‘Never underguesstimate the power of the people.
Especially when some of us are Irish.’ She shot out of the police station while Rosh made her way into the bowels of the building. It was dark, unfriendly, and it smelled of fear and human
waste. She experienced a strong urge to run home for a bath.

‘Come in, come in,’ suggested a friendly female officer from the doorway of Interview Two. ‘I’m Constable Lewis, and this is Inspector Clarke.’

Rosh followed the constable into the room. It was cream and green, and the man seated at the table was in plain clothes. ‘Is he really a policeman?’ she asked. ‘He looks like
the man from the Prudential, same moustache, same disappointed face.’ The table was scarred. Perhaps it had been involved in the Second World War. She was offered a cigarette, and she refused
with thanks. ‘They kill budgies,’ she said seriously. ‘Our Bluey never smoked as such, but I think he was a second-hand addict. So we all stopped.’ Rosh was nervous. It
wasn’t every week she was forced to step over a dead neighbour.

‘Sit down, please,’ the inspector said after casting a meaningful glance in the direction of his partner in crime. ‘Full name?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Roisin – that’s R-O-I-S-I-N – Carlita Maria Conchita Sebando Riley Allen.’

The inspector stared hard at his victim. ‘You taking the wee-wee?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘Not at all. You see, way back to the time of another Queen Elizabeth, the English were no better than pirates. Some of the Armada ships got hunted down and stranded in
southern Ireland, and the sailors stayed and married Irish women. The oldest daughter got landed with Irish and Spanish names. Even when my father’s family relocated to a different Irish
county, then to England, the tradition continued, or so I was led to understand.’

The man passed a sheet of paper across the table. ‘Write it there, please.’

She wrote it and handed it back. ‘There you go. You have to lisp on the Spanish S. One of the kings lisped, so everybody joined in to keep him company and save him from feeling
daft.’

Again, the man’s eyes slid sideways. They seemed to have a right one here.

The questioning began. Had she been in the company of Mr Roy Baxter yesterday evening? Yes, she had. What had been the purpose of her visit? To make sure he was all right. Why might he not be
all right? Because he worked full-time in town, had a bad leg, and was looking after his father, a heart attack victim. Had Mr Roy Baxter seemed well? Yes, Mr Roy Baxter had seemed well. He’d
even been decorating and cleaning up. Had she seen Mr Joseph Baxter? No. Well, yes, but only after his accident.

‘You were there when Mr Joseph Baxter fell?’

‘I was.’

The man put down his pen. ‘You are aware that he supposedly died instantly of a broken neck?’

‘I am now, yes. But at the time, I just jumped over him and ran to the phone box.’

‘Where you nine-nine-nined?’

Rosh nodded. ‘I asked for an ambulance, although when they questioned me on the phone, I didn’t know whether he was dead or alive. When I got back to the house, I could tell he was
dead. His neck and head looked wrong.’

‘Do you think the body had been moved at all? Was it possible that he was only stunned and that his neck was broken deliberately after you had left the house?’

Rosh glared at the representatives of law and order. ‘No. I passed a neighbour. You’ve interviewed Mimi Atkinson. She arrived at Roy’s seconds after I left. The door was wide
open, because I was in a bit of a hurry. Had anyone been breaking anyone’s neck, Mimi would have seen it. The only thing that got broken deliberately was the record for the two-hundred-yard
sprint to the phone box. I should be in the Olympics. Anyway, when I jumped over him to get out to the phone, I didn’t see his top half. I was so scared, you see.’

A few beats of time passed. ‘You were scared, Mrs . . . er . . . Allen?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Too much death around me. My dad five years ago, my husband in a traffic accident a few months back.’

‘Very sorry, Mrs Allen.’

‘Thank you.’

The man undid the top button of his shirt and loosened his tie. ‘Some of the questions I need to ask are not pleasant.’