The Liverpool Trilogy (136 page)

‘Yes, ma’am.’

She awarded him one of the more sudden of her army of smiles. ‘You’re back early.’

‘I am. And you’ve had a change of clothes.’

‘Change of mind,’ she answered quickly. ‘I rang a few restaurants, and nobody serves sorbet. That was definitely a sorbet suit. I was far too well dressed to live the
sorbet-less life. We’ll have to go to London.’

‘No problem. But will they sell steak pudding and peas?’

‘How was she?’

‘She’s gone, love.’

‘And no.’

‘No what?’ He scratched his head in the manner of Stan Laurel.

‘They won’t serve steak pudding.’ She caught sight of herself in a mirror above the kitchen table. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked crossly.

‘Because you look cute, and because I thought I might sell you on to Billy Smart’s circus next time it hits town. They could do with a glamorous clown.’

She rubbed away the offending mark. ‘What do you mean, “She’s gone”, anyway?’

‘She’s gone. As in not there, no sign, no sound, business under offer and house sold.’

Tess sat down. ‘Without letting you know?’

Don nodded. Seated opposite her, he placed the unopened letter in the centre of the tablecloth. ‘I found this.’

‘Oh. What is it?’

After repeating his Stan Laurel imitation, he offered his opinion in the matter. ‘From where I’m sitting, I’d say it’s an envelope.’

‘Don’t get clever with me, Don Compton. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘OK.’

Two pairs of eyes were glued to the white oblong next to the cruet set. ‘Open it, then,’ Tess ordered. ‘It’s addressed to you, not me.’

He tore back the flap and withdrew the contents. ‘Cheque for a grand there,’ he said. ‘Severance, I expect.’

She shook her head. ‘Payment for services rendered, if you want my opinion.’

‘I’m no gigolo,’ he said.

Tess swallowed nervously before turning pink. ‘Well, I think you’re good at it.’

‘At what?’

She paused for several seconds. ‘Managing a business, of course.’

But he knew what she meant and was disproportionately pleased. He unfolded the letter and read it aloud.

‘So she’s definitely gone?’ Tess asked. ‘That isn’t some sort of code saying meet me outside Lewis’s and we’ll book a room nearby?’

Don shook his head.

‘I bet there’ll be somewhere in Chester.’

‘What?’

‘Somewhere in Chester with sorbet.’

She was at it again. Her mind leapt about with all the senseless agility of a newborn lamb. Ah, yes. Lamb. ‘What about the oven?’ he asked.

‘You’re doing it.’

‘With my knee, that would be difficult.’

‘That means I’ll have to do it. Put the kettle on and make a cuppa. Then you can take the money to the bank; it’ll do for our Anne-Marie’s wedding. Have you seen the
price of wedding gowns lately? Some are twenty quid. Twenty pounds for something that gets worn once. And you can’t get even a decent finger buffet under twelve shillings a head.
There’ll be no sorbet for that, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Don closed his mouth with a snap. ‘She’s not seventeen yet, Tess.’

‘I know that. And I was married at that age.’ Her head disappeared into the oven again.

She was right, as usual. Anne-Marie was growing out of her parents’ arms and into the embrace of Mark, her wealthy yet down-to-earth boyfriend. Even John Lennon had been dismissed as
ordinary, and her outings to Allerton for a glimpse of Paul McCartney had stopped. The couple went to stock car racing and speedway in Manchester, enjoyed films and concerts, and were members of a
local jazz club where they listened to both modern and traditional bands. ‘Are they engaged?’ Don asked.

Tess emerged from the cavern, banging her head on the way out. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do. What did you say?’

‘Are they engaged?’

She stood up. The old blouse was ruined, as was the wire wool with which she’d been scrubbing at grease and grit before wiping the oven down with a tea towel. ‘I wonder if we should
spend that money getting your knee sorted? Then you can do this job sometimes.’ Even her hair was filthy. ‘I don’t think they are,’ she added.

This time, Don had managed to keep up with his wife. Their daughter was not engaged. Yet. ‘You’re in a state worse than Woolworth’s on Christmas Eve. Come on, let’s get
you bathed.’

‘What about your knee?’

‘I’m not wasting money cleaning up after Hitler. I’d rather rub my wife down with a damp cloth.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, and you kneel to do it.’

‘Do I?’

‘And there’s no cloth. You never use a cloth or a sponge.’

He nodded sagely. ‘My hands do just as good a job.’

‘And then I get dragged off to the black and red bordello you made for me.’

‘Boudoir. I must finish it, must put that mirror on the ceiling. Don’t blush. You’re dripping grease all over the place.’

Tess folded her arms. She was definitely not having a mirror on the ceiling. Did he realize what people might think if they walked in? ‘We could have a party, and they might leave their
coats on the bed. It’s already colourful.’

He sniffed meaningfully. ‘It works for me.’

Tess closed her eyes, tutted and shook her head. ‘No mirror. You go within a hundred yards of a mirror, and I’ll make sure you have seven years’ bad luck even if you
don’t break it.’

‘Get up the stairs.’

‘No.’

‘Are you taking advantage of a Dunkirk hero?’ The electricity was still there. It was the same as it had been twenty years ago, before Sean, well before Anne-Marie. He was the
luckiest man in the world. How many marriages resurrected themselves after so long a drought? It was as if little sparks of blue fire flashed in her eyes as she challenged him. ‘Choose your
weapon,’ he suggested.

She picked up a sad, superannuated dish towel, the very one with which she had wiped down the oven after the scrubbing. ‘This’ll do for me,’ she said, her chin tilting in
defiance. ‘Choose yours.’

He grinned. ‘You’re already familiar with my weapon of choice.’

‘Vulgar man.’ She stalked past him and clomped noisily upstairs.

Don sat for a while with Molly’s letter and the cheque. Perhaps he should see a specialist about his knee. Molly had wanted that. It was unlikely that anyone could make him walk without
the limp, but the pain was tiring, especially at this time of year.

The bath was filling. A slow smile spread its width across Don’s face. In a bottom drawer of the chest in the hall, Sean’s water pistol rested. The lad still used it in summer,
usually in an effort to drown his dratted little sister. ‘I’ll use warm water,’ Don whispered. ‘Cold would be cruel.’ He fetched the item and filled it at the kitchen
sink. ‘Second weapon of choice, you come with me. Let’s prove to her that the bathroom ain’t big enough for the both of us.’

Christmas threatened. Shop windows were all lit up, dressed trees glittered in almost every parlour, while the faces of many women wore a slightly worried expression. Was a
turkey twenty-five minutes a pound, or was it twenty? Some gave up altogether and went for a couple of chickens. They understood chickens; twenty minutes a pound, then twenty minutes extra at the
end. Problem solved. Right, so how many were coming for dinner, and who hated sprouts? Would the royal icing on the cake be the death of Auntie Ivy’s dentures, and would Granddad repeat last
year’s performance and swallow a sixpence from the pudding? Oh well, at least all the presents were wrapped and ready.

When the women stopped worrying, the men took over. Christmas Eve found every shop crammed with white-faced males who tried to buy perfume they’d never heard of, underwear without looking
at it, or scarves. Scarves were for those who had failed the first two fences. They were safe, as were slippers, books, and manicure sets.

Roy didn’t take a safe route. Having sold his story to the most notorious of Sunday newspapers, he no longer felt persecuted, since he had made the decision to be exposed, but with a
degree of control. Yes, people stopped him in the streets and yes, he put them off politely. But the quiet, invisible wedding was not going to happen, because Rosh’s daughters wanted the
dressing up, bells ringing, a party afterwards. When it came to her honeymoon attire, he dealt with it head-on. Armed with a list of his beloved’s measurements, he entered the dragons’
den and bought whatever took his fancy. And quite a number of flimsy items managed to take his fancy. How he had changed!

On another expedition and with all his girls in tow, he bought rich cream silk taffeta for the bride, the same material in sky blue for her daughters, a good suit for Kieran, and a mid-blue
jersey silk for Anna. It would be a grand wedding.

Kieran was not interested in shopping, so he had stayed at home reading about the nervous system.

‘I hope the suit fits him,’ said Anna when all five sat down for lunch in a café. ‘And I’m cutting out no frocks till the first banns are read. Two good dresses,
these two grew out of while Roy was away. I shall sell them. Alice, eat your soup. It’s all right, you can start when you’re ready. Say grace in your head – God won’t
mind.’

‘I know,’ Alice replied. She was starting to put her foot down, especially where Gran was concerned. But now she awarded attention to her partner-in-shaving and future stepfather.
‘You’ve seen Mam’s material,’ she pronounced with gravitas. ‘Isn’t that unlucky?’

‘Only when it’s a frock,’ he replied, the sober tone matching hers.

‘I’ve seen the pattern,’ the child continued. ‘But it won’t be quite like that, because at the top, where the—’

‘Quiet, love,’ Rosh begged.

Alice grinned. ‘I was going to tell him lies,’ she giggled. ‘I was thinking of purple sequins and red bows.’

‘You’re a terrible child, and thank goodness for that. Asparagus, my behind. See? See? Would you ever take a look at the expression on her face? She never liked me, and it
shows.’

‘Aspergers, not asparagus, Mother.’

‘I know.’

Roy continued to sit on his secrets; not literally, as he would have broken them. He had bought everyone a watch. The notoriously naughty newspaper had ‘purchased’ the wedding, and
he was using the money for his lovely females. Photographers and journalists would be there, and Roy imagined the headlines.
Serial Killer’s Surviving Victim Marries Her Hero
, and
A
Happy Ending to a Tragic Tale
. He and Rosh had decided not to care. The two older children knew what had happened to their mam; even Alice understood enough. And they all loved Roy, though he
never pretended to be their dad, and he’d made sure that they always remembered Phil.

He bit into a sausage roll. It seemed to have no personality whatsoever, no sausage, and a bit of flaky that was more air than pastry. He returned it to the counter and demanded a replacement. A
year ago, he couldn’t have done that, but his fiancée had given him backbone, pride and strength.

The manager was summoned. ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

Roy lifted up the delicacy in question, put it to his eye and said, ‘I can still see you. This roll may have enjoyed a passing relationship with sausage meat, but they never
married.’

The boss folded his arms. ‘How do I know you haven’t took the meat out and ate it?’

‘Because I say so.’

‘Right.’ There followed a lengthy pause. ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’

Roy shuffled a bit in order to redistribute his weight.

‘You’re him what closed the book on that murdering bastard. They found all the bodies cos of you, too.’

Nobody moved, and silence reigned. Roy didn’t need to look over his shoulder, because he got reactions like this at least twice a week.

The manager carried on. ‘Fancy him writing on them boxes. All the details about when and where, the soft olly. It said he seen people setting fire to that car with three men in it, too,
but that led to a dead end.’ He grinned, pleased by his own untutored genius. ‘Do you get it? Dead end, like?’ He was now displaying teeth like a picket fence that wanted a coat
of paint. ‘Proud of you, lad.’ He placed six sausage rolls in a bag. ‘Any time, son. Don’t pass by. You come in for a free dinner whenever you like.’