The Liverpool Trilogy (28 page)

Glenys shook Carol’s hand. ‘Hello, Carol. I’m her lawyer, and she’s told me all about you and your daughter. A couple of gems, by all accounts.’

The big woman blushed. ‘Well, if we’re gems, we’re still uncut and definitely not polished. Rough diamonds, you might say.’

‘You’ll do for me,’ Lucy said. ‘But do try to tolerate my neighbours. You don’t have to like them, but please try not to let it show.’

Carol muttered a few words about doctors thinking they knew everything, some of them knowing nothing, and herself having bathrooms to see to.

Glenys burst out laughing when Carol had made her exit. ‘Where do you find them, honey? Can’t you collect stamps or Victoriana or something normal?’

When the hilarity had subsided, Lucy told her friend about the encounter in town. ‘So,’ she concluded. ‘He’s with some other woman who’s come into money. According to his card, Howard Styles was a developer in the Manchester area. Mags Livesey says there’s a massive house – big enough to be made into a Champneys style health spa and worth over five mill.’

‘Bugger,’ muttered Glenys. ‘So I guess we have what Houston might describe as a problem.’

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes. ‘I’m copying this address,’ Glenys said finally. ‘Then at least he’ll know when the divorce is final. As for the rest of it – well, if she’s recently lost her husband, she’s vulnerable. Let me look into it. I need to know about her family, about who’s going to prop her up in the next year or so. Because if it’s Alan, she’s in trouble. What do you think?’

Lucy raised her arms and shrugged. Part of her insisted that she’d done her bit and that this new women should be left to get on with it. Yet knowing what he was, and what he was capable of . . . ‘I’m confused,’ she admitted.

‘Millions, Lucy.’

‘I know.’

‘If his health improves, he’ll steal from her.’

‘I know.’

‘What can we do?’

Lucy stood up. ‘Well, I’m going to the summerhouse with Moira, and having salad, salmon and wine when we get there. We’re travelling in a wheelchair-friendly van, and I’ll use Alan’s car while I’m in Bolton. And I’ll keep in touch with you, because I want you with me when I go to Styles.’

‘So you’ve decided?’

‘It seems so. She has to be warned, and in case she thinks I’m lying just to upset their applecart, you will bring the paperwork.’

‘You sure?’

‘Not completely. But the woman – whoever she is – deserves a chance. Look what he did, not to me, but to his own children. Paul, Mike and Elizabeth are all he has, yet he mortgaged their property, stole their legacies. If he’s capable of that, he might well clean out this Mrs Styles.’

When Glenys had left, Lucy went next door to see how Moira was faring. She found her quiet, unsmiling and twitchy. ‘Moira? Whatever’s the matter?’

Moira lowered her head. ‘I knew it would happen. That’s why I wanted to find somebody decent for him, somebody who’ll be here after I’ve gone.’ She lifted her chin and looked into Lucy’s eyes. ‘I hoped you’d be the one. That was why I did that stupid thing. Somebody’s looking for him now, you see. Carol and Dee know her, and they chased her. He’s got himself involved with the type he thinks of as safe, because he can’t love her and it’s just sex. But I know he needs love, you see, and I also know he’s well on his way to being in love with you. So I took a chance and, well, you know the rest of it.’

Lucy sat down. ‘I’m going to marry David, Moira. Don’t say anything, because I haven’t told him yet. I find Richard very annoying and very attractive, but it’s never going to happen.’ She waited for a reply, but none was forthcoming. ‘Are we going to Tallows?’

‘Yes. Oh, yes. Lucy, I’ve tried to help him and he won’t listen, won’t even speak to me about the creature that’s hurting him. The cleaning of the car, the fire, the silence – it’s all down to the whore Dee and Carol shifted. I can’t do anything until he talks. Let him have some space. We’re going.’

So they went.

Moira looked forward happily to her journey inland towards the foothills of the Pennines, because David had promised to travel via the prettiest route. A lift took her up from the pavement into the van, where her wheelchair was bolted to the floor after safety belts fastened her to the seat. When the luggage had been similarly pinned down, Lucy and David climbed into the front seats. The drive took just under an hour and, during that time, the passenger in the rear had the opportunity to appreciate the advent of beautiful scenery, and also to view at close quarters the relationship between David and Lucy.

They laughed a lot, though she was louder than he was. At every opportunity, at junctions, traffic lights and pedestrian crossings, he turned to look at Lucy. Feeling something of a gooseberry, Moira watched while pretending not to. She was in the company of a magic she remembered, though she experienced no jealousy or resentment. These two deserved some happiness, and she hoped that they would live long and enjoy it. There were many valuable people in the world, and she was in the presence of two of the best.

Perhaps it was because they shared history, however ancient, that they seemed perfect together. They were completely in tune, head over heels in love, and delightful to study. She was for him, he was for her, and that was an end to it. In some place beyond vision, in heaven or within the deepest roots of nature, a decision had been taken. The couple were bound together, their co-existence inevitable from the hour of birth.

They stopped at the bottom of a hill. ‘You’re in Lancashire now, Moira,’ David told her. ‘No dark, satanic mills any more, no slave-drivers to hang a lad for stealing a fent of cotton.’

‘Fent?’ Moira asked.

‘It was usually the end of a weaver’s bolt, and it often had flaws in it.’ He pointed to the hills. ‘There was snow in summer up there, yards and yards of calico left out to bleach in the sun, because they had no chemicals. If you took a bit of that summer snow, you hanged. The cotton came from America to Liverpool, then was brought here by drays or barges. We were all Lancastrians then.’

‘Liverpool’s always been Lancashire to me,’ was Moira’s answer. ‘And so has Bolton, come to that. All this Merseyside and Greater Manchester rubbish – we’re Lankies, every last one of us. Except for the accents, of course.’

‘Boundaries,’ David said. ‘Created and moved in the interest of politicians. It did them little good.’

Moira sat back and thought about her husband. Richard, an exciting man who had moods, was definitely not the type for Lucy. In fact, when she looked over her shoulder into her own past life, Moira realized that the give and take in her marriage had been, for the most part, a one-way street, since she had done most of the giving. And the forgiving. She continued to adore a man whose selfishness was becoming legend. Lucy, newly released from domestic servitude, would have flattened Richard, while he would never have appreciated this woman’s wit and humour. He had been with a whore. Moira had no proof, yet she knew it . . .

She looked out at the bowl that contained Bolton, gazed at pleated moors rising and dipping in gentle folds towards Yorkshire. It was a fabulous place. They drove through villages filled with weavers’ cottages, stone-built and with proud little aprons of garden laid out towards the pavements. There were ancient churches, old pubs with exterior beams and string courses that had stood the test of centuries.

Lucy turned. ‘Here we are, love. On your left, the big house. It’s been in my family for generations.’

‘Impressive,’ Moira said. It wasn’t a house – this was a mansion, and Lucy, God bless her, was about to turn it over to the Timothy Vincent Trust.

‘It’s devoid of furniture,’ Lucy said, ‘so you and I are living in the dolls’ house. We bought the shed when the kids were in their mid-teens – somewhere for them to have adventures without parents breathing down their necks. They brewed their own beer in it, rolled joints and grew out of all that by themselves. Sometimes I thought I was too lenient, but they turned out OK, I think.’

‘It’s hardly a shed.’ Moira looked at the pretty little wooden house.

Lucy agreed. ‘It’s a park home. Two bedrooms, dining kitchen, shower room and a nice big living room. Lots of trees behind, and a large garden leading up to Tallows. It’s peaceful.’

Moira muttered something about Bedlam being peaceful after him and his fires. It was lovely here. She was brought down to earth via the lift, and David scooped her up from the chair and carried her into the house. ‘Back in a minute,’ he said as he left the room, muttering to himself about finishing something or other. Lucy went to check the food in the fridge. He had remembered – salmon, wine, salad and potatoes. He was a good lad.

‘How could you leave all this?’ Moira asked. ‘The woods, the garden, that wonderful house and this little fairytale cottage? I’m sure I couldn’t have given it up. It’s absolutely glorious.’

‘It was, and it will be again.’ Lucy put the kettle to boil. ‘I’ll just make sure the beds are—’ She stopped in her tracks for a few seconds. What the heck was he doing? She ran through the living room and opened the front door, then leaned against the jamb while she looked at him. He was a star. He was a one-off. He was a long way past merely wonderful.

David stopped hammering. ‘Sorry. I meant to finish it, but work claimed me, and my own house has been invaded by industrial cleaners who haven’t the slightest idea about how to save research. Fortunately, most of it’s on my laptop, and the stuff in boxes is easy to find, but I tend to scribble on bits of paper and—’ He stood up. ‘What’s funny?’ She seemed to be near to hysteria.

‘You are.’

‘I’m doing my bloody best, madam. No one can do better than his best.’

Lucy’s eyes filled with tears, but she continued to laugh. Only David would take the trouble to build a ramp that would be needed for just a few days. Only David would roll out a long wooden track to make the pushing of a wheelchair over lawn easier for both pusher and pushee. He was vague, brilliant, talented and daft. But mainly, he was almost selfless, because he saw a need and did his utmost to fill it.

‘Louisa? Say what you have to say. I need to get on with this.’

‘I told Moira I’m going to marry you.’

His mouth twitched. He sniffed, nodded, and resumed the hammering.

‘David!’

‘What?’ He stopped banging. ‘Bloody what?’

‘Did you hear me?’

He nodded again while hammering home another nail.

She turned to go back inside, and he leapt to his feet. ‘When did you decide?’ he asked.

‘Oh, about forty years ago.’

‘OK. Thanks for letting me know.’

Inside, Lucy stood near the window and watched him. He was having fun with hammer and nails. He was laughing. After a few seconds, he pulled out a disgraceful handkerchief and wiped his eyes. He was hers.

Moira fell asleep on the sofa. David, who had finished his ramp, led the woman he loved outside. ‘To the woods?’ he asked. ‘Remember how it was all those years ago?’

Lucy remembered. ‘To the woods’ had been her sister’s war cry, delivered with monotonous frequency throughout the long, hot summers of childhood school holidays. Diane’s idea of hide and seek had been eccentric, since the rules had changed daily, and Lucy had never quite managed to keep up. David had experienced some difficulty, though he had always managed not to care. ‘You collected creepy-crawlies,’ she said. ‘In matchboxes and old tins.’

‘I did. Especially those that had committed insecticide. I was looking at ways of preserving the dead, but my chemistry set seemed to dissolve everything, which was a source of great annoyance. I love you.’

‘I know. You loved spiders, too.’

‘Useful creatures, arachnids. They dispose of flies. Why did you tell her before you told me?’

Lucy loved these mixed-up conversations. As owner of a butterfly mind, she understood his quickness of thought only too well. Something came into his head, and he dealt with it immediately. ‘I was afraid that she might still want to bequeath Richard to me. So I hid behind you. Let’s face it, you’re tall enough.’

‘Oh.’

‘But I intended to marry you anyway. After my divorce, naturally.’

‘And if I’d said no?’

They stopped walking. Standing at the edge of Diane’s forest, she took his face in her hands and kissed him. ‘I feel close enough to read your mind. I knew you wouldn’t refuse me.’

‘You can manage me.’

‘Yes.’

‘We shall see about that,’ he said. ‘There are more cards up my sleeve than you’d find in three packs, plus jokers. You won’t manage me, Louisa Buckley. We shall be equal partners in the crime named marriage. However, as pointed out by the eminent Jeffrey Archer, some are more equal than others.’

‘And?’

‘And I am stubborn enough to train you in the arts of wifedom. I shall undo the kitchen chains when I come in from work and, after our meal, I shall fasten you upstairs. It will not be an easy life for you, slave.’

Lucy laughed. She could not think of the past quarter-century as wasted time, as she had been endowed with three wonderful children, but how she longed to be settled with this precious man. From the pocket of her trousers, she took her mobile phone. ‘Interesting messages today,’ she said. ‘About love and stealing moments – shall I read them out? Some are rather risqué – body parts and so forth . . .’

‘Why bother? I sent them.’

‘I thought we needed more than stolen moments.’

He stopped and stared hard at her. ‘My condition has deteriorated of late. There’s little hope of recovery, and no remedial treatment, because at this point I’d probably sell my soul for five minutes with you. And you know that. So why don’t you shut up for once?’ No longer nervous or hesitant, he kissed her and held her firmly.

Lucy relaxed and allowed herself to fall into the moment. He was strong, gentle and in charge. She knew with blinding certainty that he would never hurt her physically or emotionally, that she must never hurt him. They were both vulnerable, both damaged and needful. ‘Where have you been?’ she cried when he released her. ‘Where the hell have you been, little David Vincent, with your spiders and your woodlice?’