‘Is she working in a hairdresser’s?’ the customer enquired.
Patsy O’Leary answered: ‘Yes, in this dead posh place in Knightsbridge, not far from Harrods, as it happens.’ Patsy was innocently relaying the lie Alice had told her to explain Fion’s sudden disappearence.
Alice went into the kitchen and the customer winked at Patsy. ‘I suppose she’ll be back in six or seven months and the population of the world will have increased by one.’
‘Oh, no,’ Patsy said, annoyed. ‘Not Fionnuala. She’s not a bit like that.’
The woman looked suitably chastened and changed the subject to one close to Patsy’s heart. ‘How’s your Daisy’s Marilyn?
‘Oh, she’s fine. You’ll never believe this, but she’s only nine months old and already walking . . .’
As Patsy had predicted, the customer didn’t believe a single word.
Orla only had to mention once to her father-in-law that she would very much like a typewriter for him to arrive at the house in Pearl Street within a week, bearing an old, battered Royal. He winked. ‘You’ll never guess where this came from!’
‘Oh, yes I do.’ Orla had known where it would come from when she’d asked him to get it. The backs of lorries proved a useful source of supply whenever they needed something they couldn’t afford. Lulu’s new bike had come the same way and several other of the children’s toys.
‘It works OK,’ Bert said. ‘I’ve tried it. Managed to
type me own name, though it took a good ten minutes. Where would you like it, luv?’
‘In the parlour. Thanks, Bert.’
‘Any time, luv. All you have to do is ask.’
Orla was about to joke she wouldn’t have minded a mink coat, but held her tongue in case one appeared.
‘Now, you look here,’ she said sternly to the children that night. ‘This is not a toy to be played with. This is
mine
. Do you understand that?’ She spelt the word out carefully. ‘M – I – N – E. It belongs to your mum.’
‘Can you get toy ones?’ Lulu wanted to know.
‘I’m not sure. I’ll ask Grandad.’
‘What’s it for, luv?’ Micky asked when he came home. Maisie and Gary were attached to his legs, and he was holding baby Paul in his arms. Lulu, her arms resting on the table, was taking far too much thoughtful interest in the typewriter.
‘To make pastry with.’ Orla rolled her eyes. ‘What the hell d’you think it’s for, Micky Lavin? It’s to type on, you great oaf. People used to send little items of local news to the
Crosby Star
and I thought I’d do the same, as well as to the
Bootle Times
. I could even try and write articles. I wouldn’t make much from it, but every little helps.’
‘We’re not short of money, are we?’ Micky looked alarmed. Every week he handed over every penny of his wages and Orla gave him five bob back for himself. Otherwise, the housekeeping was a mystery to him.
‘We’re all right. Not exactly flush, so a bit extra’s useful. It means we might be able to afford a holiday. In a caravan, say, somewhere like Southport.’
Micky’s dark eyes brightened. ‘That would be the gear.’
‘Wouldn’t it!’ Their glances met and Orla’s insides did
a somersault, though there was nothing remotely romantic about a caravan holiday in Southport. By now, Orla had expected to be living in Mayfair, interviewing famous people for a top newspaper or magazine. Instead, she was stuck in a little house in Bootle with a husband and four children. She didn’t know if she was happy or not.
The children, Micky and Orla collapsed together on to the settee and hugged each other lavishly. Orla wasn’t sure if this was happiness, but it would do for now.
Alice was in the throes of buying the lease on a hairdresser’s in Strand Road that was closing down.
‘Why do you do it, Mam?’ Orla asked curiously. She had come round to see her mother one Sunday afternoon. Micky had taken the children to North Park and she felt bored on her own.
‘Do what, luv?’
‘Keep buying new hairdressers?’
‘For goodness sake, Orla. I took over Myrtle’s fourteen years ago. There’s only been Marsh Lane since then.’
‘You might soon have one in Strand Road. That’ll be three.’
Alice shrugged. ‘I’m not sure why. It’s not the money. I suppose I find it exciting. Anyroad, our Fion’s gone, and by this time next year Maeve will be married and Cormac at university. I need something to keep me busy, fill up me life, as it were.’
‘Oh, Mam!’ Orla cried. ‘That sounds really sad.’
‘Sometimes I feel really sad.’ Alice glanced around the room which still had the same furniture that Orla remembered from her childhood. ‘I sometimes wonder how things would have gone if your dad were still at home. If only he hadn’t had that accident.’
‘I’m fed up hearing about the stupid accident,’ Orla said hotly. ‘Anyroad, it wasn’t that that mucked everything up. It was the way he behaved afterwards. There was a girl at school whose dad lost both legs in the war, but he didn’t take it out on his family. People are funny . . .’ Orla paused.
‘Funny in what way, Orla?’
‘Things happen and it brings out the worst in people, or it brings out the best. If Dad hadn’t burnt his face, we would never have known he was capable of behaving the way he did, or that you were capable of running three hairdressers.’
Alice sighed wistfully. ‘We were so happy until that ship went up in flames. From then on, the world just fell apart.’
Orla hurled herself across the room and knelt beside her mother. She slid her arms around her waist and laid her head upon her knee. ‘No, it didn’t, Mam. You kept the world together for us. We were still happy, despite Dad – and even more happy after he’d gone.’
‘You never know people, do you? I thought I knew everything there was to know about your dad.’
‘Sometimes people turn out nicer than you’d expect,’ Orla said encouragingly. She felt worried; it was most unlike her mother to be so despondent. ‘Look at Horace Flynn. He brought you flowers the other day.’
‘I know, he still comes round the salon. He misses Fion. They were friends, though I can’t think why.’
Because they were two misfits together, Orla thought, but didn’t say. ‘Our Fion was always very kind,’ she lied. Fion could be a bitch when she was in the mood.
‘I wish she’d write,’ Alice said fretfully. ‘Oh, I know she sends cards from London, but they never say anything much. I want to know if she’s happy, where
she’s living so I can write back. I want to know how she
is!
’
Two more years were to pass before Alice received news of her daughter. It arrived in a letter from Neil Greene and was dated November 1960.
Dear Alice,
I know we agreed not to write to each other, but something has happened I thought you’d like to know. Firstly – this is not the ‘something’ – my divorce from Babs came through the other day. You may not think this relevant but it is, because to celebrate my brother, Adrian, who incidentally became a fully fledged MP following last year’s election, invited me to tea at the House of Commons.
I arrived at the House at about five thirty and wondered why there was such a commotion going on. It seemed as if hundreds of women, though it was probably only a few dozen, were gathered outside carrying placards, all shouting and screaming abuse at everyone in sight apart from themselves.
‘A Woman’s Right to Choose’, the placards said, or ‘Whose Body Is It Anyway?’. I remembered Adrian saying a Private Member’s Bill to legalise abortion was being discussed that day. Although fully in sympathy with the Bill – unlike Adrian, who opposed it – my heart sank a little at the thought of fighting my way through a crowd of such vociferous females. It sank even further when one of the women grabbed me and I thought I was about to be attacked, or at least debagged and subjected to something shameful and possibly degrading.
But no! ‘Hello, Neil,’ the woman said. It took some time before I recognised it was Fionnuala. She looks
wonderful, Alice. Very slim, taller somehow, long wild hair, rosy cheeks and lovely bright, bright eyes.
It was impossible to say much in such circumstances and I shall always regret not suggesting we meet some other time, but then I have always been a bit slow-witted. I managed to ask what she was doing. ‘I’m a union organiser,’ she said, which I found quite staggering as I can’t recall her being interested in politics. I was about to ask where she was living when we were both swept away by the crowds and lost sight of each other.
Fion may have made contact with you by now and you know all this but, in case not, I thought I’d write and let you know she looks fine and you have nothing to worry about.
As for me, I miss Bootle terribly. It was where I felt at home. One day I shall return, I swear it. I miss teaching, too, but it was unfair of me to continue to deny Babs a divorce, and divorce and teaching in a Catholic school were incompatible. I’m working in the City, doing something frightfully dull and frightfully unimportant in Insurance – having a father with a title and a brother in Parliament can work wonders when you’re seeking a job. I’m seeing a woman called Heather, divorced like me. We sort of like each other.
An old colleague from St James’s continues to send me the
Bootle Times
each week, so I keep myself abreast of what goes on. Congratulations on the new salon – I saw the advert announcing the opening and tried to imagine exactly where in Strand Road it is. How does it feel to have three?
I also saw the news about Maurice Lacey. He seemed a nice boy, though not exactly bright. It came as a shock to read he’d been sent to prison. What was it? Breaking and entering – a newsagent’s, if I remember rightly.
I closely study the Birth, Marriages and Deaths
columns. I have been holding my breath, but there has been no mention of Orla under the first, though I noticed the announcement of Maeve’s wedding under the second and saw the picture the following week. Was Martin as nervous as he looked? I see Horace Flynn has died. Such a strange man! I trust his properties haven’t fallen into the hands of someone who will cause problems for you with leases.
My colleague told me Cormac was accepted at Cambridge. You must feel inordinately proud.
Well, I think that’s all, so goodbye, my dearest Alice. You are rarely far from my thoughts.
Your glum and rather lonely friend,
Neil.
She found Neil’s letter upsetting and wished they had never become lovers, just remained good friends. Then they could have remained friends when Neil moved away. Alice missed having someone to confide in, even if it were only by letter. These days, Bernadette was completely wrapped up in Danny and the children. Although she and Alice were the same age, Bernadette had had babies when Alice already had grandchildren and seemed to be growing younger as Alice grew older.
Even worse, although she was relieved to hear that Fion was safe and well, it shocked her to the core to learn she had actually been outside the House of Commons waving a placard in support of abortion. Alice was possibly more opposed to abortion than to divorce and the idea of one of her daughters promoting legalised murder filled her with revulsion. Still, no matter what Fion had been up to, she longed for her to come home.
December came, Cormac arrived from Cambridge and she put the contents of the letter out of her mind to concentrate on her son.
Cormac was twenty. He had never grown tall like his father, but had filled out a little. His shoulders were neither broad nor narrow, but they looked strong and the tops of his arms were surprisingly muscled – he’d played tennis all summer, both at Cambridge and, during the holidays, on the courts in North Park, and the long hours spent outdoors had turned his pale skin a lovely golden brown. His hair, a mite too long in Alice’s opinion, hung over his forehead in a casual quiff, streaked with white by the sun. He kept pushing it out of his eyes with a brown hand. He looked sophisticated, but at the same time his face still retained the guileless, trusting expression he’d had when he was a little boy. Even then, no one had tried to take advantage of Cormac. He was genuinely liked by everyone and everyone seemed to want him to like them in return.
Alice had been worried university would change her son, that he would grow ashamed of Amber Street and his family. But university had done nothing of the kind. Cormac was proud of his roots. He’d spent weekends in other chaps’ houses and they were big, cold morgues of places, where he said he’d hate to live all the time. Most of the chaps had spent their childhoods in boarding schools, which sounded dead horrible and which he would have hated even more. He still talked with a Liverpool accent, possibly not quite so pronounced as before.
Of course, other graduates made fun of the way he spoke, but he didn’t give a damn. ‘I tell them I’m working class and proud of it, and make fun of the way
they
speak – they call their folks Mater and Pater.’ He said he was pleased to be home among normal people.
Working class or not, Cormac must have been popular in view of the number of Christmas cards that arrived for him from all over the country, even more than last year.
On Boxing Day he’d been invited to a drinks party in a chap’s house in Chester. He might go, or he might not, he wasn’t sure.
The young woman came into the salon a few days before Christmas. Alice and her assistants were at their busiest and the windows were blurred with steam. Alice looked up briefly, then turned away. Patsy was seeing to her. Then Alice looked again and wondered where she had seen the young woman before. It was the hair, more than anything, that looked familiar: very fair, very smooth, silky. Perhaps the woman had been to the salon before, though she didn’t often forget a customer and this one was quite outstandingly pretty.
‘Alice,’ Patsy called. ‘Someone would like a word with you.’
‘Half a mo.’ Alice was combing out Florrie Piper, still a regular customer and still insistent that her hair be dyed the colour of soot, even though she was gone seventy.
‘Leave me be, luv,’ said Florrie. ‘I don’t mind waiting a few minutes and admiring the decorations. And it’s lovely and warm in here.’
‘Ta, Florrie.’ Alice went over to the newcomer who wore a smart double-breasted navy coat with a half-belt at the back and navy boots. ‘How can I help you, luv?’