The Liverpool Trilogy (105 page)

‘Is she all right?’ Anne-Marie asked anxiously. ‘What happened? Is it her heart? She said it was her heart.’

Don shook his head. ‘No. She just got upset about something and lost her breath. Go in and look after her when Dr Byrne’s finished.’ He got into his car and drove away. As soon
as he was alone he began to tremble, and he pulled into a side street at the earliest opportunity. Never before had he faced up to her. She was bright, but not bright enough to react to the
sarcastic comments with which he sometimes peppered his longer chunks of oratory. ‘She probably doesn’t listen,’ he told the handbrake as he applied it. But he couldn’t have
drifted along in her wake this time. No. He’d been forced to become a tugboat heaving and hauling HMS Tess into dock, because she would have sold him down the river this time.
‘You’re thinking in metaphors, Don,’ he said aloud. ‘And she can’t help it. Just remember that.’

But his memories went their own way. Her laughter, clear as a mountain stream running over smoothed stones, her beautiful face, her hands, those wonderful legs. Where had she gone? What had she
become, and was he to blame? ‘Stop it,’ he snapped aloud.

Anne-Marie would have loved to move to Menlove Avenue, because a much-admired rebel named Lennon lived there. A pupil at Quarry Bank School, he had formed the Quarry Men, and they played at
local fetes and fairs, usually with a bevy of girls cheering them on. But Anne-Marie had enough boyfriends. There was Pea-Green, for a start, and the lead rider of the newly arrived Rockers seemed
to have taken a shine to Don’s pretty daughter. She looked like her mother but, so far, she seemed not to have inherited Tess’s selfish streak. Anne-Marie was as engrossed in fashion
and music as the next teenager, but she had heart.

‘Do you have a heart, Don Compton?’ Did he? If he had feelings for anybody other than his children, they were all for Molly Braithwaite, widow of the deceased Matthew. And therein
lay the twist in the tale, because he might move on to enjoy all the benefits of Matt Braithwaite’s legacy, while Tess, who had married for money, would continue to miss out. He cleared his
throat. A part of him understood Tess, because she’d had a bugger of a childhood, and she was a frightened woman. But he couldn’t stay outwardly compliant any longer. His wife was
frigid in his company, and he needed to get out of the refrigerator, longed to sit near a cosy fire with Molly and her mad dogs.

Molly was a big woman with a smile that sometimes put the sun to shame, and a laugh that was infectious. She would never match Tess for looks, but Don had learned the hard way that beauty was
indeed skin deep, and that a pretty face could hide a cruel heart. Oh, Molly. He grinned stupidly and shook his head. Brown eyes, brown hair, a few strands of grey claiming space above her ears.
She dyed it. When he’d asked about the colour, she had shrugged. ‘Shit brown like the rest of me head. More gravy?’ They had looked into the sauce boat, noticed the colour and
howled in near-hysteria.

Her house, separated from the business by a couple of acres, was like herself – big and beautiful. She made a man of him in and out of bed, gave him much to be pleased about, including
interesting, often inedible meals, and affection. Yes, she adored him. And the increased speed of his heartbeat whenever he approached his place of work reminded him that he, too, was standing
perilously close to the brink of love.

He closed his eyes. Was Madam Tess planning to play up? Would she sing to the gallery, to the kids, to the doctor? The man had declared her panic attack to be real . . . ‘I’ll get a
book from the library,’ he whispered. Well, if he could become an expert in car maintenance and dry-stonewalling, psychiatry or psychology should be a walk in the park. Panic attacks.
Increased adrenalin, the doc had said. Pure fear. What if she went crazy? Could he leave her if she finished up on drugs and all kinds of therapy? What sort of man would behave in such a way?

Well, sitting here would shell no peas, as Molly might have put it. She would be half expecting him, though she seldom demanded a move up the list. He worked alongside her every morning apart
from Sunday, and most lunch times were spent in her company, as were several evenings when he was supposed to be playing darts. Sometimes, he felt as if he might be betraying his children, but they
were almost grown, and he’d done his best. As a disabled father, he had brought them through their early years while Tess had struggled to save for her own business. He had done his job, and
he kept reminding himself of that fact.

Molly had no children. She and Matt had tried for years, but she’d finally settled for a couple of occasionally mad retrievers and some tropical fish. The fish made her sleepy, the dogs
kept her awake, nobody criticized her and, taken all round, she thought she was better off with animals. Her one reservation was Sam, who had been expelled from dog school for eating equipment and
trying to have sex with a miniature poodle, but she managed to forgive him. She managed to forgive everyone and everything, because she was in love with life.

The dogs greeted Don when he stepped out of the car. They understood his unsteadiness and always made room for him. Molly waved from the doorway. She was losing weight. ‘You look
good,’ he called.

She embraced him and led him inside. ‘Well, I’ve given up the slimming club,’ she announced. ‘Seven and six a week to be told off in front of everybody like a kid
that’s never done its homework? Sod that for a game of hopscotch. So I pinched a diet book and I’m doing it meself. She must have been coining it, that Glenda one. Come in. I’ve
finished the lessons in acupuncture. All the needles are ready, and you’ve won first prize.’

Don shook his head wearily. In the past couple of years, she’d done massage, which was lovely, cake decorating, which was rather hit and miss, and now she’d been messing about with
some Chinese chap and a pile of fine needles. She was ordering him to get his kit off.

‘Bloody hell, Molly. Give me a break, will you? I’ve had a terrible day, and you’re kicking off with designs on my body.’

She blew a raspberry. ‘Listen, cheerful. I’m only halfway through tattooing, so my designs are a bit limited, just butterflies and birds. No, I’m going to stick pins in you,
see if we can get that knee a bit looser.’ She studied him for a few seconds. ‘What’s happened? Does she know about me?’

‘No.’

‘What, then? Sit down; you look like you’ve gone eight rounds with a pro boxer. Will I get you a brandy? Cup of tea? Some crayons and a colouring book?’

‘Shut up, Moll. No. First, promise me you’re not studying to be a tattoo artist.’

‘Joke,’ she said before shutting up while he told her the lot. Rockers, bikes, Menlove Avenue and estate agency were all delivered wrapped in Skaters’ Trails carpet while she
sat quietly and listened. ‘So,’ Don concluded, ‘she went and had a panic attack. I didn’t notice at first, then, when I did notice, I thought she was putting it on, but Dr
Byrne said it was genuine. She’s scared. I told her I’ll be leaving her when Sean and Anne-Marie have gone – if not before. Terrified of being on her own, she is. And to be
honest, I’ve never been sure about her nerves. At least my bad knee’s visible because of the way I walk. What’s wrong with her could well be in her head, and we’ve no
bandages or calipers for that.’

Moll watched his face and shared his pain. ‘And you drove off before the doctor left?’

‘I did. I was in such a bloody mood, I had to park away from the road until I stopped shaking.’

‘Not nice, Don.’

‘I know that.’

She touched his hand. ‘I’ve seen her, you know. I got dressed up in all me muck and took a load of washing there. She’s pretty.’

‘Yes, she is.’

‘So you want me for me money, eh?’

‘Of course.’

Molly threw her head back and guffawed. She had a laugh only slightly lighter in weight than that of a dock worker, and her whole body shook. Well, the bits that weren’t encased in an
over-enthusiastic all-in-one girdle shook. She was his oxygen, his entertainment, his comfort. ‘I love you, Moll.’ There. He had finally said it.

That put a stop to her merriment. She wanted this man, but not at any price. ‘Don, I don’t care if we live tally, cos we don’t need certificates except for proof of insanity.
But I do care what happens to her. If Tess’s price is a house on Menlove Avenue, a bit of carpet and a bent mirror, she can have all that. I’ve two hundred thousand doing nothing, and a
business I’ll flog as soon as I feel like it. She can keep her launderette, live on her tree-lined avenue and have new furniture if she wants it. We’re off to Harley Street, you and I.
There’s a chap who does knees with metal and plastic or something. He can use putty for all I care, as long as we can get that leg a bit better.’

He blinked back a reservoir of emotion. Chalk and cheese? No. Molly was solid gold, while Tess was steel, shiny, cold and heartless. She was also frightened halfway to death, because she needed
scaffolding all round to preserve her air of normality. ‘She wouldn’t take it off you, love.’

‘No, but she’d grab it from you and bite your hand off at the wrist.’

‘I haven’t got it, have I?’

Molly sucked in some air and delivered a shrill whistle. ‘Then get it, you mad bugger. What happens to men’s imaginations, eh? A policy. You took out a policy years ago and never
told her about it. Or you’ve won the pools – whatever it takes. You want to live with me, she wants to move to Menlove Avenue, so that’s what has to happen. With my money, but sod
it.’

‘And when she finds out I’m living with my dead boss’s wife?’

‘Leave her to me. I’ve buried bigger dragons than your Tess, mate. Look how many builders I deal with on a daily basis. Cheeky bastards, most of them, but if they don’t toe the
line, they can beggar off to Mike Merryfield’s dump. Cut price? He couldn’t trim his toenails, never mind his prices. The government will deal with him, because we’re still
technically in a period of austerity as far as building’s concerned.’

That was another thing about Molly: she knew her onions, her cement and her bricks. Judging from some of the offerings delivered to table during her Italian period, she confused the three
occasionally. But she was an experimental cook, and life was never dull. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he promised. ‘The kids are still there, so I should have time.’
Whichever way he looked at it, he was going to be a bought man. Still, if he had to be someone’s property, he would choose Molly any day. ‘And thanks, Molly. It’s really generous
of you.’

She beamed at him. ‘I’ll be getting the better deal. I’d swap a house on any avenue for you. Now. How do you feel about rainbow trout?’

‘Are they found at the end of a rainbow with leprechaun’s gold?’

‘No, they’re found at the wet fish shop, and they cost quids.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ll give them a go, but don’t forget the brown sauce.’

‘Heathen,’ she hissed before making for the kitchen.

Don sat with her children, Sam and Uke. Uke had won his name by breaking Molly’s ukulele as soon as he entered the house for the first time. Molly had a George Formby party piece that she
sometimes performed in local hostelries, and the ukulele was a vital prop. So she’d bought another one, forgiven Uke and carried on as before.

They were grand dogs, lively, gentle and caring. Don would have loved to get the kids a dog, but they’d never lived anywhere suitable. Perhaps Menlove Avenue would be suitable, though he
couldn’t see himself depending on Tess to look after a puppy. There was too little love in her.

‘What am I going to do?’ he asked Uke, who always pushed his way to the front in a queue of canines, even if the queue consisted of just one pair.

No answer came, of course. ‘Molly?’ Don called.

A flustered face pushed its way through a serving hatch. ‘What?’ she snapped with mock anger. ‘I’m still tickling me trout here.’

‘Are they alive?’

‘Well, they’re very fresh.’ She paused. ‘How do I know when they’re cooked?’ she asked.

‘When they stop flapping about.’

She thought about that one for a few seconds. ‘Do I cut their heads off? Because they’re staring at me. I feel like I’m stood in the dock on a murder charge. What did you want,
anyway?’

‘Only to say I meant it.’

‘Meant what?’

He put a hand to his mouth. ‘Bugger. Can’t remember.’

‘You love me.’

‘That’s the one,’ he said.

She disappeared, and a few swear words accompanied by the smell of burnt fish and a clattering of implements travelled through from the kitchen. The head reappeared. ‘Don?’

‘What?’

‘Will you go down the chippy?’

He managed to suppress his laughter. ‘What about the trout, love?’

She shook her head gravely. ‘Cremated. I’ve sent flowers. They said family only, but I thought a little bunch of freesias would do no harm.’

And it was all compressed into those few minutes and seconds. He loved Molly because she didn’t mind being laughed at, because she courted attention with her ukulele and her Formby songs,
because she liked to learn and have a go, even with acupuncture and rainbow trout. She was alive, funny, generous, as mad as a frog in a bin, and beautiful. Lovely eyes, soft skin, open mind.

They ate cod and chips from vinegar-soaked paper, watched an old film on Molly’s television, played tiddly-winks and fought over which was a tiddle and which was a wink. Dogs joined in the
fun, made off with the tools of the game and left two adults spread out on the carpet.

‘You’ll have to help me up, Molly.’

‘I know. You’re a bloody liability. Tell you what, you stay where you are and I’ll build a cage round you so you can’t go home. I’ll put Sam and Uke in with you so
you won’t be lonely. Hey.’

‘What?’

She pushed the next words out of a corner of her mouth. ‘They’re staring at me funny.’

‘You what? Who?’

‘Me fish. Don’t look now, they’re watching. It’s the trout. They’ll never forgive me for the trout.’

‘They never saw the bloody trout.’

‘But they have ways, Don. Look at that angel fish—’