The Liverpool Trilogy (113 page)

Don glanced at her. It was clear that she had a plan, because her back was ramrod straight, and she was occupied by something that didn’t require too much concentration. Tess was a poser,
though she seemed happily oblivious to that fact. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

Tess bit her lip; he thought he knew her so well. Perhaps this was a demonstration of familiarity breeding contempt. ‘I found a house,’ she replied. ‘On Menlove. This end, of
course.’

‘Of course.’

‘And I put down a deposit out of my own money. She’s leaving carpets and curtains, so that’ll save a few bob. Do you want to look at it? We could go together.’

‘That won’t be necessary. How much is it with its carpets and curtains?’

‘And light fittings,’ she added. ‘I forgot about them.’

‘How much?’ Don repeated.

‘Nineteen hundred. It’s got a nice new kitchen. There’s another house for eighteen, but that has a tiny kitchen and no soft furnishings included.’

‘Or light fittings?’

He was making fun of her. ‘Or light fittings,’ she answered obediently.

‘OK. Write the address down, and I’ll get it looked at. Is your deposit returnable if there’s anything wrong?’

‘Naturally.’ She changed needles. Did he think she’d arrived in the last shower of rain? He knew only too well that she was a damned good businesswoman, that she’d fought
every inch of the way to make a decent home. Everything here was hers, right down to table mats and cruet. For a minute or so, she stopped knitting and wrote down the details of the house.
‘There you are. She’ll have taken down the For Sale sign.’

Don picked up the sheet of paper. ‘What are you making?’ he asked.

God! Surely he wasn’t attempting to start a conversation? ‘A jumper for me,’ she replied. ‘Isn’t the wool a lovely colour? It matches my eyes.’
Pick that
gauntlet up
, she said in her head.
You’ll find no one with eyes prettier than mine.

Don’s thoughts ran on similar lines. Tess was the best-looking woman for miles. Her eyes were stunning, as was her body, while her legs stopped many a man at work. Builders, glaziers,
window cleaners and coalmen showered her with attention, but she’d ceased to notice. Had she ever noticed?

Tess turned her temper down to simmer level. The other woman needed to be left out of the recipe until the deeds of that house were parked in the vault of her bank. He was staring at her. She
couldn’t be sure of his expression without looking directly at him, but he wanted her. All men wanted her. Even Anne-Marie’s Rocker gave her the eye from time to time.

‘Tess?’

‘What?’

He paused for a while. ‘The sofa’s killing me.’

She didn’t hesitate. ‘Then come back to bed. I’ll have the sofa.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Did he see? Did he really? ‘I have to use the sofa if you use the bed, or we’ll be giving mixed messages to Sean and Anne-Marie.’ The welt of her knitting needed at least
another inch. ‘It’s time to talk to them, Don. We should do it tonight after the meal.’

He had no idea why he was suddenly prevaricating. He didn’t love her, did he? And even if he looked at it from a pragmatic viewpoint, Molly was paying for the house. Without Molly, there
would be no move, no change . . . He was being bought, as was Tess. For under two thousand pounds, Molly would become his owner; for the same sum, Tess would get the house. What was the matter with
him? Molly was a joy to be with, while this one was . . . she was a challenge. A part of him of which he was less than proud still wanted to tame his legal wife. Just once, he needed to make her
scream with joy. But she wouldn’t. She couldn’t relax, was incapable of physical excitement— Good God, he still desired this cold, calculating woman.

‘Shepherd’s pie,’ she said apropos of nothing at all. ‘A bit of salad on the side, I thought. Weather’s still just about warm enough for salad.’

Don almost grinned. He was thinking about sex while she concerned herself with lettuce and tomatoes. That was probably the case in most households. Men pondered the wonder of orgasm while women
knitted and made sure the family was adequately fed. Molly wasn’t brilliant with food, but she was great in bed. And on the floor. And in the car. ‘Tess?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did you ever have a climax?’

She was studying her pattern. ‘No,’ she said eventually. She would not be ruffled; no matter what Don said or did, she would be ruffle-free. But the flame under her temper was
suddenly burning at a slightly higher temperature. She must not allow the mixture to bubble; it needed ice.

‘You pretended.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

She shrugged and swapped her needles again. ‘It seemed the polite thing to do.’

‘Then you turned your back on me and allowed me to help myself.’

At last, she put down the work and looked him squarely in the face. ‘I’m sorry. Anyway, it’s too late now, isn’t it? You’ve made your decision. I was frightened
before getting used to the idea.’ In that moment, she realized that she did want the house more than she wanted this place and him. ‘I suppose you could move with us if you wanted
to.’

He couldn’t. He couldn’t take Molly’s money and abandon her. There was no real endowment policy, and there was no turning back, because Molly
was
the pretend policy. No.
He was having doubts about radical change, about losing his children, this road, familiar faces and places. ‘I don’t want to talk to them tonight,’ he said carefully.
‘I’d rather wait until we know your house is steady. I know you need to get a house at this end of the avenue, because you’ll have to be near the launderette. But there’s no
point getting Anne-Marie all excited about living on John Lennon’s street if it all falls through.’

It wasn’t a street, it was an avenue, but she must not correct him. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Whatever you like. Now that you mention it, that would be better. The house is near
his, by the way. I wonder if it’s wise to take her there, because those boys attract some wild ones. She’s daft enough without getting involved with a rampageous fan club.’
Hold on
, she advised herself.
Don’t erupt, or you’ll destroy this lovely new wool. Do what you always do; sit on your temper. In all these years, he’s never seen you in
full flood.

A sliver of sunlight pierced the window and illuminated her hair. Like molten gold, it glowed, providing a halo above a perfect face. Even now, she fed something in him. Yes, she was selfish,
careless and unforgiving, but the Irish in her kept her young. Tess was like poetry. She sat there on her own page of life, but if you looked closely, she was a piece of art. There was elegance in
her movements, in her stillness, in everything she did or didn’t do. ‘Tess, I did love you.’

She raised her chin, and the halo moved so that it was behind her whole head. And suddenly, the fuel that fed her temper leaked and engulfed her. ‘You don’t even know me; you never
did know me.’ In a trice, she was gas mark nine, and she was shouting. ‘I am a determined protector of myself and of my children. You weren’t there. You didn’t lie cold in a
wooden caravan, didn’t starve for three days in a row, didn’t see your daddy drunk every other night on cider and poteen. You never saw your mammy all bloody with a baby hanging out of
her. You weren’t there,’ she screamed. ‘You didn’t help bury that little dead thing in the orchard. I was four years old with a baby’s corpse in my arms, and I
didn’t know whether it was a boy or a girl. It wasn’t even a person, just a doll in a dirty towel in a cardboard box in a hole in the ground. I swore even then, at the age of four, that
my children would thrive.’

Don blinked stupidly. There
was
fire in her, and he could hear it now. But she’d kept it all inside, the fear, the memories, the need to save her own two from anything approaching
deprivation. ‘I knew your family was poor, but I’d no idea that you’d been through so much.’

‘I don’t advertise,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t parade my past and serve it up with custard. It’s not because of shame; it’s because I will not cry. I will
never again be broken by life, by you, by that lot out there on the streets, by tramps who offer an apple if I’ll take my knickers off.’ She stood up. ‘Fortunately, we had apples
of our own, and we often lived on them, so I hung on to my knickers. Do not
ever
assume that you know me, Don Compton. But I’ll allow you this much. Should you or anyone harm my kids,
I will kill. And bugger the panic attacks.’ She stormed off into the bedroom.

Don shook his head in near-incredulity. He believed what she said, but he had never heard her swear until now. As her anger had grown, the slightly Scouse accent had shifted nearer to southern
Irish, and her eyes had blazed like blue flame in a winter fire. This was the source of her panics, then. She would never have peace, would for ever look over her shoulder to see if her monsters
were closing in. And every monster had been a man.

Could he leave her? Could he really walk out on a woman whose children were almost ready to fly the nest? She wasn’t right, wasn’t fit to be alone. Dr Byrne had broached the subject
of some kind of electrical therapy, but she wasn’t bad enough for that, surely? Don didn’t know her? He now had insight enough to understand that nothing would ever be enough to fill
the hole created by an almost total lack of childhood.
I’ll give you an apple if you take your knickers off.
Small wonder she was frigid if her little body had been judged at the price
of a Cox’s red.

Her father had dried himself out, though he’d certainly been a drunk when young, and he’d slipped back into the habit after a few dry years. And her mother had been in no condition
to protect, care for and feed the ever-expanding family. So the child had become her own parent, and no one would ever break through to the Tess inside.

He left the building in as much of a hurry as his old injury would allow. Tess wasn’t the crazy one; he was. It was becoming clear that there were several psychological mechanisms over
which he had little or no control. Was everyone the same, or did he need locking up? No one could keep two women. One was enough bother for any man. What the hell was he supposed to do now?

The car made the decision for him. It took him in the direction of a female who was eight years his senior, who was wife, friend, sister and mother all in the one package. Molly was the only
person in whom he could confide without worrying about gossip and the trouble it caused. However, the weight of the parcel he needed to deliver might just break her back. He was probably about to
lose her. But he didn’t want to see Anne-Marie stuck at home with an ailing mother who couldn’t be left; wasn’t prepared to place a heavy burden on the shoulders of either of his
children.

Oh, Molly. She was slimmer these days, quicker off the mark in a chase, especially when running from a disabled man. Her latest decision was that she would remain a poor cook, since the serving
up of the inedible would help her reach her goal of nine stone, as long as people ignored her when she begged for fish and chips.

He parked in a lane that led to her house. She would be home by this time, since most business was done in the mornings. Almost absently, he rubbed the knee. Driving affected him and sometimes
caused pain, but the bigger discomfort was in his soul today. God, he was tired. He leaned a weary head on the steering wheel. This day promised to continue unhappy, as he would be disappointing
both his women. Could he live without Moll? Could he live with a furious Tess who was about to lose a big kitchen, fitted carpets, good curtains and some light-shades? A mortgage? Who would allow
him one, and how could he keep up payments? Yet the trimmings Tess had found on Menlove Avenue were what she needed. They were scaffolding, distractions, dressings for a fevered mind. When the
novelty wore off, she would probably drift once again in the direction of discontent.

For the first time, Don entered Molly’s domain in dread. He wasn’t afraid of her, but he didn’t want to see her upset. And the shredded remains of his feelings for Tess kept
snagging the wheels on his train of thought. Then there were the kids to think about . . .

Molly sat him down and gave him a cup of hot, sweet tea. ‘Now, Don Compton. You’ve a face on you that might win a knobbly knee competition at Blackpool, but it doesn’t match me
décor. These days, men get picked to fit in with the furniture, so buck up. What happened? Is somebody ill?’

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes for a few seconds. ‘Oh, Molly,’ he managed finally. ‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. She’s found her
house and left a deposit, but she’s fit for nothing. She boiled over this afternoon, and we both got burnt. In all the years I’ve known her, she’s never lost her temper, not
completely. If she gets the house and moves, she’ll be happy till the kids disappear, then the electric shock treatment might become a reality. And I don’t want my daughter giving up
her apprenticeship to look after Tess.’ He sighed before taking a few sips of tea.

‘What do you mean by boiled over? Are you talking about an accident with the milk pan?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘Well, it erupted that way, as if the stuff inside her had found a crack in an outside layer, and she went up like a rocket. At first, I thought she was talking a
load of nonsense, but she wasn’t. She said I didn’t know her, I’d never known her. But when she finally started to come out with it – and I know there’s a lot more
– it was bloody heartbreaking. She’d nobody as a kid, Moll. They were starving hungry and cold at night. She . . . oh, my God.’ He was weeping.

‘Don? Sweetheart?’

‘Buried a dead baby. She was four, Moll.’

‘Hell’s bloody bells. Who killed it?’ Molly asked.

‘Born dead. That’s just the start. I can’t leave her. I can’t come here and live with you, because she’s still full of that stuff, and someone has to be there to
listen and make sure she takes her pills. I don’t want her in a mental hospital or stuck with nurses drifting in and out of the house night and day. She’s the mother of my kids, after
all. And I’m not going to let anything spoil their future.’ He paused and took Molly’s hand. ‘So we’ll have to stay in the flat, my love. I just can’t leave her.
I can’t be happy here with you while I’m waiting for a phone call to say she’s strung herself up or taken an overdose.’