The Children of Lovely Lane Read online

  ‘No, of course it can’t, Da,’ said Amy as she closed the car boot on her mother’s new leather case. ‘I asked Dodo, she said it was impossible.’ Amy had done no such thing but had prepared for every obstacle her mother might try and put in the way of her father having the holiday he worked for all year long. ‘Anyway, isn’t there a hospital in Abersoch?’

  ‘I don’t know if there is a hospital.’ Her mother’s voice was filled with alarm. ‘Did we check?’

  Her husband lifted the cap from his head, pushed his hair back and waited for a second before he spoke again. His wife was the worst type of hypochondriac and had suffered from every ailment known to man, and some that weren’t. Miraculously, she never felt ill on Wednesdays, which was the day for the hairdresser’s, or Saturdays, which was her shopping day. On every other weekday there was a possibility that her sister might ask her to call into the processing plant and help him earn his five per cent. It had been mentioned on a number of occasions since Amy had turned fourteen. That was the day she developed her first mysterious illness and they had come thick and fast ever since.

  ‘I am very sure there is a hospital and a doctor and that once we get to Abersoch the sea air will make you feel much better.’

  Amy’s mother looked at her husband with mild disdain. ‘You care nothing for how I feel,’ she grumbled as Amy propelled her into the passenger seat then slammed the door shut after her.

  ‘Are you sure you’re going to be OK, queen?’ asked her father, before he opened the driver’s door. Amy was the apple of his eye. The one his heart adored, and he spoilt her something rotten. She could say or do no wrong.

  ‘Look, Da.’ Amy pointed to Dodo running down the street towards them. ‘Dodo will be staying with me. We’re going to have a pyjama party and do our hair and watch the TV tonight. We haven’t bought a TV for it to just sit there in the corner of the room, you know.’

  Neither Amy nor her parents knew anyone else who had a TV. The day Amy had asked for it, it had been delivered.

  Her father kissed Amy again on the top of her head and with a grin slipped into the car and started the engine. Amy knew he couldn’t wait to reach Abersoch and have fourteen whole days away from the processing plant and Mrs McConaghy, the sister-in-law he had never been allowed to address by her first name. She pictured him taking himself down to the long beach and finding a bench far from her mother’s nagging tongue where he could listen to the sea and rediscover his natural calm.

  Amy and Dodo stood and waved the car off down the avenue. As soon as it had turned the corner, Amy said, ‘Right, we’ve only got six hours to get ready. Get a move on.’

  The afternoon involved a lot of messing about with hair and make-up as well as the trying on of almost every outfit in Amy’s wardrobe.

  ‘Shouldn’t we tidy up, Amy?’ asked Dodo.

  ‘Dodo, you know we have a lady who does. She’ll be in on Monday – leave it for her, else she’ll have nothing to do. Our house is too tidy anyway.’

  Dodo looked around the room, concerned. She had never seen such a mess. It crossed her mind that now Amy’s parents had left, Amy was turning a little wild. Her eyes were bright and she could barely contain her excitement.

  ‘I’m going to bring Ben back here tonight, Dodo,’ Amy said as she sat at the dressing table and brushed her hair a hundred times.

  ‘What, to this mess?’ Dodo looked around her. ‘Amy, do you know what you’re doing? I mean, what do you know about the man? You’ve only met him three times.’

  ‘I know that, but he’s a gentleman. Come on, Dodo, if you had a little more class about you, you would like him too. Trust you to get yourself a vacuum-cleaner salesman. That’s very common, you know, and he’s probably married. Mind you, that’s very exciting, isn’t it? What do you think it’s like to be kissed by a married man, Dodo? Let the fella kiss you tonight and then tell me. I’ll give you an eyeliner pencil if you do.’

  Dodo was holding the hairbrush and she felt as though she wanted to smash Amy over the head with it. ‘No, I will not. I’m not that type of girl, Amy, and nor should you be.’

  Amy laughed. ‘Dodo, you are so old-fashioned, but I don’t care. I’m out to have my fun. Babycham all the way for me tonight and then I’m going to get Ben back here and it will be the best night of my life.’

  And now here she was, excitedly shrugging on her red coat as she made her way out of the Adelphi, all set to put into action her plan for her night of passion. Ben ran down the short flight of steps in front of the bar and asked the doorman to hail a cab. ‘No need for the bus tonight, Amy. I’m going to treat my lady special.’

  Amy grinned. She felt special. She was wearing her fox-fur stole and new hat and she knew she looked sophisticated and much older than her eighteen years. She wondered whether she should tell Ben she was a virgin, but she decided against it. He might think she was a child, be turned off by her lack of womanly ways. No, she would keep going to the last second and perhaps he might not even need to know at all.

  ‘It’s a shame your friend Dodo had to leave so early.’

  Amy was momentarily confused. ‘Oh, Dodo, she’s just a baby. If she isn’t home by ten her ma and da would kick off. It’s not like that for me, though. I’m my own woman, Ben.’ Amy blew her cigarette smoke into Ben’s face for effect. She thought it worked. Tonight, she was Rita Hayworth, only prettier.

  When they reached the house, Amy didn’t even have time to switch the light on in the hall. Her keys fell to the monogrammed coir doormat as Ben kicked the front door shut with his foot and immediately began undoing the buttons on her coat. He took the fox-fur stole from her shoulders and threw it on to the stairs, where it landed on the new Axminster carpet with a dejected thud.

  ‘Careful,’ said Amy as she caught her breath. Ben was everywhere. He was in a hurry. This wasn’t how she wanted it to happen. She felt his hands down her blouse, heard a button pop and his fingers were skimming the edge of her silk French knickers. She had no idea what to do or where to put her hands. ‘Ben!’ she said. ‘Ben, can we go in the kitchen, to the sofa. Do you want a drink? My da has whisky in the press.’

  For a brief moment, Ben let her go. He looked over her shoulder and down the hallway, weighing up her words. ‘Where is it?’ he asked, his voice now altered, strange to Amy, guttural and impatient.

  Amy wanted to play it coy, but failed. Instead, she stumbled slightly and opened the door to the kitchen. Within seconds, she was lying on the sofa, Ben on top of her. She couldn’t think fast enough.

  His weight was pressing down on her and she found it difficult to breathe. She was aware that from the waist down she was now naked because Ben’s well-practised hands had removed most of her clothes.

  ‘I’m a virgin,’ she spluttered. She hadn’t meant to say that, but she could think of nothing else to say that would give her time. She wanted to hold him back while she caught her breath and gave her mind the chance to properly grasp what was happening.

  Outside she heard a scream. Was it a scream? She struggled on to her elbow, but he pushed her back. ‘Where are you off to, miss?’ His smile was more of a leer and his breath smelt strongly of whisky and smoke. The scream came again. It sounded like Dodo. Was it Dodo?

  ‘Ben, did you hear that?’ She had never in all of her life heard a scream like that. It was coming from the entry that ran down the back of the houses. She wanted to push herself up, to open the door and check, but it was too late, his lips were harsh and clamped over her mouth again. She felt her body stiffen in response. This wasn’t going how she had planned.

  She wondered what was missing. Was it supposed to be like this? She had imagined her first time to be different.

  He moved, and she gasped and managed to speak. ‘Ben, wait.’

  He raised his head and looked down at her. ‘What?’ he said gruffly. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I want to,’ she whispered. ‘I do. It’s just that I never have before.’

  ‘Look, it will be fi
ne. It won’t hurt. I love you, Amy, I really do. You’re an amazing woman. Really beautiful. There isn’t a woman as beautiful as you in all of Liverpool, you know that, don’t you?’

  Amy softened. He had called her a woman. He loved her. She was beautiful. This was more like it. And then, without another second’s delay, he pushed himself hard inside her and she yelped in pain.

  It hurt a lot. He was impatient, his fingers sharp. Her leg pained as he pushed it to one side. He failed to hear her ask him to hold on for a second while she accommodated the pain, became used to the sensation, and before she knew it, he was pushing and his hip bones pierced her side and the weight of his thighs pained her. But it was too late to speak: he was gone, lost somewhere in the mission of his own desire and then he let out a sound like an animal and stopped. It was over in seconds and her first thought was, was that it? She turned her face and looked at his profile, eyes staring, half grinning, breathing hard, and she felt repulsed, and then her heart stopped in terror. She heard the front door slam.

  ‘I told you I was sick, but you wouldn’t believe me. Do you think I vomited that soup back up deliberately? That hotel was the worst place I have ever stayed in my life, and that’s saying something, given our honeymoon. I wouldn’t let my new suitcase stay in that room, never mind us. What a carry-on. What on earth...? Is that our Amy’s stole?’

  Ben was gone. In a flash he withdrew, dragged up his trousers and, seeing the kitchen door, slipped the bolt across and ran out through the back door. But not before the room was flooded with light and his naked rear end had been spotted by Amy’s father, who, after a slight delay while his mind absorbed the horror of the sight before him, gave chase.

  Amy did some quick thinking. ‘He broke in, Mam,’ she said as she gathered her clothes and made herself decent. ‘He broke in.’

  ‘Really? Through the bolted kitchen door? Really? Decided to throw your clothes around the hallway first, did he?’ Her mother’s voice was as cold as ice and Amy knew that her life was about to change.

  Ben scaled the fence and, even with his trousers round his knees, was too young and too fast for Amy’s father, who was shouting so loud, he woke the whole neighbourhood. He didn’t catch Ben, but he did find Doreen, lying in the entry, her head bleeding.

  And so, on one night, Amy lost her virginity, her reputation, her best and only friend, her parents’ trust, and Ben. But unbeknown to her, she had gained something far more problematic than the anger of her parents and, as it would transpire, dangerous too.

  *

  Doreen thought she must be at work. Her eyes were closed and she was confused. She was lying on her back. What in God’s name was she doing, lying down at work? She struggled to raise herself up and almost made it. The sound of hurrying footsteps came closer and there were whispers, in what sounded like Matron’s voice.

  ‘Do her parents know?’

  ‘Yes, they accompanied her here. They’re in the waiting area with the police. She was found just a few yards from the house.’

  That was Night Sister, Doreen thought.

  ‘Hello...’ She tried to speak.

  Doreen didn’t work on nights, so what was she doing at St Angelus now? She only ever spoke to Night Sister when she did the handover in the mornings. And why was Matron here on casualty? Matron always telephoned her to let her know she was coming; they got along well together, Doreen and Matron. She knew Matron was tough with the nurses, but she didn’t need to be tough with Doreen. Dessie had introduced her to Matron and Matron had helped Doreen to work her way up into the clerk’s post on casualty. Ever since, she’d spent every day making sure that Matron and Dessie would never be disappointed with her. She wanted them to know that they had made the right choice.

  ‘We called you, Matron, I hope you don’t mind. I thought that with her being a member of staff, you would want to know.’

  ‘Can you hear me, Doreen?’

  Doreen tried to reply, but her throat was swollen and her mouth appeared to be full of something and the metallic smell and taste was making her sick. It was blood. Someone must be bleeding a great deal. It was a smell she had become used to, working on casualty. But this smell, today, it was strong and it was making her ill.

  She leant up and retched.

  ‘It’s OK, my dear, I have you.’

  Arms across her back, supporting her. Whose arms? She tried to look down at the arms to see who they belonged to. Her eyes cracked open just in time to see the white enamel kidney dish as she vomited and heard a clinking sound.

  ‘Count those teeth, Nurse.’ It was Matron. Whose teeth?

  ‘We need to get her to theatre.’ That was Night Sister again.

  Doreen attempted to open her eyes, but they were stuck together and try as she might, they just would not part. The dull, heavy, so heavy, pain across the front of her face made her want to cry out.

  ‘I came as soon as I could. What are her obs? Count those teeth, Nurse, just so we know. Mind you, we’ll be able to see how many are missing.’ That was definitely Dr Mackintosh. Dr Mackintosh was there and he wanted to count someone’s teeth.

  ‘I’m not happy with the vomiting. When did it start? Let’s get her into X-ray.’

  ‘She’s been raped, Doctor. She’s got a large perineal tear. She’s lost a great deal of blood and her arm’s broken. But it’s the head injury that seems to be the big problem. Looks like it’s been banged against the wall.’ Night Sister again. Should she not be going home now?

  ‘Look at her eyes. I can barely open them to check her pupil reaction. He must have been very heavy with his fists, the poor, poor girl. What did she do to deserve this?’ Matron was nice. She was obviously very worried about some poor, poor girl.

  Just before she blacked out again, Doreen heard someone crying and it sounded like Matron. But it couldn’t be Matron.

  ‘Nurse, quickly, please. I need this young lady on to the ward and tell the police they can come back in the morning and I will give them a full report. Right now, I’m more concerned with her head injuries and keeping her alive. This is going to be a long, long night.’ And then, ‘She is one of ours, Doctor. She is part of the St Angelus family. Do your very best.’

  Who was? Who was Matron talking about?

  Doreen attempted to lift her head. The phone was ringing, she needed to answer it, but instead she closed her eyes and slipped into the darkness.

  3

  If there was one thing Lily Lancashire hated more than anything else in the whole world, it was the sound of children playing.

  Home for Lily was Clare Cottages, situated on the bank of the River Mersey on the Old Dock Road. She thought that the person who had named the ugly, four-storey, soot-blackened red-brick tenement buildings had either been drunk or cruel, giving the cottages such a pretty name. ‘We only agreed to move here because it sounded so nice,’ she often heard the neighbours say. ‘What a joke. Someone in the corpy was ’avin’ a right laugh there.’

  ‘The corpy’ was the Liverpool Corporation, the landlord of Clare Cottages. It was the corpy that had decided to move the bombed-out residents of Scotland Road, where there had been up to four large families to every house, to the already overcrowded Clare Cottages.

  Those who complained about the condition of Clare Cottages were the ones who took pride in their homes, who washed their net curtains and scrubbed the step, who borrowed dolly blue for their laundry from each other when they’d run out. Lily’s mother, much to Lily’s shame, was not one of those women. Her mother never jumped out of bed on a bright and breezy day, eager to get the nets on the line, never helped other women on the same landing to bounce a pram full of wet washing down the steps to the courtyard, was never one to pop in and out of their neighbours’ homes.

  Lily wished her mam could be more like Mrs McGuffy, who installed herself in the courtyard as self-appointed guardian of the washing lines. ‘I’ll watch the nets don’t blow off,’ Mrs McGuffy would shout when the weather was fine. ‘You just send our
Billy down with the chair and me fags. Me bleedin’ leg ulcers will only let me do those stairs once a day.’ And there she would sit, all day long, surrounded by a plume of blue smoke, her face turned to the sun, the hot metal of her curlers burning into her scalp, the black tar on the top of the bin sheds melting. As soon as the nets were dry, she’d round up the cottage kids and instruct them to return the curtains, sun-bleached and folded, to whichever home they’d been sent from, and to bring out the next batch for the lines and a fresh cuppa for herself. There was always a chipped and brown-stained cup on top of the metal bin beside her and when she finished the tea, she used the dregs to extinguish the last of her cigarette. Mrs McGuffy was a demon for cleanliness and objected to anyone throwing a ciggie butt on to the concrete floor of the washing yard, even if it was in the middle of the worst housing in Liverpool. ‘Chuck that stub down the sink, would you, love, before you fill the cup up,’ she would say to whichever kid she sent for a refill. The kids didn’t always remember, but it didn’t matter, the tea was so strong and sweet, she drank it anyway.

  There were two distinct types of families in Clare Cottages. There were those with mothers like Mrs McGuffy, who scrubbed children and steps with equal vigour and regularity. They cleaned windows, baked biscuits, visited the wash house on the same day every week and took their children to the public bath house on Saturday nights, ready for church on Sunday. Such families were free from lice and scurvy. Their children did not stagger around on rail-thin legs or rub at weeping eyes. Their hair was not lank through lack of food and their skin was not permanently darkened as a result of ingrained dirt. They were rarely cold.

  Families such as Lily’s, on the other hand, had parents who shunned Mass at St Chad’s, preferring to worship at the bar in the Red Admiral public house. They lived in homes where there was no routine of orderliness or cleanliness. Where a trip to the public bath house came rarely, usually when a visit from the welfare inspector loomed or the lice had become too numerous to bear; homes where food came, not always, but usually once a day. No one asked these mothers for a loan of the dolly blue. The nets and bedding in these homes were the colour of a miserable winter sky.