be paying herself. The sadness she felt for Myrtle was mixed with jubilation. She didn’t care what underhand things Cora might have got up to with the cheque, nor did it matter that Horace Flynn owned the building.
She
, Alice Lacey, was now the proprietor of a hairdressing salon. Apart from her wedding day and thetimes she’d had the children, this was the proudest day of her life.
‘That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got on your cheek, luv,’ Florrie Piper remarked when Alice came back.
Alice touched the bruise as if she had forgotten it was there. ‘I walked into a door,’ she explained.
‘You should be more careful.’ Had it been anyone else, Florrie would have taken for granted that the bruise had been administered by her feller, but everyone knew that John Lacey would never lay a finger on his wife.
He hadn’t meant to hit her. He never meant to hurt her, either by word or deed. But she was out such a long time and by the time she got back he was genuinely worried and as mad as hell.
One by one the girls came in. He didn’t see much of them nowadays. They seemed to spend a lot of time in other people’s houses. As soon as they realised their mother wasn’t there they went straight to bed. He could hear them chattering away upstairs, laughing and giggling, and he felt excluded, knowing they were avoiding him, knowing
he
was the reason why they were out so much and never brought friends home as they used to. It was the same reason why Alice put Cormac to bed so early – so the lad wouldn’t witness the way his dad spoke to his mam.
John went to the bottom of the stairs and listened to his daughters fight over who would sleep in the middle, knowing Maeve would be the loser, always wanting to please. What was needed was an extra bed. It could be squeezed in somehow. A chap at work had told him you could get bunk beds and John wondered if he could make a set, or a pair, or whatever they were called. He liked working with wood, so much more natural than metal. There’d be fights over who’d sleep on top, whichwas reached by means of a small ladder, but he’d organise a rota. He’d talk it over with Alice.
No, he wouldn’t! With a sound that was almost a sob, John Lacey sat on the bottom of the stairs and buried his monstrous face in his hands. He had forgotten, but he and Alice didn’t talk any more, and it was his fault, not hers. John felt as if he’d lost control of his brain. His brain made him say things, do things, that the real John found despicable and wouldn’t let him do the things he knew were right.
The clock on the sideboard chimed eight, which meant Alice had been away an hour. But she’d said she was only going round Garnet Street to see her dad! John’s lip curled and hot anger welled up in his chest. He’d like to bet she was up against a wall in a back entry with some feller. In fact, he’d go round Garnet Street and check, prove beyond doubt that he’d been right in his suspicions.
‘I’m just going out a minute,’ he shouted upstairs.
Only Maeve deigned to answer. ‘All right, Dad,’ she called.
John grabbed his coat and hurried out into the gaslit streets. It took just a few minutes to reach Garnet Street and even less to establish that there was no one in Danny Mitchell’s house. To make sure, he went round the back and let himself in, but the house was as dark as it was empty.
Afterwards John was never quite sure what happened to his head. There was a glorious feeling of triumph, a quickening of his heart and a shiver ran through his bones at the realisation that he’d been right all along. Now he had a genuine reason to hate her.
He returned home, sat in the chair under the window, tapping his fingers on the wooden arm, waiting for Alice, his slut of a wife, to come home.
It was half past nine when she arrived and by then he was beginning to worry that she’d left him, though common sense told him she would never leave the children – certainly not with
She
, Alice Lacey, was now the proprietor of a hairdressing salon. Apart from her wedding day and thetimes she’d had the children, this was the proudest day of her life.
‘That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got on your cheek, luv,’ Florrie Piper remarked when Alice came back.
Alice touched the bruise as if she had forgotten it was there. ‘I walked into a door,’ she explained.
‘You should be more careful.’ Had it been anyone else, Florrie would have taken for granted that the bruise had been administered by her feller, but everyone knew that John Lacey would never lay a finger on his wife.
He hadn’t meant to hit her. He never meant to hurt her, either by word or deed. But she was out such a long time and by the time she got back he was genuinely worried and as mad as hell.
One by one the girls came in. He didn’t see much of them nowadays. They seemed to spend a lot of time in other people’s houses. As soon as they realised their mother wasn’t there they went straight to bed. He could hear them chattering away upstairs, laughing and giggling, and he felt excluded, knowing they were avoiding him, knowing
he
was the reason why they were out so much and never brought friends home as they used to. It was the same reason why Alice put Cormac to bed so early – so the lad wouldn’t witness the way his dad spoke to his mam.
John went to the bottom of the stairs and listened to his daughters fight over who would sleep in the middle, knowing Maeve would be the loser, always wanting to please. What was needed was an extra bed. It could be squeezed in somehow. A chap at work had told him you could get bunk beds and John wondered if he could make a set, or a pair, or whatever they were called. He liked working with wood, so much more natural than metal. There’d be fights over who’d sleep on top, whichwas reached by means of a small ladder, but he’d organise a rota. He’d talk it over with Alice.
No, he wouldn’t! With a sound that was almost a sob, John Lacey sat on the bottom of the stairs and buried his monstrous face in his hands. He had forgotten, but he and Alice didn’t talk any more, and it was his fault, not hers. John felt as if he’d lost control of his brain. His brain made him say things, do things, that the real John found despicable and wouldn’t let him do the things he knew were right.
The clock on the sideboard chimed eight, which meant Alice had been away an hour. But she’d said she was only going round Garnet Street to see her dad! John’s lip curled and hot anger welled up in his chest. He’d like to bet she was up against a wall in a back entry with some feller. In fact, he’d go round Garnet Street and check, prove beyond doubt that he’d been right in his suspicions.
‘I’m just going out a minute,’ he shouted upstairs.
Only Maeve deigned to answer. ‘All right, Dad,’ she called.
John grabbed his coat and hurried out into the gaslit streets. It took just a few minutes to reach Garnet Street and even less to establish that there was no one in Danny Mitchell’s house. To make sure, he went round the back and let himself in, but the house was as dark as it was empty.
Afterwards John was never quite sure what happened to his head. There was a glorious feeling of triumph, a quickening of his heart and a shiver ran through his bones at the realisation that he’d been right all along. Now he had a genuine reason to hate her.
He returned home, sat in the chair under the window, tapping his fingers on the wooden arm, waiting for Alice, his slut of a wife, to come home.
It was half past nine when she arrived and by then he was beginning to worry that she’d left him, though common sense told him she would never leave the children – certainly not with
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