That Liverpool Girl by Ruth Hamilton Page A

classmates were acutely aware of it. She had tamed the lion named Merchants; Cambridge would be just one more pussy cat. Perhaps a Bengal tigress, but this girl would have it eating out of her hand.
    ‘Mel?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘We still have to go and see the Bingleys, don’t we?’
    ‘Yes, Mam. We do.’
    Gloria wasn’t here, as she had stayed behind for music lessons. Somewhere down the road, the sound of a cat being tortured would be inflicted on other people’s ears, and that was fine in Dr Thomas Bingley’s book. Gloria, like her mother, was an un-pretty plodder. Marianne Bingley’s looks had faded rapidly after marriage, and she was now a mouse, all corrugated brown hair, light brown skin and pale eyes. At least the eyes weren’t brown, but Tom wasn’t the sort of man to be grateful for small mercies. Her cooking was tolerable, but unimaginative, and he thanked whichever deity was in charge that Marie wasn’t learning the violin alongside their daughter.
    Two of them today, then. The mother of Mel Watson was easily as beautiful as the child, so he was in doubly responsive mode. Later, he would probably make use of his wife, but in the dark. Until now, the body he had pounded had been a substitute for Mel; now, it might change identity, and he was glad of that, since he hated to think of himself as a paedophile. Marie looked even plainer today, as would any dandelion in a bed of rare orchids.
    Marie smiled, just as she always did. She poured tea, handed out sandwiches and cakes, all the time wondering why the hell she stayed. She had been a good match, had brought money into the marriage, and the house on St Andrew’s Road was not mortgaged. But he wasn’t interested in her. Every time Gloria’s friend came to the house, Tom wanted sex. It wasn’t love-making; it was masturbation with a partner.
    And now, here came the mother. The accent was there, broadened vowels, confused consonants, participles jumping into places that ought to have been claimed by verbs. She ‘been’ somewhere, she ‘done’ something, yet Tom hung on every syllable, even when a T bore traces of S, when D collided with a different T. As she settled and the nervousness decreased, Eileen Watson’s English improved rapidly. It seemed that she had two tongues; one for the place of her origin, another for the rest of the world. She was well read . . .
    Yes, the older of the two guests was a long way removed from stupid. Physically, the woman was ethereal, like some Victorian heroine who had survived a slight decline. Her words cracked the facade, but failed to shatter the image. That such physical perfection should be visited on a product of the slums was sad. It would be of little use unless Eileen Watson chose to sell herself to sailors, Marie thought.
    But the daughter . . . Marie’s eyes moved left and settled on the younger wraith. Whenever seated next to this one, poor Gloria looked like a bag of bricks. Not only did she trail in the wake of the creature when it came to physical attributes, but Mel was also an out-and-out winner in the academic stakes. She seemed to float ahead of the work, as if she took extra lessons, yet that could not possibly be the case. But worse by far than all that was the fact that Mel knew what was happening. The mother seemed unaware, but the daughter awarded Tom sly glances and pretty little smiles. Oh yes, she knew how to work the oversexed creature to which Marie had fastened herself.
    ‘Marie?’
    She looked at her husband. ‘Yes?’
    ‘A fresh pot of tea, perhaps?’
    The smile remained in situ. The urge to break the teapot against his skull had to be carefully denied, because Marianne Bingley was a deliberately good wife. She was a good wife into whose bank account went every penny she could salvage from housekeeping. Her running-away money was safe, but she had to wait until her children were grown. Like the obedient soul she portrayed, she asked the visitors whether they might prefer coffee,