Laceys of Liverpool Read Free Page A

behind thick lace curtains and steamed-up windows, quite separate from the one outside. There was always something to laugh about, always a choice piece of gossip doing the rounds. The women had sorted out the war between them – it would probably have ended sooner had Winston Churchill been privy to the sound advice of Myrtle Rimmer’s customers.
    Most women were willing, even anxious, to open up their hearts to their hairdresser. There were some very respectable men in Bootle who’d have a fit if they knew the things Alice had been told about them. She never repeated anything, not even to Bernie.
    Bernadette waited until Alice had cut Daisy O’Leary’s ringlets so they were level both sides and Mrs O’Leary pronounced herself satisfied. She wished them Merry Christmas and departed.
    Alice locked the door, turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ and between them the two women half carried, half dragged the proprietor to her flat upstairs and laid her on the bed.
    ‘Jaysus,’ Bernadette gasped. ‘It don’t half pong in here. She’s not fit to live on her own, Al, let alone run a hairdresser’s.’
    The bed was unmade, the curtains still drawn. Alice covered her employer with several dirty blankets and regarded her worriedly. ‘I’ll pop round tomorrer after dinner, like. See if she’s all right. She said something about going to a friend’s for tea.’
    ‘Has she got any relatives?’ Bernadette asked.
    ‘There’s a daughter somewhere. Southampton, I think. Myrtle’s husband died ages ago.’ She heard someone try the salon door, but ignored it. There was a notice announcing they closed at four.
    They returned downstairs. After Bernadette had gone,Alice brushed the floor again, gave it a cursory going over with a wet mop, wiped surfaces, polished mirrors, straightened chairs, arranged the three dryers at the same angle and tied the dirty towels in a bundle ready to go to the laundry when the salon reopened after Christmas. She glanced around to see if there was anything she’d missed. Well, the lace curtain could do with mending, not to mention a good wash, the walls were badly in need of a lick of paint, and the oilcloth should be replaced before a customer caught her heel in one of the numerous frayed holes and went flying. Otherwise, everywhere looked OK. She could go home.
    Instead, Alice switched off the light and sat under a dryer. Go home for what? she asked herself. The girls weren’t due till five. Her dad had taken Cormac to the grotto in Stanley Road. John was finishing work at three. He’d be home by now. Alice shuddered. She didn’t want to be alone with her husband.
    John Lacey regarded what was left of his face in the chrome mirror over the mantelpiece. It had been a handsome face once. He wasn’t a conceited man, but he’d always known that he and his brother Billy weren’t at the back of the queue when the Lord handed out good looks. Both were tall, going on six feet. John’s dark-brown hair was curly, Billy’s straight. They had the same rich-brown eyes, the same straight nose, the same wide brow. His mam, never one to consider anyone’s feelings, used to say John was the handsomer of the two. He had a firmer mouth, there was something determined about his chin. Billy’s chin was weak.
    Mam didn’t say that now, not since her elder son had turned into a monster. John stroked the melted skin on his right cheek, touched the corner of the unnaturally angled slit of an eye. If only he hadn’t gone to the aid ofthe seaman trapped in the hold when the boiler had exploded on that merchant ship. The hold had become a furnace, the man was screaming, his overalls on fire. He emerged from the flames, a blazing phantom, hair burning, screaming for help.
    The irony was he hadn’t managed to save the chap. He had died within minutes, writhing in agony on the deck, everyone too terrified to touch him. Everyone except that dickhead, John Lacey, who’d dragged him out, burnt his own