Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
The Finding of Martha Lost
Martha Graham’s Scouse Glossary
A Note to the Reader
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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Transworld is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Doubleday
an imprint of Transworld Publishers
Copyright © Caroline Wallace 2016
Cover design by Sarah Whittaker/TW
Illustrations by Carrie May
Caroline Wallace has asserted her right under the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologize for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781473526037
ISBNs 9780857523341 (hb)
9780857523358 (tpb)
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LG, to remind you (that I’m always thinking about you).
‘I believe in everything until it’s disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it’s in your mind. Who’s to say that dreams and nightmares aren’t as real as the here and now?’
John Lennon
Once upon a time . . .
This part of my fairy tale begins in May, in 1976. It’s perhaps Part Five in the story of my life. And, before anyone thinks to ask, I’ve no idea what happened in Part One.
Right now I’m spinning my way across the station’s main concourse, shouting ‘Bonjour’ at everyone I know. As I spin, my black polka-dot dress fans out, and it swishes with each turn. I squeal as dizziness overwhelms me, and I giggle into a heap on the concrete floor below the departures board.
‘Bonjour, Jenny Jones,’ I shout.
She’s sitting in her kiosk – it’s across the concourse, close to the exit. A man’s buying a packet of ciggies and box of matches. He’s bending over and counting out his pennies on the stack of newspapers in front of the kiosk. Jenny Jones is watching him, but she’s got one hand in a bag of Frazzles and the other’s turning the pages of a magazine. She looks over at me and waves, her hand still in the bag of Frazzles.
‘You on your morning spin?’ Jenny Jones shouts, and I nod. ‘Did you step outside, queen?’ she asks.
I shake my head. ‘Liver bird,’ I say, pointing at myself.
Jenny Jones shakes her head, and I start to spread the skirt of my polka-dot dress out into its full circle. Folk scoot around me – some smile, others swear. But I close my eyes and lift my arms up towards the station’s iron rafters. I pull in the biggest sniff of grime and soot and cigarettes. There’s a hint of diesel and vinegar and vomit; there’s a sprinkle of leather luggage and oil in there too. That sweet and sharp smell of train station tingles my nostrils before I lower my arms and let my breath out slowly.
‘Thank you for letting me live here,’ I whisper.
‘Lime Street wouldn’t be the same without you, queen,’ Jenny Jones shouts, and I open my eyes. I look at Jenny Jones, and she’s smiling as she shakes her head again. I smile too.
‘Bonjour, Stanley,’ I shout over to Stanley the cleaner – he’s brushing the entrance to Platform 6, just next to the public telephone box.
He holds up his wrist, points to his watch. ‘You seen the time?’ he shouts, and I turn and look up towards the big clock that’s next to Mother’s window.
‘Goodness,’ I say, attempting to stand up and feeling dizzy. ‘I’m late!’ I add, yet I still decide to spin my way across the concourse, avoiding the bench, to the lost property office.
I love spinning. It’s not the most efficient way of getting around but, after months and months of trying, I think I might have perfected the most brilliant way to spin. It’s all thanks to a ballet technique I read about in a lost book, and it’s all to do with keeping your eyes fixed on one spot. I’ve learned that it’s best when that spot isn’t a person, because people tend to move, and that makes the spin go wonky. I can spin for ages now, and I hardly ever vomit on my dress. I did want to write a letter to Margot Fonteyn, to ask if she’d ever vomited on her tutu, but Elisabeth thought it best I didn’t.
I’m laughing then whistling, and folk are having to stop as I attempt to pirouette in a straight line from below the departures board to where I work.
The postman stands in the open doorway. He’s tall, he’s skinny, his moustache’s an upside-down u-shape and looks like a hairy horseshoe around his mouth. Folk call him Drac, on account of his front teeth sticking out weird. He’s been delivering letters for as long as I’ve been here, and right now he’s fanning his face with the lost property office’s mail.
‘Bonjour, Drac,’ I whisper, leaning against the door, my breath coming out in pants. I bend and take off my black heels, then I hurry behind the counter.
‘Turn around,’ I say to Drac, and he does. I bend down behind the counter, pulling my dress over my head and replacing it with one of Mother’s black smocks. It almost reaches my ankles and looks a bit like a huge polyester sack. I push the polka-dot dress and the shoes into the secret compartment under the counter.
‘Sorry, Drac,’ I whisper, popping my head back above the counter and seeing him turn to me.
‘Morning, Martha Lost,’ Drac says. ‘Is she about?’
I point up to the ceiling, and Drac nods.
‘If I had a pound for every time I’ve been soaked by her chucking that Jesus fluid at me,’ Drac whispers. He jerks his head at the ceiling. He’s still not moved from the open doorway.
‘You’d be a rich man, Drac,’ I whisper, putting my hand over my lips and trying to stop a giggle from escaping.
‘Last week she chased me all the way down Platform 3 with a pan of her Jesus fluid,’ Drac whispers. ‘For a larger lady, she sure can run. Sloshed it all over the station concourse, she did.’
I giggle through my fingers, even though he’s told me the same story every morning this week.
I sit down on my stool behind the counter. I look down to my ledger sheet and whistle. I like Drac, but hopefully he’ll go in a second. He’s not very good at knowing when to leave. Elisabeth’s said I need to be harder, not make him feel quite so welcome, or he’ll stay in the doorway whispering in his hissy, lispy voice for hours. I quite like the way he whispers though. Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine he’s a snake.
‘One for you today,’ Drac whispers. ‘First time I’ve managed to get one to you without her getting to it first.’
‘For me?’ I ask, looking up.
He nods; he’s smiling.
‘I’ve never had a letter before,’ I say.
‘I stashed it safe,’ Drac whispers, unzipping his jacket and pulling out a little brown parcel. ‘Didn’t want Mother swiping it.’ He nods towards the ceiling and gives me a long wink. He moves into the lost property office, puts the letters on the counter and then holds out the little brown parcel.
I don’t move.
‘It’s for you,’ he whispers. ‘You’re the only Martha Lost I know.’
He smiles; I nod. I take the parcel and put it on the counter in front of me. I run my fingers over my name on the parcel.
‘Liverpool postmark,’ Drac whispers, and I look up at him. His fingers dance around his moustache. ‘Best open it.’
My hands shake. I’m careful as I try to open the brown paper without ripping it. One side of the parcel loosens, then the other side. I peep and a tiny squeal escapes.
‘A book,’ I whisper. ‘The sender must know how much I love reading.’
‘Knew it was!’ Drac says, forgetting to whisper.
I pull out the book. I turn it over and flick open the pages. There’s words written on the inside cover – an inscription just for me.
Loud stomping footsteps sound on the floor above the lost property office. I jump in my seat. Drac and I look up to the ceiling. One hand shoots up to cover the bruise on my cheek. The footsteps stop. I wait. Drac stays as still as a statue, with his eyes focused on a point high above our heads. Nothing. I let out my breath in a loud sigh.
‘Best leave you to it then,’ Drac whispers.
I nod, but I don’t look at him. I’m reading the words written on the inside cover. Four words: ‘MARTHA, YOUR MOTHER LIES’. They’re written inside the book. On the outside, the title of the book is stamped in gold letters, The History of the Night Ferry – London to Paris.
I notice one page that has a folded corner. Page ten. I read it. I read the words over and over. At first I’m feeling a bit lost as to why someone thought that page was so very important, and that’s why I read the page again and again. If I’m honest, it’s not the most interesting page I’ve ever read. But then I realize, and then I read it once more just to make sure. It’s not what’s on the page that’s supposed to interest me; it’s what’s not on the page.
The Night Ferry wasn’t a train that turned into a boat when it went on the Mersey. It was an international sleeper train between London Victoria and Paris Gare du Nord. The Night Ferry never travelled to Liverpool.
And that’s that – there’s absolutely no way I can concentrate on my work.
Elisabeth pops in at nine a.m. She’s my best friend. She owns the coffee bar next door, and she’s that beautiful she could be a Hollywood star. I could watch her all day and never get bored. Sometimes she dances instead of walking. I think there might be music playing inside her head all the time. She’s quite tall for a lady, and she’s super slim, even though she eats cake for breakfast every day. She wears all the latest fashions, but she doesn’t buy them. I don’t think she’s got loads of money; instead, she’s clever and copies dresses she sees, draws out patterns and makes them all on a sewing machine. Nothing about her is like Mother.
But today I don’t really talk to Elisabeth at nine a.m. And I don’t eat my slice of lemon drizzle at ten a.m. I stop any thoughts that might cause smiles at eleven a.m. Instead, I let my face wear a frown, I keep looking at the inscription, and I think about how the nearly-beginning part of my fairy tale’s full of lies. And after a few hours of thinking about that, I’m confused as to why someone would send me an item that would take away so much of Part Two but not think to offer a telephone number so that I could call them up and have a natter about it all.
I don’t know who to believe, so I do what I always do when I’m not clever enough to make things better or when I’ve gone too long without smiling. I lock up as usual at one p.m., I go upstairs to the flat, I shout to Mother that I’m poorly, and I close my bedroom door behind me. I perch on a little stool at my dressing table, I stare into the mirror, and then I smile.
I read somewhere that most four-year-olds smile four hundred times a day, but then, by the time they become adults, they only smile twenty times a day. I’m not sure I want to be an adult.
I keep looking into my mirror. I think an hour or two flies by, and in that time I manage to smile seventy-three times, as well as perfecting what I’d consider to be a sophisticated look. It includes an eyebrow wiggle and a nostril flare. I like to try out new expressions in the privacy of my bedroom, before I bring them into public view.
Later, as I wait to fall asleep, I hold my book close to me. Mother doesn’t pop into my room to check on me. Mother doesn’t pop into my room to punish me. Mother isn’t a popping-in kind of person, really.
I tossed and turned all night, but I’ve already been for my morning spin and right now I’m standing in the open office doorway, looking out on to the concourse of Lime Street Station. I glance up at the departures board. There’ll be a rush to Platform 6 and to Platform 1 any minute now. Trains to Warrington and Manchester are pulling in. I’m whistling, and people are fast-walking across the concourse. They can’t run, because they’re adults, and adults aren’t supposed to run or spin in train stations. I like how their not-quite-running makes them wiggle. They’re glancing up at the departures board, hurrying to find the platform they need. The lost property office is open, but at this time of day people are hurrying to work and not really needing me. I don’t mind. I like to watch them.
The ticket booth is below the departures board. The queue there is longer than usual this morning. The lady at the back of the queue turns and smiles. Her hair’s dark-brown like mine, and it bounces off her shoulders. Her neck’s long, and her ankles are thin like mine. I wonder if we’re related. I curtsey, she stares for a moment, and then she walks over to me.
‘Why the long queue?’ I ask.
‘New girl,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘Can you sell me a ticket, queen?’
I shake my head. ‘Sorry.’
She looks at the queue. ‘Bugger,’ she says, ‘it might go down in a couple of minutes.’ She turns back to me and steps into the lost property office.
‘Do you work here?’ she asks, her eyes scanning the metal shelves that line the right and left walls.
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I live in the flat upstairs with Mother.’
‘No commute – you’re lucky,’ she says, and I nod.
‘It’s the best place in the world to live,’ I say. ‘You know those bronze liver birds on top of the Royal Liver Building?’ I say. ‘You know how they’re chained down so they can’t fly away? You know how it’s said that if those two liver birds fly away, then Liverpool’ll cease to exist?’
‘Mmm . . .’ she says, but I’m not convinced she’s listening.
I think the lady might reckon my storytelling’s rubbish. Of course she’ll know about the liver birds, everyone in Liverpool knows about them, my question was just me trying to set the scene. Then I was going to tell the lady that I’ve never stepped outside of Lime Street Station, and then I was going to tell her about Mother getting a letter shortly after I came to live here and how that letter said I was the new liver bird of Lime Street Station. Then I was going to tell this lady how the letter told Mother that if I’m not touching the station at all times, then it’ll collapse down into the underground tunnels, and then Liverpool Lime Street Station will cease to exist for ever.
Instead, I watch her scanning the lost property office. It’s a perfect square and its lost items tell perfect stories. Metal shelves line all of the left wall, metal shelves line all of the right wall, the back wall has two doors in it. I love watching people’s reactions to all the shelves and boxes.
‘Is that cardboard box really full of false teeth?’ she asks. All of the metal shelves have cardboard boxes on them, each labelled with what’s inside. I nod.
‘Is that a stuffed monkey?’ She points to a stuffed monkey sitting on the counter.
‘Yes, just logging him in,’ I say, ‘and there are seven straw donkeys on that shelf.’ I point to the shelf that ends in the left-hand corner, next to the door that leads to Mother’s flat upstairs. That door’s always closed.
‘So organized,’ she says and laughs. ‘Could do with you in our house, queen.’
I smile. ‘Being organized is a must,’ I say. ‘But I’m thinking about making some changes today.’
‘Don’t think you can change much, not with that counter being there.’ She points to the wooden counter that runs across the room, making the letter H with the metal shelves. A small part of the counter bends upwards, allowing me to walk behind and sit on the stool.
‘The counter and my stool are just right,’ I say. ‘I’m facing anyone who walks in and I’ve a perfect view of the bench that’s in the middle of the concourse. That one.’ I point out into the concourse and see the queue from the ticket booth snaking around the bench. The lady turns back to look at the queue, sighs and then turns back to face me. ‘Mother prefers that stool, near the door to the flat, she says it stops people from asking questions.’ I point at Mother’s stool.
‘Not a people person?’ the lady asks, then she looks at her watch and lets out a tiny squeal. ‘I’m so late,’ she says, turning and stepping towards the concourse. ‘Doesn’t look like the queue’s getting any shorter,’ she says.
She’s leaving. I panic. ‘Are-you-my-birth-mother?’ I ask her, the words coming out like they’re one big word.
‘Your birth-mother?’ she asks, turning back and looking confused.
‘Did you abandon me and leave me to sit on that shelf?’ I point to the shelf on the right, the one near the glass front of the lost property office.
‘I’m twenty-three. You’re what, fifteen?’ she asks.
‘Sixteen,’ I say.
She laughs and then she looks at her watch again. ‘Got to go, nice talking to you . . .’
‘Martha Lost,’ I say.
‘Nice talking to you, Martha Lost.’
I stand up from my stool, lean over the counter and watch her turn right out of the lost property office, past the coffee bar and towards the main exit.
‘Come back soon,’ I shout after the lady. She doesn’t look back.
Lime Street Station’s buzzing this morning. It’s only eight a.m., and there are already crowds of people waiting. I’m beginning to wonder why everyone’s wanting to leave Liverpool today.
Stanley the cleaner’s brushing around huddles of people near the queue for the ticket booth, but there isn’t much space for brushing today. I don’t think his name’s really Stanley. Folk say he looks like Stan Laurel. I step out from behind the counter and back to the open doorway. I shout to him, and he brushes his way over.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask, nodding my head towards the crowds.
‘Rumour that the Liverpool lads are arriving in later today,’ Stanley says. ‘Loads of coppers outside already.’
That makes sense. The other day I’d read all about it in Elisabeth’s newspaper, and then she’d had to explain it all a few times until I understood. The paper said that a couple of days ago Kevin Keegan scored an equalizing goal in the second leg of the UEFA Cup final. It was against Club Brugge.
‘How do you say Brugge?’ I used my French accent and said it ‘Brug-gee’.
‘I think the “gg” sounds like a “huh” and the “bru” is more “br”,’ Elisabeth said.
‘But that makes no sense,’ I said. ‘Why spell a word with the wrong letters?’
‘Br-huh,’ Elisabeth said.
‘I might as well call it Bugger,’ I said.
Elisabeth laughed. ‘That works,’ she said.
‘But why give a word letters and then tell people not to say them?’ I said. ‘At least with Bugger I’m using all the letters.’
‘It’s all foreign, doll,’ Elisabeth said.
We asked Stanley, and he said we could say it any way we fancied. Elisabeth said that Kevin Keegan’s goal led to Liverpool FC winning the final 4–3 on aggregate. Elisabeth explained what that meant, but mainly I focused on the word aggregate and how it made my mouth roll into different shapes when I said it aloud. Elisabeth said the city’s been celebrating, that there’s sheets hanging out of people’s windows with ‘KEEGAN for KING’ written on them. She explained that meant King of Liverpool and that I was wrong to be excited about him becoming King of the World. She said that the city’s been swarming with people wearing Liverpool FC colours and scarfs and paper hats with all the players’ faces on them, and that some man down St John’s Market was selling them on the cheap. I had to take her word for it. Because I never leave Lime Street Station, I’ve not really seen that much of the celebrating, apart from a few drunken supporters stumbling through here to find their way home.
Elisabeth has a thing for Kevin Keegan. She said that she’s going to write him a letter and invite him round for one of her French Fancies. I can’t wait to tell her that she might get herself a glimpse of him today.
‘Thousands expected,’ Stanley says. ‘Second UEFA Cup win; bastards won in ’73 too.’
‘You a blue, Stanley?’ I ask.
Stanley sighs, nods, then he walks off and carries on with his sweeping around people, which is OK when people are huddling but quite tricky when they’re walking. I like that Stanley’s a blue; most people I talk to are reds. I told Elisabeth once that I can’t understand why folk round here can’t support Everton AND Liverpool. Elisabeth just sighed and said something about me living on a different planet.
I walk through the gap in the counter and open the door to Mother’s flat.
‘Mother,’ I shout up the stairs.
‘What?’ she shouts down the stairs.
‘Liverpool FC won the UEFA Cup final. They beat Club Bugger 4–3 on aggregate. The final was a two-legged tie, with Bugger hosting the second leg,’ I shout. ‘Full squad’s arriving here today, thousands of men expected. Best bring your pan of holy water down.’
Mother doesn’t answer.
‘Mother?’ I shout.
‘What the bloody hell’s aggregate?’ Mother shouts.
‘They won – scored the most goals overall,’ I shout.
‘The Devil likes football,’ Mother shouts, but I can hear her stomping around. She’s probably filling the pan up from the holy water tap.
It’s a good ten minutes before she comes downstairs.
‘Brew up,’ she says, plonking herself on her stool near the door to the flat. She pushes the pan of holy water under the stool.
Mother looks like a fat prune. She might once have been tall, but now she’s all scrunched up, wrinkly and plump. Her hair’s entirely white, cut into a bob with rubbish scissors, and her teeth are yellow. She sits with her legs wide open, her baggy bloomers reaching her knees. She’s out of breath from walking downstairs, and she’s wheezing like she smokes fifty ciggies a day, even though she only smokes ten a day, because Mother says the lost property office doesn’t pay enough for more than that. She’s got her leather belt in her right hand.
‘Could really do with an armchair down here,’ she says, then there’s silence, and she watches me as I move over to put the kettle on.
‘You wearing mascara?’ she asks. She slashes the leather belt at my calves. She misses. ‘Devil’s rats wear mascara.’
I shake my head.
I make sure that I’m too far from her for her to reach me with her belt. And I ask her, ‘Tell me again, how was I found?’
She answers, ‘Oh, for bloody hell’s sake, Martha Lost, my dear, do we have to do this again?’
I say, ‘This’ll be the last time, I promise.’
She sighs and tuts, then she says, ‘Your story started on a gust of wind, Martha Lost, my dear.’
That’s a lie.
I ask her, ‘Can you be a little bit more precise?’
She answers, ‘On a sleeper train from Paris Gare du Nord journeying the eleven hours to Liverpool Lime Street.’
That’s a lie too.
I’m clutching the book, and I guess I hope that she’ll just open up and tell me everything.
‘Make yourself more comfortable,’ Mother says, but I know that’s so I’ll be close enough for her to strike. I sit on the cold floor in the lost property office. I cross my legs and wait for her story.
‘It’s complicated,’ she says.
That isn’t a lie.
She says, ‘The year was 1960. The passengers were seated for their oeufs sur le plat with ham. And as they nibbled on cereals and baskets of hot toast, croissants, brioches, and fresh fruit . . .’ She pauses. ‘As they breakfasted and the sleeping-car conductors made down the beds . . . something remarkable occurred.’
She’s sticking to her story. I’ve heard this a million times before. She’s using her Blundellsands voice. It’s the same one she uses when she’s on the phone to Management.
‘It was then, as the passengers were breakfasting, in both comfort and in style,’ she says, ‘that a single suitcase fell from the overhead luggage rack.’ Mother describes the suitcase. She says that it was old, battered, scratched and had two luggage labels on its lid.
‘One, Adelphi Hotel, Liverpool, circular, black and orange,’ she says. ‘The other from the Scribe Hôtel, Paris, oval, black and green. The suitcase landed in the aisle with an almighty thud . . .’
She bangs the buckle of her belt on to the metal shelf. She startles me. She smiles.
‘One lady, French, middle-aged, delicate, sipping only on orange juice, was said to have screamed,’ Mother says. Her arms wave in the air, the belt waves in the air, she laughs at her acting expertise. Mother’s a master performer. Today she’s playing Lady Muck of Muck Hall.
‘Another, British, middle-aged, common.’ She says the word ‘common’ like she’s from Blundellsands and owns a million pearl necklaces. Mother’s enjoying herself. ‘She was said to have shouted her disgust at whoever it was that had tried to murder her. But it was the Parisian lady who fainted into the aisle. It is she who was said to have caught the other passengers’ attention; it is she who was said to have silenced their screams and muffled their shouts.’
‘Mother,’ I say, but her eyes flick to her belt, they tell me to hush.
‘That was until all attention turned to the reason why she had fainted, to that tiny gurgle emerging from the old, the battered, the scratched suitcase, the one with those two luggage labels peeling from its lid. For sitting, smiling, gurgling, in that open suitcase, in the aisle of the dining car on that Night Ferry, an international sleeper train from Paris Gare du Nord to Liverpool Lime Street . . . was a baby girl.’
‘Me?’ I ask. I can’t help but smile.
‘You, Martha Lost, that baby girl was you.’
More lies.
‘You were a truly beautiful baby girl, a right bobby dazzler. Yet we were never sure of your age. Some insisted that you must have been six months old; others said that you were almost one year old.’
‘But, Mother—’ I say.
Mother interrupts. ‘I brought you here, to this lost property office,’ she says. She spreads her arms out wide, as if welcoming me for the first ever time. I bend backwards to avoid the metal buckle. ‘And here you waited for ninety days,’ she says.
‘But, Mother,’ I try again.
‘But nothing,’ she says. ‘I was the manager. I cared for you as best I could as we waited.’
‘We waited?’ I ask.
‘For ninety days – every day I waited to see if someone would claim you – you waited on that shelf.’ Mother leans forward slightly, she points to a set of metal shelves near to the office’s glass front. ‘No one wanted you and so I claimed you. I paid the pound fee. You were my gift from God.’ Mother does a sign of the cross on her chest. I sigh.
‘But how?’ I ask her.
‘How?’ she replies.
I see her eyes switch. I see the fury beginning to bubble. I shuffle backwards.
‘You talking wet?’ she asks, her Blundellsands accent slipping away.
But I’m feeling brave.
‘You see, Mother, someone sent me this little book.’
I lean forward and hand her the book. I’ve read it fifteen times. My hand shakes as it waits, outstretched. Mother doesn’t speak. Her eyes are locked on the cover of the book, on its title in gold letters. She doesn’t want to touch it. I’m waiting for the belt to strike, but she seems to have forgotten she’s holding it.
‘And there are words written on the inside cover.’
Mother looks at me. Her voice is sharp as she speaks. ‘You’re getting right on my tits today,’ she says. ‘And what do they say?’
‘They say, “MARTHA, YOUR MOTHER LIES”.’
Mother doesn’t speak. I wait for her to batter me with her belt. But after a while, she unfreezes, shrugs and says, ‘Sometimes you have to believe in stories, Martha Lost, my dear,’ and then she adds, ‘You proper think too much.’
‘The book told me that the Night Ferry never travelled to Liverpool. And BOOKS DON’T LIE,’ I shout.
That’s when Mother tries to stand. She wobbles and uses the metal shelf to steady herself. Mother takes a few steps and then turns to the shelves in the lost property office. She reaches up. She’s still gripping her belt in her right hand, and all the time she’s huffing and puffing. Then she pulls down a battered brown suitcase from the very top shelf and shuffles her way back to me.
‘Here,’ she says, ‘this is yours.’ She holds out the suitcase. I put the book on her stool.
I’ve seen the suitcase up there before. It’s been there as long as I can remember. I’d never figured it could be mine. Mother’s always said that she burnt the suitcase I came in, just in case the Devil’d done a wee in it. I take the suitcase, battered and scratched, the one with those two luggage labels peeling from its lid.
‘You were so beautiful, a right bobby dazzler,’ Mother says again. ‘I expected someone would claim you. I kept you there, on that shelf.’ She points to the shelf again, a metal shelf, in view of everyone who wandered past the lost property office. ‘I kept you there for ninety days and still not one enquiry. You were as good as gold back then.’
‘But, Mother, I couldn’t—’
‘You’re being as daft as Soft Mick,’ Mother proclaims, a tremble in her voice. She’s standing over me, and she’s bursting with anger, or possibly she’s bursting with something new that’s making her shake. ‘You dare to call me a liar? That’s your story, evil child, there’s no other that I can offer.’
‘YOU ARE THE DEVIL!’ I scream at Mother.
I watch her, and I see something flicker in her eyes. That word brings her back to herself. Talk about the Devil is language Mother understands. She looks at her stool. She chucks the small book at me. It misses and lands on the floor. She moves towards me and smacks her leather belt across my face. I’ve learned not to make a sound, and I’ve learned not to cry out in pain. Mother no longer cares that my bruises can be seen. The sound of the leather slap bounces off the walls of the lost property office.
And then Mother turns and waddles towards the stairs to her flat above the lost property office. I hear her stomp up the stairs, and I hear the door to the flat slam.
A man in Australia is reported to have uncovered a suitcase jam-packed with irreplaceable Beatles memorabilia at a flea market this week.
The treasure trove of memorabilia, including unreleased recordings, is yet to be authenticated, but some experts believe the collection is the lost ‘Mal Evans archive’. For the last few months, ever since Evans’ death, fans have searched for this ‘archive’, a large collection of memorabilia from Evans’ time with the group.
Mal Evans, the former Beatles roadie and friend, was shot by police in Los Angeles in January this year. Not only were his belongings lost during the police investigation, but the urn containing Evans’ ashes was also mislaid in transit back to the UK.
Max Cole, 37, from Melbourne, Australia, is reported to have purchased the suitcase from a small flea market close to Melbourne for around $50, just under £20.
‘I can’t believe my good fortune,’ Cole said. ‘I spotted this scruffy old suitcase and when I opened it up I was shocked by its contents. I’m a writer, so, of course, I immediately knew that I had uncovered a story.’
Now Cole, a shop assistant by day and a paperback writer by night, is said to be researching the life of Mal Evans before writing a book based on both Mal’s life with The Beatles and the suitcase’s contents. Unfortunately, Evans’ ashes were not discovered as part of this find.
Nine a.m. and Elisabeth walks in. Elisabeth’s carrying a newspaper. She looks over the counter and at me on the floor. I’ve not moved since Mother threw the book at me and stomped upstairs. A man came into the lost property office, walked to the counter, we stared at each other for about five minutes and then he walked back out the open front door. Apart from that, the crowds of people are staying out on the concourse. I’ve not spoken another word since I told Mother she was the Devil. I must admit that I spent some minutes worrying that I was starting to sound like Mother, but I’ve pushed that aside and I’ve been using the time to catch up on my whistling practice. I’m not feeling up to smiling practice just yet.
‘Have you seen yesterday’s Post?’ Elisabeth says, uncurling the paper and pointing to a page. Her voice sounds excited.
I shake my head.
‘Doll, look, someone found Mal Evans’ suitcase,’ Elisabeth says and then, ‘Bloke who found it’s writing a book about our Mal. He’d better include about our Mal being the fifth Beatle. He was the glue that stuck them together, would have done anything for those boys.’ Elisabeth’s talking quickly. She’s talking to the newspaper rather than to me. ‘He even used to buy their socks and undies! And I heard rumours that he might have helped write some of The Beatles’ songs. But it didn’t bring him fame and fortune. No, doll, he was the Cinderella of that story, without the happy ending, poor bloke. Only a matter of time before someone finds those missing ashes, then our Mal’ll come back home. I bet his mother . . .’ She stops talking, looks at me and puts her newspaper down on the counter. Her eyes look sad.
‘It’s hard being a liver bird,’ I say, looking down at the concrete floor in front of me.
‘Look, doll, the station won’t—’ Elisabeth starts to say, but I interrupt her. I’ve heard her arguments a million times before.
‘All that responsibility on my shoulders – one step outside the station and all of this,’ I say, holding my arms out wide, ‘will sink into the ground. Sometimes I wish I could spin away from it all.’
‘I’ve been getting next door ready,’ Elisabeth says, which is her way of letting me know that she’s heard some of the shouting between me and Mother. ‘I’m making extra cake for the crowds. Want to help?’
I nod, I look up at her and I smile. I do want to help.
‘Have you had your hair done?’ I ask. Elisabeth nods.
‘It suits you.’
Her hair’s a yellow bob, with the straightest fringe ever. Some days I wonder how old she might be. Mother said it’s impolite to ask a person’s age. Sometimes I have to press my hand to my mouth to stop all the questions Mother says I’m not allowed to ask from escaping.
‘Thanks, doll,’ Elisabeth says, then she flicks her hair with her right hand and smiles. ‘How about you pick yourself up and come help?’
And because I’m confused, and because I miss smiling, and because I’m full to the top of my head with puzzles, I stand up. I know that when Mother finds out that the lost property office is closed and when she finds out that I’m next door listening to the Devil’s music and eating the Devil’s lemon drizzle cake, that she’ll come down and stomp next door to collect me. But still I nod at Elisabeth as I pick up my book. I take the key and lock the lost property office, then I follow Elisabeth next door into her coffee bar.
I’ve never done anything quite this rebellious before. I’ve never openly gone against Mother’s wishes and deserted my post during opening hours. Elisabeth knows the rules. She visits me in the lost property office during working hours, when Mother’s not around and I’m not busy. I never visit Elisabeth in the coffee bar. Yet here I am, in the coffee bar (‘the Devil’s front room’), with Elisabeth (‘that trollop next door’), having closed the lost property office (‘provides you with bread and butter’). Elisabeth’s making scones – fruit and cheese – cherry pie, apple pie and a couple of Victoria sponges (‘the Devil’s snacks’). Mother prefers to eat a meat and potato pie, with chips, for every meal (including breakfast). She says that it’s God’s favourite food and eating it makes her extra holy. She never cooks for me, but I don’t really have much of an appetite and Elisabeth’s super clever at sneaking food to me.
‘We don’t know if the lads are arriving today, but the crowds’ll be hungry and they’ll have their beer money to spend,’ Elisabeth says.
I nod. I’m sitting on a tall stool next to the counter. I’ve got the copy of The History of the Night Ferry – London to Paris hidden under a napkin on the counter, next to the biggest bag of flour I’ve ever seen.
‘Did the Devil tell you to paint your walls red?’ I ask with a smile.
‘You tell Mother that the tables are a pure white,’ Elisabeth says, returning the smile.
Elisabeth’s behind the counter. The espresso machine’s steaming away, the glass display cabinets and the mesh domes on top are packed full of sugary goodies. Elisabeth’s kneading a huge ball of dough. She’s making fists, her hands and her forearms covered in flour.
‘Look at the state of me,’ she says.
I look at her. She’s managed to get flour all over her face and into her new hairdo. I smile. I think she looks beautiful.
‘You’re making a right mess out here. Shouldn’t you be doing it in the kitchen?’ I say, looking along the counter. The mess is glorious. The counter’s covered with cutters, measuring jugs, rolling pins, palette knives, scales, sieves and all the flour in Liverpool.
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ Elisabeth asks. ‘This way, you keep me company. Want to natter about it?’ she asks, her eyes flicking to the napkin and then to my cheek. There must be a mark. I shake my head and smile. ‘When you do, I’m here, doll,’ she says.
‘Can’t believe I told Mother that I thought she was the Devil,’ I say. ‘Do you think I’m starting to sound like her?’ I ask.
‘No, doll, you’re nothing like her,’ Elisabeth says. ‘And I don’t think she’s the Devil either. I mean, have you had a good look to see if she’s got any horns or a tail?’ Elisabeth’s turned her back to me while she washes her hands, and I can hear that she’s trying to stifle her giggles.
‘It’s not funny,’ I say, but it is. I laugh, then I laugh some more.
While the cakes and scones rest and bake, I sit slurping tea and eating lemon drizzle cake with Elisabeth. People crowd in around the white tables and sink into the red chairs, happy to be taking a break, shopping bags lying at their feet. In between serving and baking, I chat with Elisabeth. Mainly she talks about Kevin Keegan’s thighs. I don’t tell Elisabeth about the book arriving. For the last ten years, Elisabeth’s been picking me up when Mother’s knocked me down. Elisabeth’s taught me everything I know about grabbing the good in each day, but I’ve never told her about my being a foundling. Mother taught me to be ashamed. She said it was our secret, so I’ve tried my hardest not to think about Part One and Part Two of my life when Elisabeth’s around.
Instead, Elisabeth tells me about a dress she’s making, she tells me about the time John Lennon almost kissed her, and she tells me about her plans for the coffee bar. She has this ability to make everything exciting. I like that she doesn’t try to nose into my head and that she doesn’t frown when I don’t want to share. And today, at this very moment, all I need and want is to be hearing Elisabeth’s enthusiasm about the future and details of Kevin Keegan’s body parts that I’ve never considered before.
But every now and every then I get a wave of guilt. It makes me shiver and check the doorway to the coffee bar. I’m waiting for Mother to barge in, rant and batter me with her leather belt.
‘Penny for them?’ Elisabeth asks.
I flick my eyes away from the doorway and look at her.
‘I should be at work. Management might turn up today and sack Mother,’ I say.
‘If your gaffer turns up, he’ll see how busy it is out there and think you’ve done the right thing,’ Elisabeth says.
‘What if my not working leads to Mother being homeless?’ I ask, and then I say, ‘She’d have to live in an enormous cardboard box outside, next to that Punch and Judy man, and I’d be stuck in Lime Street Station, trying to learn sign language from lost deaf people.’
‘Sign language?’ Elisabeth asks.
‘To communicate with Mother through one of the windows,’ I say.
‘You’ve an old head on you, doll. Sometimes you speak and I swear you could be sixty years old,’ Elisabeth says.
‘Responsibilities—’ I start to say.
‘Responsibilities, my arse. That lazy madam should be doing the job she’s paid to do and not making a sixteen-year-old kid do it for no wages,’ Elisabeth says.
‘I don’t mind mucking in,’ I say. ‘I owe her—’
‘Mucking in? You run the place, while she sits on her rear all day,’ Elisabeth says.
‘She’ll hear you,’ I whisper. ‘You should apologize to her, just in case. Shout out that you’re sorry.’
‘Balls to her, I’m fireproof,’ Elisabeth says, then she pauses before adding, ‘I wish you’d stop with all your shoulds and coulds and ifs. All you seem to do round Mother is apologize for what you haven’t done or how you haven’t been what was expected of you. I tell you, she makes me bust a gut.’
‘If I tried harder—’ I start to say.
‘You’d still get a pile of grief off Tilly Mint upstairs,’ she says, rolling her eyes.
‘But look at me,’ I say. ‘I’m here today, in the middle of opening hours, eating cake.’ I stand up from the stool and curtsey. ‘Meet the new and improved, rebellious me,’ I say.
Elisabeth looks at me and smiles. I smile too.
‘In that case,’ Elisabeth says, ‘pop “Save Your Kisses For Me” on the jukebox and let’s have a whirl. It got loads of points in the Eurovision Song Contest, even beat the French, and I reckon it needs to be played proper loud in case Keegan’s listening. Then, how’s about I serve you up a cream scone with a slice of cherry pie on the side?’
‘I’ve not brought my purse,’ I say.
‘I’ll pop it on your slate, doll,’ Elisabeth says and winks.
All day people come and go, in and out of the coffee bar. Some join in the dancing, because it’s that kind of day in Liverpool today, others offer their own football chants over the jukebox. I’ve been learning new steps. Elisabeth says I’ve my own unique style. Sometimes I dance and I forget that others are watching. I dance for me, I dance and people point and laugh. I like that.
Elisabeth’s spent the day rushing between behind the counter and dancing with me. I’ve been catching glimpses of her smiling all day, proper smiles that bounce right up to her eyes. I know that the music’s been louder than usual. I know this because I turned it up (even when Elisabeth suggested that Mother might splinter with wrath at the volume), and I’m sure that Mother would have heard the chuckles and the laughter from the customers joining in too.
But today I don’t care; today I’m new and improved. Today I want to start Part Six in the story of my life. I want Mother to know that her lies haven’t worked and that I need to know the truth. But even when I think those words, I’m filled with a mix of nerves and dread. I know what Mother is capable of doing to me. I know that a battering will be waiting for me later. Yet still I’ve decided that I’m going to confront Mother again tonight. I need answers; I’m ready for answers.
By five p.m. it’s pretty obvious that the Liverpool squad aren’t going to arrive. I don’t know who started that rumour, but it’s led to thousands of football fans descending on Lime Street Station and loads of them are still out there on the concourse. I move to the doorway of the coffee bar and see Stanley out there, just chatting. He’s not working, he’s not even trying to sweep round people now that there’s so many of them.
‘Stanley,’ I shout, and wave my arms at him. He walks over.
‘All right, Martha Lost?’ Stanley says, and then, ‘Heard ’bout all them blokes turning up outside? Them urchin blokes?’
‘Urchins?’ I ask, picturing Oliver Twist with a Liverpool scarf.
‘Reckon they’re footie fans, but they’re all skinheads here to batter and bevvy.’ He points over at a man sitting on the bench opposite the lost property office. He isn’t wearing a top and blood’s streaming from his eye and his nose. The police seem to be both restraining and helping him.
‘Don’t look like the red bastards are coming,’ Stanley says, smiling, then he waves and goes back to talk to his mates. I stand watching the men walking past the coffee bar. They’re mainly wearing Liverpool colours with ‘Scouse Power’ and ‘Liverpool FC’ in bold letters. They’re wearing scarfs, even though Elisabeth said it was a sunny day outside, and they’re chanting. I smile. The songs and the atmosphere are all new to me. No one bothers with me, as men are hugging, chanting and swaying to songs that they all know. The football fans are here to welcome home their heroes, and even though it doesn’t look like their heroes are about to turn up, it doesn’t stop them from celebrating.
‘Penny for them,’ Elisabeth says. She’s come to stand next to me, handing me a fresh brew and taking away my half-cup of cold tea.
‘I like that they’ve had a good day,’ I say, nodding towards the last group of hugging football fans.
‘You look like you’re full of thoughts, doll,’ Elisabeth says.
‘Just wishing I could get myself out and about in Liverpool. I want to know the city and the people,’ I say. ‘I’ve been thinking. Mother said that if I left the station it’d collapse, but what if I took the station with me?’
‘You know Mother talks bollocks—’ Elisabeth starts to say, but I interrupt her.
‘I’m not willing to take that risk. Do you want Liverpool Lime Street Station to cease to exist?’ I ask.
‘No, of course not, but—’ Elisabeth starts to say.
‘I’m a liver bird, I have—’ I say.
‘Responsibilities, I know,’ Elisabeth says.
‘But I’ve been thinking hard about it and there might be a way,’ I say, and Elisabeth laughs. I laugh too.