The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘So it’s not just my Ps and Qs, then? I have to get my Rs right, too?’

  ‘That sounds rude.’

  ‘Good. Go and help the poor woman who’s lumbered with the junior branch of the Al Capone fan club.’ Eileen paused. ‘I’ll miss round here, you know. People think Scottie Road’s all bad news, but it’s not. We’ll not find a community like this ever again.’

  ‘Oh, you will. Just do a burglary and you’ll meet half of this lot in jail.’ Mel left the house before her mother could reply.

  Eileen sat for a while waiting for Nellie, who was next door trying to comfort Kitty. Kitty Maguire had decided to panic again about moving, and Nellie was trying to calm her down. The calming down involved tea, brandy and many words of wisdom, and the ensuing period of peace seldom lasted long.

  Alone, Eileen looked round the front room of number two. She knew every crack in the plaster, every mark on the walls. Her children had been measured near the outer door, four sets of lines with names near the floor. There they were, step by step, all four of them caught, held still, a pencil drawing a line level with their heads. Two and a half was the significant one, because when doubled, it gave the approximate height of the end product, the adult. Her boys were all going to top six feet, while Mel promised five feet and eight inches, which would be tall for a girl.

  The fireplace was small, as was the room. There was always a fire in the kitchen, and when one was required in here Mam would carry through a shovel filled with burning coal and pour it into the little iron basket. Cupboards built in at each side of the chimney breast were battle-scarred, paint that was years old flaking off, two handles missing, one door drunk because of a failed hinge. Eileen and Laz had set up home here, and she would soon close the front door for the final time. He would never come back. Sometimes, in the early days of widowhood when she had heard tuneless whistling in the street, she had imagined … But Laz hadn’t been the only bad whistler in these parts, and he had never burst in with his silly ‘da-da’ of a fanfare employed to announce his safe return from Liverpool’s docks.

  The docks had killed him. His funeral had been enormous, and few men had sought work on that day, because he’d been a good, well-loved man. Eileen remembered a full church, flowers, and a box near the altar. She would never meet his like again, but Keith Greenhalgh was a fair copy. In fact, he was cleverer than her beloved Laz had been, and—

  Nellie came in. ‘Hello, love. All by yourself? She’s a mess next door. When push comes to shove, I’ll not be surprised if she stays here. Eileen? You all right, queen?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I need help.’

  ‘Right.’ Nellie sat down near the fireplace. ‘Is it him again?’

  Eileen nodded. ‘I’m frightened. Frightened of me.’

  Nellie understood. ‘I know. There’s something about him. I saw it meself just before I took the swing at him. What needs doing, then?’

  After a lengthy pause, Eileen made her reply. ‘Dockers’ Word. Make it real.’

  ‘It is real.’

  ‘Mam? I thought you were kidding.’

  Nellie Kennedy folded her arms. ‘You are my life, girl. I spoke to Nobby Costigan, and he rounded up a few of Laz’s mates. The Word’s out.’

  Eileen’s jaw dropped for a second or two. ‘I don’t want anybody dead. And I don’t want Laz’s pals in prison. I just need Tom to know it’s real. Like a warning. No real violence. Their faces must be covered by something or other, and it’ll have to be done in the dark. How much will it cost?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s for Laz.’

  ‘Right. Can you deal with it?’

  ‘Consider it done. They’ll scare the living be-Jaysus out of him, as my old gran would have said. He’ll be needing clean underpants and a bodyguard, but you just forget about it. It’ll be a cold day in hell before he lays hands on you again.’

  Bertie ran in and started complaining loudly about Miss Pickavance and the five times table. Tables were for eating off, and what had five times to do with that? He was fed up and he wanted to come home. Mel collared him and prepared to drag him back to be reincarcerated at number one. Phil and Rob arrived and helped their sister to return the miscreant to the posh prison where the food was good and a bit of homework was a small price to pay for spare ribs followed by trifle, followed by cheese and biscuits, followed by cocoa.

  Nellie puffed out her cheeks. ‘When was life easy, Eileen?’

  ‘Before my body started screaming out for a selfish man who has the power to make my insides turn to un-set jelly.’

  Nellie went to brew tea. Halfway through the exercise, she had a thought. ‘Like I said, it’s this bloody war we’re waiting for, folk getting wed and all sorts. She paused. ‘Why don’t we do turns?’

  Turns? What was she talking about? A song and dance act? ‘How do you mean, Mam?’

  Nellie appeared in the doorway. ‘Well, if Miss Morrison and your other ladies can put up with me, we can swap every couple of weeks, then Tom Doodah won’t know whether he’s coming or going.’ She grinned impishly. ‘And you can get to know Keith Greenhalgh. If we can get the transport, that is.’

  ‘Mam, your blood’s worth bottling.’

  ‘I know. I’m great, aren’t I?’

  For October, the weather was good. A slight breeze shifted leaves, causing some to flutter downwards to the ground where they joined close relatives in crisp red and brown heaps. The sun had said goodbye, though a trail of salmon pink and blush red reminded any onlooker that tomorrow would be equally gentle. Time slipped by, and the sky darkened towards an inky blue. Offices and shops, now long closed, stood like sentries ordered to attention. Like the rest of England, Liverpool waited in stillness for the unimaginable to begin.

  At approximately eight o’clock, Dr Thomas Bingley left his Liverpool Road surgery. He rummaged in his pocket for keys as he walked round the corner to where his car was parked in a side street. Thoroughfares were no longer lit, while houses, too, were blacked out against the threat of bombardment. He stood for a while to allow his eyes to adjust. After a late evening of catching up with notes, he had to linger in order to allow the pupils to widen and absorb the meagre offerings of late dusk. The drive home would have to be careful, since shaded headlights were almost useless. Fortunately, most people stayed in their houses; only wardens and fire-watchers patrolled streets that would be completely black within minutes.

  When he reached the car, he suddenly found himself lying face down on its bonnet, both arms pinned behind his back, severe pain invading his left shoulder. There were two of them. He could hear their heavy, unsynchronized breathing. The second man gripped his neck, the hold vice-like, yet restrained. These were powerful men, and they had him at their mercy. Mercy?

  ‘Stay away from Eileen Watson,’ one hissed. ‘Go anywhere near her, and you’ll need a sodding wheelchair for the rest of your life. You hearing me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Say again.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The other man spoke. ‘Dockers’ Word. You know about that? See, some people have the Freemasons and all that farting about with handshakes and pinafores, but we have the big boys. Some of us were there when he died. The last word on his lips was her name. That means something. Leave her alone. Dockers’ Word. Understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They picked him up and pushed him down again. In that moment, his left shoulder dislocated, and he groaned. Unfazed, one held him down while the other snapped the ball back into its socket. ‘If we have to do this again, you’ll have a broken back. See, when you work on the docks, you learn all about dislocated shoulders and snapped spines. Oh, yes. We’re clever enough, doc. All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stay down there and count to fifty. One shout, one scream, and you’ll be wishing you’d never been born.’

  Tom heard them as they ran round the corner. His shoulder hurt like hell, but he didn’t count to fifty. Instead, he climbed into the car and wondered how the dickens
he was going to get home. He managed to shift the gear stick into second, and he drove at snail’s pace through Crosby. A black eye, now an injured shoulder; was she worth it? Was she?

  The terrible truth was yes. She was worth it, and he was a fool.

  Eight

  Jay Collins came home to the gatehouse after five days. He was rested, lively, and a nuisance. Gill put about the legend that Ward D2 had been approaching the brink of collapse, since her dearly beloved had caused enough trouble to instigate disputes between visitors and staff, cleaners and orderlies, and patients and nurses. The food, he maintained, had been hogwash. Pigs at Neil and Jean’s home farm were better fed, while he’d never had a decent cup of tea during the whole of his time in what he chose to term the torture chamber. He was not going back. If he had to become a pincushion, he would manage on his own, thanks. Oh, and he didn’t like saccharine, so he’d stick to sugarless tea, very strong and with a drop of milk. No porridge. If he saw another dish of this-is-very-good-for-you-but-use-mostly-water, it would be out of the door quicker than dry sand off a shiny shovel.

  Gill did her best to keep him in the house for a while until he got used to his insulin and the new diet, but he wasn’t prepared to listen. He knew he couldn’t drink beer, but that wouldn’t stop him getting out and about. He was the estate handyman, for goodness’ sake, and invasion was imminent. The fact that he could not serve in the armed forces had finally been accepted, but he remained determined to do his bit on the estate. ‘I’m going out,’ he called while Gill was upstairs. There were things to do.

  Willows was holding its breath not against the Germans’ coming, but against Liverpool’s. The Scousers were on their way, and he had to make sure all hatches were battened down, all doors closed and locked, all windows in good working order with strong catches in place. Liverpool people were tough, so he needed to be several steps ahead.

  Keith helped. He was there to assess his employee’s health and to make sure that he fell off no ladders, but he pretended to be assisting rather than acting as monitor. It was not an easy task. Jay, a natural clown, carried on much as before. He was funny, enthusiastic, friendly and difficult to judge when it came to health. When he started tripping over his own feet by accident, Keith was at the ready with barley sugar. ‘Eat it.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m diabetic.’

  ‘That’s why you need it. You’ve run out of sugar. The reason you’re not walking properly and not listening to me is that you’re hypoglycaemic.’

  ‘Big word, that.’

  ‘It is. So eat it.’

  ‘Can’t eat a word I don’t know how to say. Hypo who?’

  ‘Glycaemic. Eat the bloody barley sugar, or it’s back to the bacon factory you’ve complained about for the last three hours.’

  ‘D2?’ Oh, he remembered that dump, all right. ‘Give us that thing here, because I’ll do just about anything to stay out of that … what was it?’

  ‘Hospital.’ Jay was losing his words. When the sweet had been consumed, Keith delivered yet another lecture. ‘In a minute, you’ll feel great. Remember that, because I won’t be with you all the time. When you start losing words and legs, eat sugar. Right?’

  ‘Yes. I feel fine now. So the thing that can kill me, which is sugar, is the thing that saves my life?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Mad.’

  Jay spent the rest of the day telling everyone he met that sugar could finish him one way or another, though he seemed to be cheerful enough about the whole thing.

  Keith went off to report to Gill. Any awkwardness had to be overcome, because he had probably imagined her fondness for him, and life needed to continue as normally as possible in spite of the expected influx of evacuees. His pulse quickened. Eileen would not be here this time, but she’d visit soon. He still wrote and she still replied, though a small degree of reserve lingered in her letters. He would find a way to see her soon. He had the Crosby address and phone number.

  Gill was her usual self, bright, sensible and trying to feed up her visitor. Something happened to Lancashire women the moment that band of gold was on their third finger. They fed anything that moved, particularly creatures on two legs. The refusal of an offering could cause great offence, so he made his way through three slices of buttered fruit cake and two cups of tea. There was no particular affection in her face when their eyes met. Yes, he had clearly mistaken her behaviour the other day.

  ‘So he’s up ladders?’ she asked. ‘You’ve let a loony climb ladders?’

  ‘Part of the job. I’ve left him with more barley sugars and instructions to eat one if he starts feeling weak or forgetful.’

  ‘And he’ll forget what you said when he gets a bit hypo. You finish your cake while I walk down to the Edge and make sure he’s all right. No, stay there, Keith. We’ve all got to get used to this.’

  Alone, he drained his cup and took the latest missive from Liverpool out of his pocket. She, too, was funny sometimes. And there was no mention of Dr Tom.

  So I am going to live in the beautiful house of a headmistress, while my boys are now with Miss Pickavance, who has turned out to be quite a good teacher-cum-jailer. Bertie makes the odd dash for freedom, but he’s always dragged back by the other two, who enjoy Hilda’s cooking and listening to her wireless and gramophone.

  Meanwhile, Kitty-next-door, who is supposed to be having the empty house in Willows Edge, keeps throwing all kinds of fits. In spite of lovely new teeth that actually fit after adjustment, plus a secondhand bargain dress and jacket from Paddy’s Market, she doesn’t want to leave the house at all.

  She’s never been further down town than the Liver Buildings, hasn’t even been over the water on the ferry. She thinks Birkenhead is a foreign country, while London probably exists on the moon or Mars. She’s also frightened of empty fields and quietness, I think, and she’ll be scared to death of cows and the like. We’re used to horses, because they’re part of our life round here, but I don’t think Kitty’s ever wondered where milk and butter and cheese come from. The Co-op, I suppose.

  Mam says Kitty won’t come to Willows, but I hope she does because since her husband fell in the river and died she’s been weird, and a new start might shock her out of her depression. Charlie Maguire was an alcoholic, and she’s better off without him, but she doesn’t know that yet. Her children will thrive well in the fresh air, too, so we’re trying to knock a bit of sense into her – not easy! Aren’t people daft?

  That last sentence was from the previous Eileen, the one who wrote from the soles of her feet, no holds barred, a smile or a wry comment in every paragraph. Some decision had been made, and a problem she’d encountered had either reduced in size or been eliminated. She was, he suspected, a complex character, highly intelligent and probably self-educated. He couldn’t wait to see her again, yet he had to wait.

  I seem to have inherited a sewing machine, which happy accident means I can cobble together some bits and pieces for Mel. She keeps up well at the school, and she seldom complains, but I know she feels the difference between herself and some of the other girls. They have ponies, new bikes and nice houses, but they don’t have my girl’s looks and brains. Mel’s old-fashioned, and she comes out with some stuff when I ask does she mind being poor. One of her answers was that a Rolls-Royce might drive a girl to Oxbridge, but only exam results could open the doors to a college. I don’t mean she’s cocky, but she does have a clever answer for everything.

  It sounds as if my mother and Mrs Openshaw might clash. Mam has been one of the unofficial midwives and layers-out in Scottie Road for twenty-odd years, and she doesn’t care whose business she jumps into. She gets all the gossip from the bag-wash when she goes down with our washing, then I think she adds bits on while she walks home. So if somebody’s had a big baby, like a ten-pounder, it’ll be twelve pounds by the time Mam comes through our door.

  He smiled to himself as he pictured Nellie Kennedy pushing an old pram filled with washing through the side stree
ts of Liverpool. She was a character, all right, and she had birthed another character, who had produced yet another. These were his kind of women, because they never gave up. ‘Neither do I, Eileen,’ he said to the three pages. She cared. No one would write all this without holding some kind of interest in the recipient.

  Jay came in, face split from ear to ear with an east-to-west grin. ‘I’m the one with diabetes, and she’s the one who stood in a cowpat.’ He looked over his shoulder as a shoeless Gill entered. ‘See? So busy keeping an eye on me, she ends up covered in sh— in shame.’

  Keith looked at the pair and wished, hoped, that Gill loved the father of her long-awaited baby. Jay was a jester, but he was a good man who deserved the best. Then Keith caught Gill staring again, damped-down longing in her eyes. Immediately, he jumped to his feet, uttered a quick goodbye and left the house. There was something in Gill’s head, and it was not appropriate. Bugger. He ate quite frequently at the gatehouse, and he enjoyed greatly the company of the couple who lived there.

  ‘She looks at me the way I look at Eileen,’ he told one of the six willow trees. Had he explained to Miss Pickavance that these weepers liked people, that they thrived on conversation? If the willows did well, stock thrived, crops burgeoned and the orchards bore enormous fruits. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Pregnant at last, she should be celebrating with her man. Fronds rustled and brushed against him, caressing his face and neck. Eileen’s children would play here. Their noise would feed the willows and, because her blood was in the boys’ veins, she, too, would be providing nourishment.

  If Gill felt for Keith what he felt for Eileen, she would be in pain. What could he do? He’d never been married, but estate management involved interaction with many people, and pregnant women were odd. They developed strange likes and dislikes, had mood swings, ate coal and orange peel and, sometimes, went a bit wild.

  Was Gill off her rocker? If she was crackers, would she mend straight away after the child’s birth? What if she started with that decline some women went into after confinement? Should he talk to her? He left the trees on which everyone’s welfare supposedly depended, and entered the main house. Tomorrow, he would pick up from Trinity Street station two women, three boys, and assorted small pieces of luggage. The main items had already arrived, but the car would be packed. With Miss Pickavance in the passenger seat, he would need to squeeze into the rear of the car three boys in assorted sizes, and a well-built though not overweight grandmother.