The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  The house looked cosy. Gill and Jean had brought in some of summer’s lingering blooms to brighten and freshen the rooms. Beds had been made, furniture waxed, oil lamps filled, wicks trimmed. He lit fires in every room, opened windows slightly to encourage airing. Tonight, he would sleep here on a camp bed in the kitchen. Willows was too precious to be left while wood and coal burned in grates.

  He led the horses from the paddock into their stables, stood in the yard and looked at the stars. There could be frost tonight, because the sky was clear and inky. Tomorrow, the rebirth of Willows would begin under the guidance of a new mistress, one who might take an interest in the welfare of this vast estate and its many inhabitants. She was a good woman. Old Mr Pickavance had not been bad, but his connection to the land of his forebears had been minimal. Yes, there was a war on, yet the ill wind had delivered the promise of a new beginning in which Willows might find itself again.

  All Keith needed now was for Gill to settle down with her excellent, well-meaning if chronically sick husband, and for Eileen to visit. He closed the stable doors and went into the kitchen. With a fire in the large grate, it looked homely and welcoming. For many years, this house had been lonely, neglected and unloved. ‘As have I,’ he said just before noticing the PTO at the bottom of Eileen’s third page.

  Mam and I have been talking. If we can get transport, she and I will change places from time to time so that I might keep in closer touch with my sons. Mam is very fond of Mel, and they will miss each other if the war lasts. Perhaps you might help by giving some thought to how we can travel the thirty-odd miles to and fro.

  Another thought. I beg you to bring Mam next week. Between the two of you, you might manage to get Kitty Maguire out of number four. She is promised a job in the main house with Jay’s wife. She will clean while her kids are having lessons in what my mother calls the afternoon room. Kitty needs my mother. A fresh start would do no harm, either. With her husband dead and her small children running wild, she could easily lose her mind completely here.

  Love and best wishes, Eileen.

  Hope attacked his heart from two fronts, a pincer movement seeming to squeeze all air from his body. She would be here, and not just for the odd weekend or half-term. And she had written a word that was taken too lightly these days. Love. ‘Don’t love me like a brother or a friend,’ he begged. He had never expected to meet again eyes like Annie’s: honest, beautiful and unafraid.

  ‘Of course I’ll pick up your neighbour. By the hair, if necessary.’ He made toast and cocoa. Sometimes, life tasted good.

  Nellie Kennedy was having a day and a half. Saying goodbye to Rachel Street wasn’t easy; saying goodbye to Kitty Maguire was proving a near impossibility, because the thin woman had fastened herself to Nellie’s clothing. ‘You can’t leave me on me own, Nell. I’ll not manage without you.’

  ‘If you rip that sleeve, I’ll give you a clout round the ear ’ole. Come with us. Get the kids, pack your bits, and—’

  ‘I’ve never been away from here. I’ve never been on a train.’

  ‘I’ll be with you.’ But they wouldn’t all fit in the car at the other end. Someone would have to stay behind at the station in Bolton and wait for the first lot to be delivered to Willows. ‘Next week you’ll be joining us, Kitty.’

  ‘I daren’t.’

  Oh, but she would. Nellie reclaimed ownership of the sleeve, then folded her arms. ‘Three or four days,’ she said. ‘If we don’t come Monday, we’ll be here Tuesday. Kitty, I’ve things to do. I can’t stand here like the bloody Venus de Milo, because I need to use me arms to get the last of our things wrapped up. You’ve got to pull yourself together, queen, or we’ll all be in a mess. Keith Greenhalgh is meeting us, and we have to be on that train.’

  ‘But your Eileen’s at work. She can’t look after me.’

  Nellie looked at the sky as if seeking guidance. Saying ta-ra to Eileen and Mel this morning had been the hardest thing. ‘From tomorrow, Eileen will be in Crosby. Miss Morrison’s health’s gone worse, so our Eileen’s had to give up all her other jobs just to look after the old lady.’ Eileen was to have a small wage and, with food, fuel and shelter already paid for, she’d survive as long as they didn’t get bombed.

  ‘I can’t be on me own,’ Kitty wailed.

  ‘There’s a whole street of people here. You won’t be by yourself.’

  ‘They’re fed up with me. There’s only you cares.’

  Nellie was as fed up as everyone else, but kindness had prevented her from giving up on this poor, confused woman. If the odd behaviour went on, Kitty might well find herself in an institution, and her kids would become genuine evacuees like most of the children who had left their parents at the beginning of September. ‘Kitty, you have to get a grip, but not on my best clothes. If you turn up at Willows Edge in this state, and if your children carry on running wild and dirty, nobody will help you. People help those who make an effort.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You bloody can and you bloody will. There’s a nice clean cottage waiting for you. There’s a job. Look, I know what it is to be widowed, and I feel for you. There’s no one else to blame now, is there? It’s just you. Charlie was always pickled, and the behaviour of your young ones was his fault. But I’m telling you now, Kitty, Willows is your only hope. If you don’t take that house, somebody else will. Now, I’m going.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’m going to save my grandsons. If you don’t mind your kids dying, stop here. If you don’t mind dying yourself and leaving them three little buggers as orphans, stop here. Your future, with a job and Miss Pickavance to teach your babies, is about forty miles away. Liverpool will be flattened. It’s up to you.’

  Kitty burst into tears and fled through the front door of her filthy house.

  Nellie continued giving away bits of furniture, pots, pans and anything that might be taken over by a new tenant if she didn’t allocate it now. She hung on to two beds and enough bits and pieces for Eileen and Mel. Tonight would be their last in this house. Remaining items would be disposed of tomorrow, and keys would be returned to the landlord’s office.

  It was the end of an era. Nothing would be the same after today. New addresses, new friends, new way of life for everyone. But Nellie was determined to walk on, because she could not, would not, remain here. She picked up a few packages, left the house and, after locking the door for the last time, posted her key through the door. Eileen had her own key, and she would get rid of both tomorrow.

  Nellie crossed the road to number one. Three shiny-faced angels stood with Miss Pickavance, brown paper parcels clutched to their chests. The older two seemed composed, but poor little Bertie, who had managed to survive past his seventh birthday in spite of his mother’s teasing, was white-faced and clearly frightened. Nellie placed her own packages on the ground before squatting down at his level. ‘Shall I tell him now?’ she asked.

  Hilda Pickavance pretended to consider the question. ‘Well, if you must. It was supposed to be a surprise when he gets there, but he seems a little sad.’

  ‘Don’t want to go,’ Bertie said. ‘Me friends are all here. I like Liverpool. I don’t know why I have to go.’

  Nellie blinked back a river. ‘Your own horse, babe. A pony. It’s called Pedro and it’s a palomino. Like a pale gold colour with white mane and tail.’

  The child blinked. ‘Has it got big feet?’

  ‘No. It’s not like the one you pinched, love. This is a proper riding pony, but Neil and Jean Dyson’s girls have grown a little bit tall for it. They live at the home farm, and the youngest’s nearly ten. So Pedro’s yours.’

  ‘Mine? I don’t have to share?’

  ‘All yours.’

  Bertie didn’t understand not sharing. Even at school, the books were all one between two. At home, first up best dressed had often been the rule, but they were giving him a whole horse. ‘I’d rather have me mam,’ he admitted, ‘but if I can’t have her, a pony’s nearly as good.’r />
  Those words became Nellie’s unspoken mantra as they rode the tram to Liverpool, a train to Manchester, another to Bolton. Keith Greenhalgh picked them up and drove them out of town and up to sweeping stretches of moorland. All three boys stared at what they saw as a void, since there were no shops, theatres, cinemas, trams or crowds.

  Nellie sat tight-lipped, because there was a hole in her chest, a space in which she had held Eileen for thirty-three years, Mel for thirteen. Strangely, she kept seeing the Liver Birds, twins that sat and overlooked the waterfront. They had to stay. No Nazi missile could touch them, or the city would crumble. It was just a piece of local folklore, but— Oh, Eileen. Oh, Mel. Then she looked at Bertie and smiled. A pony was nearly as good …

  At first, Eileen felt rather trapped, because Frances Morrison needed almost full-time care. But three immediate neighbours offered to help so that shopping could be done, and she was promised the odd day or evening off. The doctor was just round the corner, Miss Morrison’s house had a telephone, and … and yes, the doctor was just round the corner.

  Miss Morrison was a kind and gentle woman whose breeding and education showed without being overpowering. A further surprise came Eileen’s way when she discovered that the people of Crosby and Blundellsands were rather more than all fur coats and no knickers. They spoke well, but they had their feet planted, showed few airs, and were more or less like everyone else except they had better houses and good furniture.

  The old lady was now confined to the ground floor. A nurse came in daily to check on her, but the hour-to-hour care was Eileen’s province, and she was determined to make a good fist of it. Three pounds a week, with all necessities already found, meant she was comparatively wealthy. So she helped with the disposal of dining room furniture, and was on hand when the space was turned into a bedroom. Neighbours sold table, chairs, display cabinets and sideboard, while Eileen concentrated on comfort. Wireless and gramophone were moved into the newly established sleeping area, while a firm, low chair was placed near the fire.

  The neighbours, impressed by Eileen’s dedication to the cause, told her as discreetly as possible that should Miss Morrison lose the fight for life, alternative work and shelter would be arranged for her and Mel. It was in that moment that the woman from Scotland Road became certain that people were good for the most part. But the doctor was still round the corner.

  On the day before the move, he arrived. After awarding Eileen the filthiest look in his repertoire, he marched into the ex-dining room to examine his patient. When he returned to the kitchen, where Eileen was preparing an apple pie, his tone was terse. He banged a bottle of medicine on the table. ‘Keep her in a sitting position for the most part. Don’t let her sleep flat, either, as pneumonia would not be a welcome visitor at this point. With the right care, she has a few years’ wear in her yet.’ He then told her that the bottle contained an expectorant designed to clear Miss Morrison’s chest.

  ‘Right,’ said Eileen, picking up the medicine.

  ‘One teaspoonful four times a day, don’t miss it. When do you move in?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Then instruct the neighbour who will be here tonight. The medication must be taken. And thank you, by the way.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For the second attack. At least they knew what they were doing, since they popped my arm back into its socket. It hurt like hell.’

  She found no immediate reply. Dockers were tough creatures, and they had clearly gone at least a mile too far. The idea had been to frighten him, not to give him pain, and guilt shot through her like an arrow from a longbow.

  ‘Nothing to say for yourself, madam?’

  ‘Nothing. You were warned.’

  ‘And given a black eye by your delightful mother.’

  ‘You don’t know her. She stands by her family no matter what the cost to herself and to strangers. As for the other business, there’s a special bond among the dockers of Liverpool, and I’m a docker’s widow. They look after their own. I’m sorry you were hurt, and I mean that, but as I said just now, you were warned.’

  The doctor’s bag was placed none too gently on the table, where it disturbed a great deal of flour. Eileen looked down at the resulting mess and opened her mouth to speak, but he was quick. More arrows pierced her body, but this time they brought pleasure. Her response was automatic, and she cursed her own lack of strength.

  He released her very suddenly, and she backed away to depend for support on the sink. ‘Bloody hell,’ she breathed.

  The same expression with which he had greeted her returned to his features. Without a word, he retrieved his bag and used a cloth to wipe most of the flour from its base. For at least a minute, he stood in silence, eyes fixed on her in a cold, almost forbidding stare.

  Eileen shivered. This was a man who was capable of overcoming her with very little effort. She was in danger of losing control, of losing her mother and her job. But Mel would be here sometimes and, when she wasn’t, there was Miss Morrison. Eileen would have to learn to recognize the sound of his engine in order to ensure that she could be safely out of reach or with his patient whenever he came. Because she knew he could win. He knew he could win. And he knew that she knew … Silently, she told herself to shut up.

  ‘I love you,’ he said finally, though his eyes did nothing to back up the brief declaration.

  She remained silent. He was the fly in ointment that had promised to be cool and soothing since she had fallen on her feet here, on the border between Crosby and Blundellsands. It wasn’t love. It was unadorned, naked lust. Once indulged, it would require regular feeding until it burned itself out. Even then, the ashes would need to be very cold in order to prevent rebirth of the phoenix.

  He read her mind. ‘No, it’s gone beyond the physical. While you pretend to seek a sensible land steward, you want me. You want to wake in my bed, not his. This isn’t over. Even if it ends, it will never be over. You will remember me.’

  Eileen found her voice again. ‘I am easily as cunning as my mam. I can tear my clothes and scream rape.’

  ‘It would kill her.’ Tom nodded in the direction of the dining room. ‘She’s your lifeline. I’ll be back.’ He left the kitchen, called a goodbye to the lady of the house, opened the front door and went. The car started. Only then did Eileen dare to breathe. Her body screamed for him, but her mind was fixed squarely on the welfare of her daughter and on the old lady who needed company, help, food and kindness.

  She finished her pie, stopping partway through to look at the shape of Tom’s bag in scattered flour. She missed him. He was right; even if this ended, it would never be over. There was little she could do. With Laz, there had existed a potent mix of sex and another kind of love, the sort that brought respect and caring into the arena. But her feelings for Tom stopped when she considered anything other than physical joy. He was wrong for her; there were good men in the world, and she had encountered one of them recently.

  She needed to go to church, wanted to confess her sins of thought, word and deed, must get a man of God to pray for her. Yet sometimes she looked up into the wide blue yonder and knew that this little earth was not alone, that space was unlimited, that Darwin was right. Was God there? Whilst Darwin and God did not need to be mutually exclusive, a saying from another man sat in Eileen’s mind. Hadn’t Marx concluded that religion was the opium of the people? Was Catholicism just another fairy tale in which the good survived and the wolf got chopped to bits by the woodcutter? ‘Oh, don’t start with the stupid deep thinking,’ she chided herself quietly. ‘You’ve pots to wash.’

  After putting the dishes to soak in the bowl, she sat for a while, her mind wandering unhindered through the old neighbourhood, all those preparations for war and against the threat of invasion. Then there was the other business, the giggling, the groaning in dark alleys where couples grabbed their moments. ‘I swore the disease would never get me,’ she whispered.

  Before the declaration, Eileen’s adherenc
e to the moral code hammered into her head by Mam and by school had been total. Then, on a sunny Sunday, things had changed for everyone. ‘But not in my head,’ she said quietly. ‘This is not of my choosing, because it’s animal, pure animal.’ Yes, she understood the girls and boys who fumbled beneath the imposed cloak of darkness.

  She moved to the sink and stared unseeing through the window. There would be quick marriages during leaves; there would be unwanted babies. Young mothers and their offspring might be cast out, orphanages could be filled, and she was no wiser than the youthful miscreants. She needed love, needed to be touched, needed sex. There. She had achieved diagnosis. Angry with herself, she took it out on crockery and cutlery. Eileen was vulnerable, and she hated that.

  The apple pie finally found its way to the oven. Having a gas cooker was one of the pleasures of life in this house, as was the garden, where autumn had arrived to colour trees red, gold and brown. She could still feel his hands on her body. Daffodil and tulip bulbs needed planting, but the fortnightly gardener would see to all that. And her mouth felt bruised. A piece of ham had produced the basis for pea and ham soup, one of Miss Morrison’s favourites. And the ham would do for sandwiches. She wanted no more babies, since four were enough for anyone, but she needed comfort, closeness, fulfilment, excitement. That was selfish. If she gave in, she would be indulging a need that would be better ignored.

  It wasn’t a case of if. It was when. Because she understood with blinding certainty that the mating ritual would continue, and that she would inevitably be worn down, as she wanted him as badly as he wanted her. For the sake of her daughter, Eileen Watson would postpone the event for as long as possible. But it would happen. Wouldn’t it? Or might someone else fill the void in her soul?