‘Yes,’ he replied lamely.
The arms folded themselves yet again. ‘So? Are you starting courting, then?’
‘Probably,’ they chorused.
Nellie looked at the ceiling, her lips moving in silent prayer. Young people these days were rubbish when it came to decision-making. Eileen should grab this one, because he was house-trained, handsome and willing to have a go with the Terrible Trio. He could even cook, for goodness’ sake. ‘Go out with him,’ she snapped. ‘And thank your lucky stars for the man, because he’s a rare beast.’
‘That’s me told.’ Eileen drained her cup and lay back on the pillows. ‘Get lost, both of you. I’m having a day off.’
Nellie led her chosen son-in-law downstairs, where she delivered another lecture, this time on a subject entitled How to Win the Hand of Eileen Watson. There was a hefty sub-section pertaining to the boys, and a smaller essay on Mel, who liked clever people. ‘Can you play chess?’
He nodded. Getting a word in would have been difficult, so he decided not to try.
‘Cribbage and backgammon?’
Again, he inclined his head.
‘Good, so you’ll be in there with that one. The other three? Oh, bugger. But I think you’re on the right road with Bertie. Phil and Rob were older when their dad died, so they took it bad and started running wild. With me and our Eileen having to work, we couldn’t keep hold of them. She could do with marrying a prison guard, I suppose.’
‘I’ll manage. Don’t forget, I was a sergeant major, and that’s as good as any prison guard, Nellie. She’ll marry me if I have to break her legs.’
‘Don’t do that, love. She’s got great legs.’
‘I noticed.’
Nellie laughed. ‘And she’s a poser. Likes men looking at her, but she’s never looked at them, not till lately. As for our Mel, she’s got brains and street-wisdom, so she already knows how to get attention and how to manipulate idiots. She loves male company, but she’ll flirt with you.’
‘I’ve told you, I’ll cope.’
‘Make sure you do. Take madam to the pictures tonight. There’s that Gone with the Wind one, always makes me think about somebody what’s ate too many sprouts. Withering Heights, or whatever it is, Wizard of Oz, then Boris Wotsisface messing about in the Tower of London. Plenty to choose from. Take her in the back row for a cuddle, she likes a cuddle. And liquorice allsorts. See? Job done.’
Keith loved Nellie’s philosophy. She saw a gap in the market, sucked on her dentures for a second or two, then filled the space. Eileen was aware of her desirability, seemed interested in him, so liquorice allsorts, a good film, a cuddle in the back row, a chance. Mel, on the other hand, was aware and educated, so she would need watching. Whatever, he seemed to have passed the unscheduled interview, and Nellie had appointed him keeper of the keys to some dungeon in which he would be expected to store her grandsons. By default, he was now guardian of Mel’s chastity, and husband-in-waiting for Nellie’s daughter, because Nellie had decided. Scarcely addressed was the rest of the equation, because Nell and Eileen came as a pair, and mother-in-law would definitely be nearby or in the household. If they ever achieved marriage, that was.
Strangely, he didn’t mind any of it. His disposition was inclined towards the let-it-be school of thought, and matriarchy didn’t frighten him. Nellie was a sensible woman underneath the aprons and behind the pot teeth. There was no harm in her, and he adored her daughter. It would all work out, he reassured himself.
They didn’t go to the cinema. Instead, the pair sat in the rear seat of Hilda Pickavance’s car, ate fish and chips, found a rug and cuddled up together under a full moon whose mirror shone in the Mersey behind a row of railings. Their thoughts were shared, though largely unexpressed at first. This angry stretch of water, governed by the Irish Sea and the silver body that currently hung in the sky, was peaceful tonight; scarcely a ripple, no sound, no need to be afraid, not yet. ‘It will happen,’ Keith said at last. ‘Once the Krauts have airstrips in France …’
‘Yes. Yes, it will.’
‘Are you frightened, love?’
Eileen nodded. ‘Only a fool could fail to be afraid. It’s too quiet, too eerie. But you can feel it, can’t you? Like when there’s going to be a thunderstorm and you get a headache. Oh yes, they will come here. And they’ll bomb us and burn us, so we’ll bomb and burn them. Even if you leave the people out of it, look at all the wonderful buildings that’ll be lost. Such a waste. War is stupid.’
‘It is. I remember the last lot, and I wish I didn’t.’
The kissing and whispering started, and by half past ten they had begun to explore one another in the exquisite discomfort of a confined space. Among chip papers, and surrounded by the heady perfumes of vinegar and cod, they became aware that the future was deciding for itself. ‘I didn’t need the liquorice allsorts,’ he said. ‘And what happened to probably?’
‘It died in its sleep. Come on, we have to get back. Mam will be wondering where I am.’ How on earth could she have imagined that she was attracted to Tom Bingley? This man had soul, kindness and a generosity of spirit that was rare in humankind. And he was a very desirable property.
‘She’ll think we’ve had sex.’
‘Well, we nearly did.’
He burst out laughing. ‘I’m old enough to be needing a bed for that sort of malarkey. Gone are my days for jumping off wardrobes wearing only a big smile.’
‘Have you really done that?’
‘No, but a man can dream. When we eventually do the deed, I’ll probably have to recuperate for days in a darkened room with a wet cloth over my eyes, because I’ve never done it with a woman I love.’
‘You said probably.’
‘Did I?’
‘Probably. Let’s get back before the Germans come.’
They returned to what Eileen described as chaos on wheels. Miss Morrison, in what she referred to as her chariot, was at the kitchen table with Nellie, and she was normally in bed long before this time. She hadn’t quite mastered the art of steering, and the whole ground floor bore scars from her twisting and turning, particularly in doorways.
Nellie had been weeping. She looked at her daughter and probable son-in-law, and made just a few remarks. ‘Your buttons are wrong, girl. Keith, if you’re going to mess about with bits of me daughter, put them away properly before bringing her home.’ She covered her tear-stained face and shook her head slowly from side to side.
In spite of everything, Miss Morrison had to choke back a giggle. She hadn’t had this much fun since being locked in the school cellar with a caretaker whose jokes had been rather risqué. But this was not an occasion for hilarity. There was trouble afoot, and no one should be laughing, because Nellie was terrified.
‘We’re courting,’ Eileen said.
‘I should think so too, with the bloody state of you. He looks like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards as well. It’s like having a pair of blinking teenagers in the house, both ragged after billing and cooing all over the shop. Eileen, love, they’ve gone missing.’
Eileen looked down at her bosom.
‘Not them, you soft mare. Your two eldest, my grandsons. They’ve buggered off with bread, boiled ham, cheese and two bikes. Oh, and a couple of bottles of dandelion and burdock. The only hope is that they’ve overloaded themselves and won’t get far. And money. They’ve took a few bob.’
Eileen dropped into a chair. ‘In the dark?’
Keith, hands in trouser pockets, was staring at the floor. He’d remembered something. ‘They’ve become very interested in maps just lately,’ he said. ‘I should have known it was too good to be true. They didn’t want a horse, they wanted a bike each. A few times, when there was a clear sky, I caught them staring at the evening sun. So they’ve worked out which way is west, and they’re on their way to Scotland Road.’
‘I’ll kill them,’ Eileen declared.
‘You’ve to find them first,’ sighed Nellie. ‘Miss Pickavance
is halfway out of her brainbox. Neil and Jean have taken her and Bertie down to Home Farm, but she can’t stay there in case the two heroes return and there’s nobody in to flay them within an inch of their lives. What next, eh? We don’t need a bloody war, because we’ve already got one. Poor Kitty, now this. Come on, Keith. We’d best get back to Willows.’
But he put his foot down hard. Driving any distance in a blackout was not a good idea. The boys would not be visible at night, and if they had any sense they would have found somewhere sheltered to sleep. And what was the point of going to inland Lancashire when the lads were on their way to Liverpool? ‘Let the police look for them till morning, then Eileen and I will go down the road and find the little devils. From now on, they will work with me and the farmers. Miss Pickavance should not have to put up with my … my charges.’
‘What if they get run over and killed?’ Nellie screamed.
‘They won’t,’ Eileen told her. ‘The devil looks after his own.’
Miss Morrison nodded thoughtfully. ‘I always found the complete removal of all privileges to be effective, but that was in a school environment. You are right in your decision to put them to work. Find a farmer or a farmhand you trust, and hand them over. No puddings or treats until they have proved themselves. If they cooperate, open up a small bank account, but don’t allow them access to money unless they have been spectacularly good. Reward decent behaviour and withhold all possibility of reward if they don’t buck up.’
‘Didn’t you teach girls, though?’ Nellie asked.
‘Oh yes, indeed. Girls are more cunning, and they refine their skills at an early age. Boys are difficult, but rather less aware of the action and reaction process. They tend not to think things through very well. So it isn’t difficult to stay one step ahead. Oh, and if you find them in Liverpool, Mr Greenhalgh, bring them here. I should like to meet these fine young men. Eileen? Put me to bed, dear.’
Nellie and Keith were left alone. She looked him up and down. ‘You and our Eileen, you didn’t … ?’
‘No, we didn’t. And forget about that till we’ve found Philip and Rob. I’m worried in case the police get them. From what I’ve heard, they’ve come pretty near to being sent away, and we don’t want them in Borstal, do we?’
She sighed heavily. ‘It won’t happen. This country’s full of runaways trying to find their way home from evacuation billets. But you’ve got to catch them, love.’
‘I know. I promise you I’ll get them back. Go to bed.’
But Nellie had no intention of going to bed. She was staying near the phone, and she would be here if the police rolled up with that pair of ragamuffins. Like many women, she displayed fear as if it were anger, and her only consolation was a picture of herself with her hands round Philip’s throat. At eleven, he should have had more sense.
Mel wandered in, balled hands rubbing her eyes. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘It’s like trying to sleep in the middle of a playground.’
Nellie explained, adding a brief remark about Eileen and Keith courting.
‘Good,’ Mel said. ‘I like you, Mr Greenhalgh. I’ll make some cocoa. And don’t worry about that pair, since they’re sure to be noticed. They couldn’t escape from a plate of blancmange, because they’ve only one brain cell between them, and they’ve lent that to Bertie. The youngest has more sense than the two of them put together, but then so has a dead rat. Anyone else for cocoa?’
Midnight found Nellie, Mel, Eileen and Keith sipping hot cocoa at the kitchen table. Tales of the boys’ exploits were bandied about, and Keith found himself suppressing laughter yet again. The humour was an unexpected bonus, and he relished it. The pair had brought home dogs, sacks of molasses, coal, rotted fruit from the back of Paddy’s Market, and half a pig pinched from the yard of a butcher’s shop. ‘What did you do with that?’ Keith asked.
‘We ate it, of course,’ Nellie answered. ‘It was half a pig, it was dead, and it was in our house. It took some chopping up, but we managed.’
‘Double standards.’ Eileen touched his hand. ‘It happens where there’s poverty.’
‘I know,’ he answered. ‘I come from a similar background. I haven’t always lived in the glorious Lancashire countryside. Life’s hard.’
‘It’s what you make it,’ Mel announced with a toss of her head.
‘Drink your cocoa,’ barked her grandmother. ‘And be grateful, Miss Clever Clogs.’
It was dark, it was cold, and they were both fed up, though Philip remained determined to see the mission through. ‘What did it say on that last sign?’ his brother asked.
‘Lowton,’ Philip snapped.
‘Where’s Lowton?’
‘Near Leigh.’
‘Where’s Leigh?’
‘Near Lowton. Now shut up, or I’ll bloody strangle you. We have to find somewhere and wait till morning. That big road to Liverpool’s only a mile or so from here.’ There was a moon. The moon was the reason they were here, because they’d have needed to wait another whole month for light. Everywhere was blacked out, curtains closed, street lamps unlit, most people in bed. Rob wanted to turn round and go back, but Philip was adamant. Hell wasn’t about burning; it was mile after mile of open space, PLEASE CLOSE THE GATE, ill-tempered bulls, chickens scratching, cows lowing to be milked, no shops, no picture house, no human life.
‘She’ll be out of her mind,’ Rob said. ‘Miss Pickavance, I mean.’
‘But we won’t.’ Philip dragged the younger boy down the side of a house. ‘We’re going home. See? An Anderson. We’ll sleep in that tonight, and tomorrow we’ll be back where we belong.’
Rob wasn’t sure where he belonged. All he knew was that he needed food, warmth, and familiar faces. Sitting in a chilled Anderson shelter with dampish blankets was not his idea of fun. Sometimes, they had a fire in their bedroom at Willows, and it was cosy. The food, too, was good, and he didn’t mind digging up potatoes and carrots, because it was great to eat vegetables that had been grown on land belonging to the house.
Philip managed to light a small paraffin stove. ‘Now you can stop moaning,’ he said. ‘And in a few hours we’ll be back where we belong.’
Rob still wasn’t sure where he belonged. He wanted Gran. Gran was a pain in the backside, but he missed her. He’d have preferred Mam, but she was in Blundellsands or somewhere posh with an old lady and Keith Greenhalgh and Gran and Mel, because Kitty-next-door had gone to hell for murder and suicide, and it was all very confusing for a nine-year-old lad who just wanted a mug of hot milk and a warm bed.
But when Philip was asleep, Rob discovered that he hadn’t the courage to go off on his own, as Philip was older and knew where things were. And a two-hour stint on a bike hadn’t been good for the legs, so Rob laid himself down and ached. There was hardly any pop left, and most of the food was in a bit of a mess, as it hadn’t been wrapped properly and things were crumbly and rather mixed up.
Rob stared up at the corrugated container in which he was confined. At Willows, they had a double bed and a single bed, and they took turns. Bertie was funny; he didn’t like sleeping alone. Thinking about his little brother curled up all by himself made Rob tearful. His limbs hurt, his back hurt, his arms ached, and there was a hole in his heart where the life to which he had started to become accustomed no longer sat. What could he do, though? Was there a police station nearby? Would the police take him to that prison for young offenders in Derbyshire? And what about Phil?
At last he fell asleep. When morning came, Phil woke him, and they sneaked back up the side of the house. After just a few minutes, they were sitting on the grass verge of the East Lancashire Road eating crumbs of bread and Lancashire cheese. Although they were nearer to Manchester than to Liverpool, the end was in sight. Behind them, the sun had risen; ahead, their destination awaited their return, and although Rob prayed that they would soon be found, he followed his brother and hoped for the best. It would be an adventure, but surely they would be rescued soon?
‘Come
on,’ Phil chided. He guessed that his companion’s heart was no longer in this expedition. ‘I don’t want to eat any more of that muck. When we get to Scotland Road, we’ll find plenty to eat.’
Plenty to eat? Mam had tried her best to make sure there’d been enough, but plenty had started first at Miss Pickavance’s house on Rachel Street, and had continued at Willows. Rob scarcely dared to ask, yet he managed. ‘Plenty? Who’s going to give us plenty, Phil? We don’t belong to anybody now.’
‘Then we’ll pinch it.’
‘And end up at that school for bad lads?’
Phil threw down his bike and took hold of his companion’s clothing in the neck area. ‘Listen, soft girl. If you want to go back, bugger off and see if you can remember the way. I’m going home.’
Rob swallowed. ‘Right.’
‘Are you with me? Because I’m telling you now, I could get there a damned sight faster without you holding me back all the while.’
‘I’m with you.’ There was nowhere else to be. Rob wouldn’t find his way to Willows in a month of Sundays, and they both knew it. So they carried on along a rough footpath that ran parallel with the new road. One way or another, Phil Watson would be home by lunchtime.
Things were changing at a rate of knots in the St Andrew’s Road house. Tom, having been dismissed by Frances Morrison, was no longer able to visit the woman he wanted. Advised by his daughter that Eileen and the Greenhalgh fellow were enjoying each other’s company, he was not in the best of moods. Then there was Marie. She was floating round with her feet about six inches off the ground, and she looked different. In fact, both females in the household looked different. Gloria’s skin had improved, her figure had developed in a matter of weeks, and she suddenly owned visible cheekbones.
Marie’s hair was softer, and it framed a face that seemed to be eliminating pockets of loose flesh at the jaw line. Her eyes appeared larger, waist smaller, legs better than ever. She sang a lot. He listened carefully when she was on the telephone, because she had a special voice for one caller. The business voice was employed for her WVS coven, but a certain person named Norman made her giggle and simper like a young girl. She imagined that she was in love. Tom knew Norman, since the chap had owned a few pharmacies, and he was about as interesting as drying paint, but Marie was clearly impressed by him. He was probably dependable to the point of predictability, and that would please Marie, who wanted life to be the same every day.
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 53
