On Sunday, the fourth day in May, the whole Merseyside area of West Lancashire was in mourning. Many of the dead were still under rubble, as were several living souls. Even where fires had burned themselves out, the fabric of crumbled buildings remained hot, sometimes too hot to touch.
This time, the BBC named the city. This time, nothing could be hidden, though the media did not go into too much detail. The most moving moments came when Manchester arrived in all kinds of vehicles, and when North Wales emptied itself into the centre of Liverpool. People cared, and that mattered. A pair of proud Liver Birds supervised a city that was no longer there, a city to which non-residents had come to help clear up.
It would have been easier to count the few buildings that remained, and most of those were singed. The cultural area was destroyed. The overhead railway, known locally as the Dockers’ Umbrella, was a tangle of metal. Wool and tobacco warehouses were no more, and Post Office engineers laboured with miles of wire, since the telephone exchange had been eliminated. Oil and fat works continued to burn, and the destruction of Inland Revenue premises was the only occurrence that gave rise to subdued laughter. Unfortunately, an employee ventured inside and found all records intact in a fire-proofed strong room. Fortunately, his excitement was so great that he ran out to spread the good news, forgetting to close the doors behind him. The strong room was burned out, and all records were lost.
Into the city cycled Peter Bingley with his father’s camera. Dad hadn’t come home, so Peter had expected to find a mess, but this was … this was murder on a vast scale. Temper rose like vomit in his throat, and he was forced to breathe through his mouth in order to still his stomach. There were no church steeples, no bell towers, and very few shops remained. Oxygen was lacking, too. Where was Dad? How could he find him in the midst of such devastation? Taking photographs was no easy task, as his hands shook. But Phil Watson had to record this in his paintings. ‘And I’m giving up German,’ Peter muttered under his breath.
All punctuation marks, all points of reference had been removed. Where was he? Paradise Street, Lord Street, St John Street, Canning Place – all burned out of existence. The words ‘Turn left at Lewis’s’ would not be used for some time to come. ‘We’ll get you,’ he told a murky sky. ‘By God, you’re finished.’
He started to search for his father. He found bodies, injured people, bits of people, blackened, charred figures that had once been people – one of those might easily have been Dad. After an hour or so, he became an automaton. Amidst the Welsh, the Mancunians and the people of Liverpool, he was just another silent worker. Occasionally, someone would shout, ‘Anybody in there?’ Apart from that and shifting rubble, there was little sound, not even birdsong.
He went to the warden who was minding Dad’s camera.
‘All right, son?’
‘I have to go home, because my father’s missing and Mum’s frantic.’
‘You get yourself away and back to school tomorrow. We’re going to need brains like yours soon enough.’
‘Be safe,’ Peter ordered. ‘And it’s been a pleasure to talk to you.’
The man smiled through layers of soot. ‘They done us good and proper this time. Trial by fire, eh?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Ta-ra, then, lad.’
‘Liverpool will be back.’ Peter picked up the camera. ‘Because the Liver Birds are still here. As long as they stay where they are, there’ll always be a Liverpool. It’s the law.’
‘And you’re the lawyer.’
‘Something like that.’ He set off homeward.
Elsie ran in and placed herself opposite Nellie at the kitchen table. ‘Buggering bastards,’ were her first words.
‘You what?’
‘They’ve done that place with the daft name – Bootle, is it? It’s not there any more. And all the shops in Liverpool and the libraries and museums and art galleries and docks and—’
‘Slow down,’ Nellie ordered.
‘Toffee factory, Bootle town hall, Scott’s Bakeries and twelve WVS dead with a direct hit. Oh, and some hospital called Mill Road Infirmary—’
‘Elsie!’
‘What?’
‘You’ll be having a stroke. Begin at the start.’
Elsie inhaled deeply. ‘Right. You know her with the funny legs lower down?’
‘You mean her ankles?’
Elsie groaned. ‘Lower down the road. You know who I mean. Her pins don’t seem to like each other; they stay apart. The lads could use her as goalposts at a football match. Frizzy hair, blue mac with a hood, had to get her wedding ring cut off with roomy-tied arthuritis.’
‘That’s Alice.’
‘Right. Well her husband’s high up in the Home Guard, and he came home skriking his eyes out. That big bang were a ship blowing up. It took Hodgkinson’s Dock with it.’
‘Huskisson.’
‘Aye well, I were near enough. He’s come back with all these tales. There’s nowt left, Nellie. We have to get Eileen and the babies home. Telephone them and … oh, I forgot. No phones.’
Nellie stood up. ‘It’s too far for either of us to walk, and I can’t get hold of Keith to ask him to come and get us. No. We just have to wait.’
‘She’s got bunions and all.’
‘Who has?’
‘Her with the legs lower down …’
Keith pushed the wheelchair out of the lift. He and Eileen were greeted by Mary Dominic, a doctor and a priest. This was the floor on which the dying breathed their last. It stank of disinfectant and fear.
‘Stay with me,’ Eileen begged her husband. ‘Don’t leave me. Promise.’ She was trembling like a dry leaf in an October wind.
‘I promise.’
The priest took charge of Eileen and her chair; the other three followed at a slight distance. When she reached the bedside in a single room, Father Murray stayed with her, while the rest stood back near the door. Although the moment was meant to be private, Eileen wanted witnesses. And she ached, because she had to say goodbye to a man who wanted her and only her. He had refused to see Marie or his children; he was suffering multiple organ malfunction, and would soon drift into a final sleep.
Mary Dominic whispered in Keith’s ear. ‘’Tis a terrible thing to ask of a newly delivered mother.’
Keith lowered his head by many inches. ‘Shut up, Sis. It has to be done.’
Tom’s head was swathed in bandages. Gaps had been created for mouth, nose and eyes. Eileen sat and waited for him to speak.
‘You came,’ he said eventually.
‘Of course I came. You knew I’d come.’
‘You’ve left him?’ The eyes glared at her.
‘Yes.’ That wasn’t a lie, because she’d left Keith at the door. ‘What about Marie?’
Feeble fingers pulled at a sheet. ‘Who?’
Again, Mary Dominic whispered to Keith. ‘That’ll be his kidneys. The brain often goes odd when kidneys are affected.’
‘He remembers my Eileen well enough.’
‘Be brave, but.’
Tom asked about where they would live, and Eileen told him about two cottages knocked into one; that, too, was the truth. Miss Pickavance was making a lovely home for the family, an enormous kitchen across the back, two living rooms, three bedrooms and a bathroom. ‘The doctor at Willows is rubbish, and he’s being forced to retire after accidentally overdosing some poor old girl to death. You can take his job.’
‘Do you love me?’
Eileen glanced at the priest, who simply nodded. ‘I love you,’ she said.
‘And when I get out of here, you’ll be waiting?’
‘Oh, yes. I’ll wait for you.’
Tom sighed. ‘We’ve always known, haven’t we? Right from the very start.’ He drifted, spoke to people who weren’t there, shouted orders as if he were in town saving the injured. Suddenly, his eyes opened. ‘It will never be over,’ he said, the words spoken clearly.
‘You’re right,’ she told him. ‘This is for ever.’
He fitted then, jerking about so violently that the doctor and Father Murray had to hold him down. A trickle of blood emerged from a corner of his mouth. The convulsion did not run its course, but stopped abruptly, because Dr Tom Bingley was no more. Eileen hung on to his hand. ‘God be with you, Tom.’ Tears streamed down her face. She turned to Father Murray. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’
The priest put an arm across her shoulders. ‘My child, the lies you just told are your passport to heaven. Sometimes, there’s a fine line between good and bad. He died in happiness. You helped him over and away from a broken body. God bless you.’
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room. Even the doctor was blowing his nose while the priest performed the last rites on a man who had not been Catholic.
‘There are more lies to be told,’ the little nun announced. ‘Mother and I will go to Mrs Bingley and pretend we didn’t know who he was with all the bandages applied in the ambulance; also that he died without regaining consciousness. Sometimes a small sin is necessary for the greater good. Take her back down, Keith. She’s done enough hard work for today.’
PART FOUR
1942
Twenty-One
A nun playing French cricket on Hilda Pickavance’s huge front lawn was a sight few could resist. With her long black skirt hoisted up to knee level, the godmother of Frankie and Helen Greenhalgh belted the ball and ran like the wind. She had turned out to be a brilliant godmother, because she wasn’t all rosary beads, children’s prayer books and holy pictures; she loved the babies, saw them whenever she could, played with them and sang to them.
Guiding Keith, her best friend outside the convent, through the portals of Rome had been a source of great joy for her, though Keith had been forced to manufacture time for just himself and the priest. Asking a cleric about sexual behaviour had been no walk in the park; had Mary Dominic been present, the questions could not have been asked.
Father Murray had been impressively unfazed. ‘You love the woman. But at her rate of reproduction, you could end up with a football team, plus a long bench filled by reserves. Go with the all-forgiving God to Father Flint in Bolton when you leave me behind, continue these lessons, heed your conscience, and keep that lovely wife of yours happy. Remember, the lies she told to a dying man were a great kindness. Need I say more about sin and humanity?’
Also on the lawn at Willows on this bright July day, Mel, Gloria and Peter tried to play a game whose rules changed by the minute. Mel confronted the good sister, of course. ‘You’re not playing properly, Sister Domino.’ Domino was the nun’s predictable nickname.
‘Away with your bother, you bold child. I caught that ball.’
‘You didn’t. You threw your body at it, then fiddled about till you had it in your hand.’
Eileen, who watched her elder daughter fighting a losing battle, had finally let go. Her gorgeous daughter was now a very welcome cuckoo in the Bingley nest, because Gloria needed her, as did Marie and Peter. All four Watson offspring had turned out well balanced, industrious and amusing. Almost by accident, the boys had found themselves; as for Mel, she had always been focused. Nothing further would happen between Mel and Peter, since the poor lad had his own cross to bear.
Eileen watched the hilarious game. Mary Dominic contested every decision and continued to play unfairly. Stella and Patty, daughters of Neil and Jean from Willows Home Farm, were clearly bemused. They had no idea when it came to dealing with an unscrupulous Irish–Augustinian penguin. So they played the game and said little. Eileen nudged her husband. ‘Your girlfriend’s a lying, cheating cow.’
‘I know. I must own every starving village in Africa, because she cons me all the time.’
‘Not difficult.’
He hit his much-loved partner with a cushion.
On the other side of the lawn, Nellie and Elsie were making plans. They lived together now behind the post office, and they wanted extra space to make a tea room. When the war was over, they were going to expand. ‘Mind you keep that weight off,’ Nellie insisted. ‘If we’re expanding into scones and cakes, I might have to stick a plaster over your gob, or you’ll be the expanding one.’
As ever, Elsie had an answer. ‘You do scones and teas while I sell local produce. I hope you’re right about advertising. I hope people come.’
‘Your teeth are loose. They’re clacking away like castanets.’
‘Shut up.’ Nothing changed; they still fought like cat and dog, still respected each other.
Phil Watson, who had been caught out on his first run, promoted himself to the level of umpire. The nun was cheating. What the hell was he supposed to do about a dishonest bride of Christ? He did nothing. Walking away from the game, he sat and picked up a sketch pad. It was a picture worth recording; the Yanks were here, God love them, and civilians had begun to relax a little. He laughed. The spoodles, having grown bored with the back garden, shot into the scene, and Pandora got the ball and ran off with it. ‘That’ll put a stop to her,’ Phil said sotto voce. Nevertheless, his sketch retained its title: Sins of Domino.
Eileen and Keith’s fourteen-month-old twins staggered about behind curtains kindly donated by thriving willow trees. Keith had given up on the hammock idea, so he sat with his wife on a rug. He was going to invent a double swing, upholstered, of course. ‘I could cover it in waterproof material,’ he announced apropos of nothing at all.
‘What?’ his precious wife enquired.
‘The double swing.’
‘Right.’ Eileen decided to leave him to his inventions. So far, nothing useful had been produced, but inventing was his hobby, and she had banished him to the shed with his diagrams and tools. She didn’t want her toddlers becoming acquainted with saws and screwdrivers.
Across the grass, Marie Bingley had returned from a solitary walk and was chatting to Nellie and Elsie. Miss Pickavance sat nearer to the house with her four stalwarts. Over the duration, she had grown close to Jay, Gill, Neil and Jean. Little Maisie Collins darted about in a pink tutu, a tiara and wings. She was being a fairy with a magic wand today; tomorrow, she might well be a cowboy – Maisie did not discriminate.
‘Where’s the rest of our brood?’ Keith asked.
The sun was making Eileen sleepy. ‘Well, Bertie will be with a horse somewhere, and Rob’s bought a soil-testing kit. I can’t imagine soil taking exams, but there you have it.’
Keith stretched out on the blanket, dragging his wife with him.
‘There’s a nun present,’ she said. ‘Don’t start with the kissing, and watch the twins – I’m having forty winks.’
He whispered in her ear. ‘Sister MD would lift her skirt higher for me.’
‘Behave yourself.’
‘She loves me. She wants me. I can see it in her eyes.’
‘Then she’s as daft as I am.’
With his gaze fixed on Frankie and Helen, he asked the question for the first time since the event. ‘Did you have feelings for him, darling?’
‘Yes, I did.’ She paused, saw that final fit, watched and listened while Mother Superior lied to Marie. She remembered the touch of his hand, the sound of his voice, those eyes blazing out through the gap in the bandages. ‘But you are my breath, and you know it. Without you, I’d be half of nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Absolutely. He was brave, Keith. He had spirit, and I’m glad I knew him. But he wasn’t for me, sweetie. I admired his cheek and his courage.’
‘God, yes. He died for Liverpool, for England.’
‘And behind all the bluster and the elegant doctor with his posh suits and shoes, he was very like you. He started off wanting my body, then he fell in love. But I didn’t love him, you see. I fell in love postally. Is postally a word?’
Keith laughed heartily. ‘Did you keep all my letters?’
‘Of course. And you kept mine, because I found them in the dresser. We must read them aloud sometime. Yes, the postman led me astray.’ She fell asleep.
&nb
sp; He stared down at her, thanking God for bringing him to his senses. She had become a mother again, and his love had shifted for a while. Awe had replaced desire, and he had treated her like something delicate and priceless created by Fabergé. For some reason best known to womankind, Eileen had found the whole business hilarious. In the end, she had forced herself on him. Once recovered from sexual assault, he and she had returned to normal, or for what passed for normal between him and his beloved spouse.
Asleep, she was an angel; awake, she was exciting, unpredictable, passionate and crazy; this was definitely his kind of girl. She still spent the odd five minutes on a draining board …
Frankie and Helen gravitated towards their beloved Dada, curling at his feet and falling asleep in an instant. One by one, the Watsons joined them, Mel hot from running, Bertie in his riding gear, Phil with pad and charcoal, Rob moaning about acid and alkaline. Always welcome in several homes, the sons of Eileen and Lazzer slept where they landed. Nellie and Elsie made space when required. The boys had bedrooms in Willows, and there was a spare room in the newly renovated Greenhalgh double cottage. If the place got full, the dining room had a folding bed. But no matter where they rested their heads, these three boys always had Sunday lunch with Mam and Keith. It was a law they obeyed joyfully, because they had the best parents available to humanity.
The St Michael’s Road house in Crosby was closed and shuttered. Eileen would make up her mind about it after the war, when it could be returned to its former pristine glory, black woodwork and white walls. Mel and Peter were no longer a worry; they were forging ahead at school, outstripping all comers, aiming for the stars. Gloria, too, had bucked up, and she promised to be a pretty and clever woman. All was well, Keith reminded himself. The Americans were not only strong in number, they were also fresh, not yet fatigued by battle.
Eileen woke, while the rest of the various groups stopped talking. Mary Dominic made herself decent, and all awaited the arrival of a vehicle that rumbled its way up Willows Lane. No one present had ever before been so close to an American Jeep. Major Joseph L. Chalmers jumped out and waved his driver off to park the vehicle closer to the house. He ran to Marie, picking her up and spinning until she was dizzy. Marie ignored his rank; he was her GI Joe.
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 78
