The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Waved back. Nearly took my eye out with a tin of peas.’

  Anne-Marie blinked. ‘Why a tin of peas, Dad?’

  ‘Oh, shut up and eat,’ Tess ordered.

  They shut up and ate.

  That’s another one less, then. Working girl, the sort that spreads disease. Trouble is, a courting couple decided to park nearby, and I couldn’t bury the corpse. So it’s been all over the papers, locals and nationals, and the cops are worrying about the rest who’ve disappeared. On top of that, my boss is ill. If he dies, what’ll happen to me? For ages I’ve worked in that shop. Oh, and I’m a maniac. Unspeakable things have been done to ‘that poor girl’s body’. Don’t make me laugh, Mr Editor; unspeakable things have been done to and by her for years …

  Eight

  Seamus had a book. It was a valued possession, not for general consumption by common folk, not available to be borrowed, glanced at or even breathed on. He guarded it fiercely, kept it under boxes and short planks of wood, visited it only when sure that nobody was looking, and he absorbed it like a bear sucking honey from a comb. He always carried a torch, of course, because it was dark in the shelter. For the first time in his life, the son of Maureen and Tom Walsh was learning happily from a book. It was brilliant, informative, and it would change the lives of everyone in the family. The lad had plans that would reshape the world, and he was keeping every card close to his chest, because no one could be trusted.

  Wearing the air of a man who had just discovered a whole new continent, Seamus developed a frown and a habit of walking or standing with his hands clasped behind his back. ‘Thinks he’s Prince Philip,’ Paddy had been heard to opine. ‘Gone big-headed. We’ll be having to get his school caps made specially to fit if he carries on so. He’s cogitating, so he is. We must watch him.’

  The Thoughtful One kept his book in the reasonably dry Anderson in his sister Reen’s back garden, because Reen never went in there. Andersons reminded folk of the bad times when Germany flattened Bootle, and few people wanted to think about the war. The shelters were now used for storage of gardening tools and bicycles, though children sometimes played in them when it rained. This metal shed had become Seamus’s library, but it held just the one slim volume. He never corrupted the shelter with homework. Oh, no, this was too precious a place for multiplication, division and catechism, because it was an area set aside for real and useful learning.

  Reen and her husband had no children yet, and they lived in the O’Gara prefab, since the O’Garas now had a proper house with an upstairs. The boy’s relationship with his sister had improved, though he wouldn’t look properly at the wedding album. There were three pictures of him and the horrible hat, and that was three too many in his opinion. Even the bride giggled when she looked at the images of her little brother. Perhaps the poor imitation of a sailor’s headgear had been a stride too far, but she wouldn’t throw the photos away. Perhaps she had a plan for when Seamus was older. She would show them to his friends, and he’d be doomed to a lifetime of Hello, sailor. ‘And I’ll kill her,’ he muttered frequently. ‘Making a show of me in front of all them people.’

  The young hero in Seamus’s special book was Harry Burdon Jr, PI, and its author was American. Seamus didn’t want Mam, Dad, Gran or Grandpa to see the book, because it was the source of the lad’s grand ambitions, and adults should not be allowed to encroach on a boy’s ideas. Grownups never approved. All they did was moan about difficulties, because they hadn’t the imagination to do anything about anything. Why they didn’t attempt what he was about to try he could not work out. There might have been a row, he thought. Perhaps Gran had laid into some people with that sharp tongue of hers and they had run away. He wasn’t running away. Oh, no. Seamus Walsh was on a mission, and nothing would persuade him to abandon it. Though if Gran found out, he’d possibly end up in the scouse with the rest of the cheaper cuts.

  Harry Burdon was a private detective. He was Junior because his dad had the same name, and Junior’s dad was a policeman in New York. Seamus did not have the advantages of Junior, as there were no coppers in the family, but the Harry Burdon Junior Private Investigator story had become his textbook. Nothing was impossible. Young Harry had found kidnappers, thieves and shoplifters, so he was definitely role model material.

  However, Junior had further help, some of it of questionable quality. His assistant, Beanpole, was a long, thin person who did everything wrong, though he sometimes got it right by accident. Beanpole was probably in the book to make people laugh, but it would be nice to have someone to talk to in real life. The trouble with real life was that school friends and young neighbours were soft. Seamus failed to find one who might just own the staying power. The task he planned to undertake was massive, and he didn’t want any babies clinging to his apron strings.

  Burdon Junior also got tips from his unsuspecting dad. It did not occur to Seamus that a seasoned New York cop should notice that his son was carrying on like Sherlock Holmes with a tall, thin Watson either by his side or stuck head first in an oil drum somewhere.

  Tom Walsh was a good dad, but he was educated to know about spuds, butter, tea, sugar and divi points, because he ran the new Bootle Co-op. Seamus couldn’t discuss his complicated secret with his parents. World war would break out, and folk were still waiting for houses after the last lot. And they would stop him, of course. Grownups were spectacularly successful when it came to putting a damper on ideas. They got tired, he supposed. Anybody really old, like over the age of thirty, was bound to have started to wear out a bit. They had too much to think about, what with Scouse Alley, weekend events, the market and the Co-op. So it was up to him, because he hadn’t yet begun to crumble under the weight of adulthood. He was young, strong, and ready to become a hero; he was clever, resourceful, and quick.

  Clues regarding the case in hand were few and far between, so Seamus stuck to the Harry Burdon school of thought. Unlike Beanpole, Seamus would not end up screaming in a bed of nettles, or hanging upside down from a tree in some innocent person’s back yard. He would not break the wrong windows, had no intention of being sent to reform school, to Borstal, to prison. No. He was merely going where no adult in his sphere would dare to tread; he intended to find his brothers.

  You gotta take what you have and use it, Harry-in-the-book would say to his clumsy, idiotic friend. And if you ain’t got nothing, you look at possibilities and number them in order of merit. All notes in code, remember. Gear up. Army pocket knife, a good length of strong rope, food and water, as much money as you can scrape. Good luck to you, Beanpole.

  After a great deal of begging and pleading by Seamus, the knife had arrived at Christmas. It boasted every attachment apart from a kitchen sink, and Seamus was unsure regarding the usefulness of many of its components. There was a thing to take the caps off bottles, the blade, a horse’s hoof doodah, and loads of other stuff that looked as though it had been copied in miniature from a medieval torture chamber.

  Rope. Stealing thick stuff from the docks might have caused mayhem, and it was too heavy to carry. In view of these problems, Seamus had taken an alternative route, and several prefabs on Stanley Square were now bereft of clothes lines. Clothes line might not be the strongest of rope, but it was better than nothing. He was doing his best, although his only support lay between the covers of a book, so nothing was easy. Discussion was an unaffordable luxury, and that was that.

  But the largest part of Seamus’s plot was rooted in a lie so huge as to be frightening. It was Easter, 1959. Some of the boys in his class were about to go camping with teachers for five whole days in the mountains of North Wales. Mam had signed the permission paper and had given her youngest son enough money to cover the expedition, and he had stolen it after tearing up the permission paper. This was the most wicked thing he had done in his whole life, and he was avoiding Confession until it was all over. He’d probably get five thousand Our Fathers, a bucketful of Hail Marys, and a few Glory Be
s thrown in for good measure.

  There was, of course, a distinct danger in the scheme. If Mam met any of the other parents or children, she might learn that her beloved son was not going camping. But, as Harry Junior might have said, If you don’t take a chance from time to time, you ain’t getting nowhere.

  Well, Seamus was going somewhere. Nobody else in his family owned the guts, but he had no yellow streak painted down his spine. Eavesdropping, a skill he had perfected during the second reading of chapter one, had taught him that the whole family missed Finbar and Michael. Letters, relieved of envelopes and with no address provided by their senders, had informed him that his brothers were married and that each had a child. ‘I’m an uncle,’ he whispered proudly before hiding his book. ‘They have taken my unclehood away.’ One of the kids was only a girl, but that couldn’t be helped.

  He left his private bunker, dropping to hands and knees to make use of cover provided by the privet hedge. Harry Burdon was virtually invisible. He blended. Because he blended, he could go anywhere in that vast city without being noticed. But Seamus couldn’t. Everyone round here knew everyone, and they certainly knew Seamus.

  Reen and Jimmy were at work, but Seamus needed to shield himself from the prying eyes of neighbours. Gossip was an almost full-time occupation in these parts. He could hear his grandmother now. No better than she should be. And did you see the heels on the shoes? She’ll be needing an oxygen mask if she goes any higher up. Silver nail polish, too. I tell you she’s on the way to Lime Street with a mattress on her back. Yes, Gran was a gossip of professional standard, but there were many others of her ilk in these parts.

  Safer now, he stood up and walked towards home. There were photographs of Fin and Mike somewhere in the prefab. Seamus hadn’t seen them and didn’t know where they were kept, but he’d listened to his parents talking. Because Tom Walsh had been a substitute manager as, when and where required, he had filled in gaps created by managers’ holidays all over the place. ‘Rainford, near St Helens,’ he had declared to his wife, little realizing that his son was in the hall hanging on every word. ‘I recognized the shops in the background. It’s a village. East Lancs Road, turn right for St Helens, left for Rainford. A few tenanted farms – Lord Derby owns the land – and the village is pretty. Stone cottages, nice church, a few shops and at least four pubs. They could be in worse places, Maureen.’

  And that had been it. But it was something. Seamus had found the village on a map, and had learned the route. ‘I could do it with my eyes closed,’ he declared quietly as he walked homeward. But he was going to need his eyes open, as he would be on his bike. Mum and Dad wouldn’t miss the bike; it was kept in their Anderson shelter. ‘My whole life’s in Andersons,’ Seamus mumbled as he sauntered up the path to his own prefab.

  It was half-day closing at the Co-op, and Maureen had taken a couple of hours off between catering at Scouse Alley and helping her dad on the market. Even now, after more than a quarter century of marriage, she and Tom liked to steal time to spend together.

  Maureen’s lips were pursed as she watched her son dragging his raincoat along the path. ‘He’s up to something,’ she advised her husband. ‘He’s not one for concentrating unless it’s football or cricket. Look at him. Like Loony Lenny from Linacre Lane, doesn’t know whether he’s coming, going, or on the big wheel at the fair. I get worried when our Seamus is thinking, because nothing good ever comes of it. He shouldn’t think. His brain gets overcrowded and his cheeks burn. Looks like a candidate for that spontaneous human combustion.’

  Tom joined his wife. Their one resident child was standing in the middle of the path counting. On his fingers. ‘Counting,’ Tom said. ‘What the heck is he counting?’

  ‘Not prayers,’ replied Maureen grimly. ‘Definitely nothing holy, I can guarantee it. It might be to do with them wedding photos of him in his hat. There’s only three in the book, but he hates them.’

  Tom laughed. ‘He certainly does.’

  ‘But Tom, he wouldn’t spoil his sister’s wedding album, would he?’

  ‘He would. Remember how he buried the whole suit plus hat? Your mother had to dig everything up for the church. That blinking hat put him in a bad mood for months. And it was a stupid hat. I was surprised when he didn’t stick it in the bin before the kick-off. I mean, even some of the grown-ups were calling him Popeye.’

  ‘It was his only sister’s wedding day and—’ Maureen stopped abruptly. ‘Sorry, love. I never meant to make you remember things from that time. Sorry.’

  Tom cleared his throat. ‘I’ll not forget it in a hurry, girl, but I’m all right with it now. That lad of ours out there could have been in his grave if I hadn’t … if I hadn’t done what I did. Knowing they were gunning for our other two doesn’t help, does it? We can’t visit, they can’t come and see us, and—’ He cut off the rest of his words when the front door opened.

  ‘Seamus?’

  ‘Yes, Mam?’

  ‘Come here, son. Immediately, if not sooner. And I don’t want just your head floating round the edge of the door; bring the rest of you as well.’

  One hundred per cent of Seamus entered the room. Although he knew it was a dead giveaway, he allowed his weight to swing slightly from foot to foot. His mother’s face, when displaying disappointment or anger, made him sway about a bit, but he kept movement to a minimum. She might be on to him. She might have met someone at Scouse Alley or at the market, and that someone could have marked him as a cheat and a liar who mistreated his own parents, and wasn’t to be trusted, and wasn’t going with school to Wales—

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘You look like you’re sickening for something. And you can’t go camping in the damp and cold if you’re not well.’

  Seamus allowed a sigh of relief to emerge quietly. If she’d been told he wasn’t going camping, she would have come out with it straight away.

  ‘We’ll see how you are in the morning. If you’re all right, your dad will run you to school in his car.’ She was proud of the better car. She wanted everybody at school to know that Seamus’s dad was moving up in the world.

  ‘No,’ the lad exclaimed quickly – rather too quickly. ‘No, not the car.’

  ‘But you’ll have your rucksack and first day meals and the little tent. They’re borrowing that to keep tinned food in, aren’t they?’

  ‘Mam, we’ve been told to practise walking with the weight on our backs. And I don’t want people thinking I’m still a baby. I’d be the only one.’ He glanced at the clock. He still needed to get the bike out and hide it somewhere between home and wherever. ‘Please don’t give me a lift, Dad. Don’t make a show of me in front of everybody.’

  Maureen sat down and folded her arms. ‘You are up to something,’ she said.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Well, I’m not talking to your father, am I? And you’re the only other person here now that Reen’s married and …’ Her voice died.

  ‘And my brothers have gone,’ the child concluded for her. ‘They don’t visit, and we don’t visit them. So I take the blame for everything. I bet it’s my fault if it rains. Well, I didn’t make everybody leave home, did I? It wasn’t my fault that we were overcrowded and Reen had to sleep at Gran’s and my brothers had to sleep in the living room. They left here to try and get some space to live in.’

  Maureen sniffed. They’d gone to make fast, dirty money in London, and she couldn’t tell their young brother that. But she could put his mind at rest regarding overcrowding. ‘We’ve had to wait for a house because we want to be near your Gran and your sister. We don’t want to be spread out all over the place on Hitler’s say-so, do we? Well, our new places will be ready in a few months. I suppose my mam will be pig in the middle, then she can pin her ear to the walls and find out what we’re all up to.’ She sniffed again. ‘And you are up to no good.’

  Seamus had trouble when it came to adopting Harry Burdon’s innocent look. Harry never blushed, but Seamus had inherited his mother�
�s expertise when it came to changing colour. Harry didn’t sway when questioned, but Seamus did. ‘Mam, I’m going away for five days tomorrow. I have to learn to put a big tent up with all them poles and pegs, make fire with something called a flint, use a compass, and warm enough beans on the fire for fourteen boys and three teachers. It’s a lot to take in.’

  Tom grinned. ‘Especially when you don’t listen to any of those teachers. And if you’re living on beans, God help Wales. You’ll have all the Welsh running over into England. Well, I hope they don’t bring their sheep. I don’t fancy waking up to baa-ing every morning. Your mam’s bad enough, because she’s not a morning person.’

  In spite of her husband’s attempt to lighten the atmosphere, Maureen remained on high alert. With her older sons in hiding and her only daughter wed, she had every intention of hanging on to her youngest for as long as possible. There was something wrong. He reminded her of one of those desert lizards. Their feet got burnt in the sand, so they stood on two while the other pair cooled, and those reptiles were … what was it? Perpetuum mobile. That was Latin for not being able to keep still, and the mobile was pronounced mobil-ay. Her son was perpetuum whatever when lying. ‘What are you not telling me?’ she asked. ‘Come on, out with it. You know I always get to the bottom of things.’

  ‘Nothing.’ Seamus felt renewed heat in his cheeks.

  Maureen glanced through the window. ‘Have you had anything to do with the mysterious disappearance of three washing lines from these prefabs?’

  ‘No,’ the child shouted. ‘It’s always me. It was probably me that bombed Dresden and Hiroshima.’ This was what Harry Burdon called fighting fire with fire. ‘I’m the one to blame for everything just because I’m the only one of the family here.’ At last, he was in his stride. ‘Well, I never crossed the border into Poland, didn’t blow up ships, and what would I want with clothes lines? That’ll be some girls wanting rope for long skipping.’ Long skipping had a girl at each end turning, and five or six running in and out of the rope. Sometimes, there were two ropes turning in opposite directions. Oh, yes. Seamus was a born private investigator, because he missed nothing.