The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

‘But Tom?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Remember those old films they sometimes showed as specials? Keystone Kops?’

  ‘Oh yes, I like them.’

  ‘All chasing one another and messing about and falling over folk with the music quickening up all the while?’

  ‘Right. Where’s all this leading?’

  ‘To us, Tom. This is like Keystone Kops, except there’s no music. I think me dad’s behind us. He’s following us following me mam. Don’t do anything daft, because it’s too icy, but I’m sure it’s him. I wonder what he’s done with our Seamus?’

  Fortunately, the coach turned at this point, leading them into a large parking area containing many lorries and several coaches. A sizeable cafeteria was advertised as Open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It was clearly there to serve those who kept the economy moving quickly by driving goods and people in all directions. ‘You try and have a word with your dad while I watch the coach,’ Tom said. ‘Keep yourself as well hidden as you can.’

  They stopped. Tom kept his eyes riveted to the single-decker on which his mother-in-law was travelling. He saw her getting off, watched as she approached the transport café. Paddy was a tall, strong woman, yet she suddenly seemed small as she ambled along like an aged person. She wasn’t well. This excursion wasn’t doing anyone a lot of good, but his mother-in-law was likely to be suffering the most. She’d probably booked her ticket before becoming ill, and she’d stuck to her plans in an attempt not to overcomplicate matters, but she should have waited. God help her, she had to be all right. Paddy could be a difficult woman, but he loved her to bits. At times like this, which had been mercifully few, he realized how much he cared for his in-laws.

  Maureen shot out of the car and cursed the high-heeled shoes again. The ground was frozen and rough, so she struggled until she reached her father’s van. He opened the door. ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘Our Seamus is asleep behind me.’

  ‘I’m not,’ piped a voice from the rear.

  ‘If I say you’re asleep, you’re asleep.’ Kevin gave his attention to Maureen. ‘I didn’t want to wake our Reen. She can’t look after him properly anyway. I found a note from your mam, got the truth out of this young beggar of yours, and here I am. Seamus and your husband cooked this plot up: theatre, posh meal, then follow that coach.’

  ‘No,’ yelled the supposedly sleeping one. ‘It was all my idea, cos I knew Mam would go mad, and you’d go mad, too, so neither of you could be told till the very last minute. Me dad’s the only person I can trust because he doesn’t drink Guinness, doesn’t smash windows, doesn’t tell me off for every little thing—’

  ‘Shut up,’ chorused the two adults.

  ‘He’s had another idea,’ Kevin said. ‘Lock your car and get in here. You could have a lie down with Seamus on the mattress in the back, and Tom and I could take turns with the driving. I suppose it makes sense. I mean, we’re on your tail, you’re stuck to a bus, and I’m stuck with him.’ He jerked a thumb in Seamus’s direction.

  The boy peered over the parapet created by his grandfather’s shoulder. ‘I have a lot of ideas if people would only listen. Old Vera and Beetroot both say I have a future in some kind of—’

  ‘If you want any future at all, you’ll sit quiet,’ Kevin said. ‘Maureen, go and ask Tom how he feels about leaving his car here. We can pick it up on the way back. I’m sure we won’t stay long down yonder.’ He hoped they wouldn’t; he didn’t want Seamus to see the posh end of town. If soft lad caught sight of Buckingham Palace and Westminster, he might well get ideas above his station, and bloody London had swallowed more than enough of the family already.

  ‘Me feet’s killing me in these shoes, Dad. You go.’

  Seamus shot up again. ‘Let me go,’ he suggested. ‘I’m smaller, so I can hide better. Dad listens to me. I don’t drink Guinness and break windows.’

  ‘No, you just tell lies,’ Maureen snapped.

  ‘I don’t tell lies.’

  ‘That’s a lie for a start,’ his mother accused him. ‘All right, you go. But be quick. Your gran’s gone inside for a cuppa, so make sure she doesn’t see you. Remember, she has eyes in the back of her head.’

  Seamus needed to be a shadow. That was it – he’d be The Shadow and write adventure books. He opened the rear door as narrowly as possible and slipped out onto cold, uneven ground. Members of the Mafia to the left of him, the New York City police to the right, four precincts plus two important fellows covered in braid and medals and whatnots. He avoided crossfire by bending low next to Granddad’s van. Light blazed from the speakeasy, but it was a hundred yards away. The FBI would be here in minutes. It was time to consult his assistants.

  ‘Hunter One,’ he whispered into his hand. ‘Hunter One, maintain position. I repeat, position to be maintained. I’m going in at once. Alone. God bless America. Over and out.’

  ‘Have you seen this daft boy of yours?’ Kevin managed to contain his laughter.

  Maureen, in the van’s passenger seat, had grown used to her son and she said so. ‘He’s on a secret mission for Sunray Major. Sunray Major is deeper than MI5, MI6 and MI7 point three. No one’s ever seen him.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Who’s Seamus talking to?’

  ‘Oh, that’ll be Hunter One.’

  ‘Who the blood and liver pills is that?’

  ‘He’ll be Captain Overlord’s assistant.’

  Kevin left some space before asking, ‘And who the hell’s Captain Overlord when he’s eaten his porridge?’

  ‘Our Seamus. We listen to this every night, me and Tom. It’s better than the Light Programme. A few nights ago, he saved the whole country from a plague sent over from Germany in a box of liquorice allsorts. Mind, he didn’t do it on his own; he had Hunter One and Sunray Major on his torch. He uses the torch because it has a built-in walkie-talkie.’

  ‘But it hasn’t—’ A smile broadened Kevin’s face. ‘Bless him,’ he said softly.

  ‘He’s clever, Dad. Underneath, I’m so proud of him I could sing, and that would empty this car park in ten seconds. But he’s still a lying little toad. Though lovable with it …’

  Seamus continued along his perilous route. All around him, vehicles were peppered with bullet holes. Scar-Face and his boys were determined to reach the speakeasy, and the cops were equally determined to wipe out the Mafia. A semi-automatic machine gun ack-acked in the background, and Captain Overlord crouched lower, since he had to stay alive until he could hand over control to federal agents.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Still absorbed in the game, Seamus froze.

  ‘Seamus?’

  Ah, it was Dad. ‘I’m coming for you, cos Mam’s shoes are killing her. I was bending down so that Gran wouldn’t see me. Granddad woke up, you see. He was in a very bad mood, and he shoved a mattress and stuff in the back and made me come with him, because he’d found Gran’s note about London. So I said it was all right, cos you and Mam were following the coach, but he just went mad because we hadn’t told him.’ He folded his arms. ‘The trouble with this family is you daren’t tell the truth. Lock your car, Dad. We can pick it up on the way back. You can share driving the van.’

  ‘Seamus, you’re always one step ahead.’

  ‘I know. I wish you lot would grow up and listen to me.’

  Tom shook his head in disbelief. Life seemed to get weirder by the minute. ‘All right. I suppose that makes some sort of sense, two drivers and one car.’ He opened the boot.

  ‘Course it will make sense. It was my idea. Dad?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Why have you brought that bucket?’

  Tom managed not to snarl. ‘Never you mind.’ He’d heard enough about buckets to last him a lifetime. He paused suddenly. ‘What if the van breaks down? See, if one of us breaks down, we’ll have a spare vehicle. Come on, let’s get your mam. We need the van and the car as well, son.’

  Once again, Tom found himself carrying Maureen back to the car. She was at
war with her shoes, with the slippery earth, with her dad for being daft enough to follow them, with her husband for not having the sense to pack some flat shoes, with Mam for kick-starting all this bother, with— She was dumped with minimal ceremony in the passenger seat of her husband’s car.

  He walked round the vehicle and slid in behind the wheel. ‘Stop whingeing, or I’ll swap you for Seamus. I’m sorry I forgot the flat shoes, sorry you may have to pee in a bucket, sorry I couldn’t arrange better weather. And it would have been nicer if we could all have travelled together, but if your dad breaks down, he’ll have us to turn to, and vice versa.’

  Maureen mumbled under her breath. The girls at Scouse Alley wouldn’t know how to cope without any supervision, and there was no way of letting anyone know that she and Mam would both be missing. And they’d just branched out into Lancashire hotpot, shepherd’s pie, meat and potato under a lid of shortcrust pastry, or pasties and chips occasionally. And here she was, with her young son, mother, dad and husband, all of them going into the dens of London’s East End gangs, which wasn’t much to look forward to. Seamus would miss another day of school, and he’d already had time off with his cold. But she might see Finbar and Michael again, plus her grandchildren. She was young for grandmotherhood, but she’d manage.

  ‘Stop wittering,’ Tom said. He usually didn’t mind the wittering; like the radio, it was an accompaniment to everyday life. But on a journey like this one, he needed a bloody rest. At home, he could walk into another room, but here? God, he wished he’d left her at home, high heels, pink suit and all.

  There was another stop outside Birmingham. England’s second city was just a cluster of lights down the road, and Maureen was not impressed. ‘They talk funny,’ she said. ‘And it doesn’t look up to much, does it?’

  ‘Bigger than Liverpool,’ was Tom’s reply.

  ‘They still talk funny.’

  Tom raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. In the opinion of many, the Scouse accent was not exactly music to the ears.

  She opened the door.

  ‘Where are you off to?’ Tom asked.

  Maureen reached into the back of the car and pulled out a tartan rug. ‘I’m going to the ladies’ room, then I’m getting me mam. She’ll travel to London in the back of this car – or in the van – wrapped up and warm. We’ll carry on following the coach, and she’ll meet her Irishman as planned. This time, I’m making an executive decision. Being a bloke doesn’t mean you’re the only executive in the car. She’s my blinking mother, and this is about my blinking sons. So you button it, baby. It’s your turn to do as you’re told, just for a change.’

  What was the flaming point? For a few seconds, Tom watched his wife stumbling about in heels high enough to present a danger to low-flying aircraft. She could end up with a sprained or broken ankle at this rate. He followed her yet again, carried her yet again. When they reached the coach, he propped her up next to a nearby wall. ‘Stay,’ he snapped.

  ‘Don’t use that tone of …’ She was too late; he was approaching the coach driver.

  Fortunately, the driver was one hundred per cent Scouse with an agreeable attitude and an accent thicker than Tate and Lyle’s treacle. ‘No problem,’ the young man was saying. ‘I remember it, cos it has a belt holding it shut, like. Follow me and give us an ’and, mate. Yeah, you’d best take her if she’s ill.’

  So Mate followed Brian, who issued a condensed version of his life on his way to the back of the coach. He was twenty-seven, worked nights to keep away from the wife who got on his nerves, his mam was in hospital with all the worry and a stomach ulcer, and his dad, a waste of space and oxygen, was dead through drink.

  While luggage was deposited on the tarmac, Brian gave birth to twins – little sods – a whippet, and some koi carp in his back garden. He never voted Tory, liked a flutter on the ’orses and the ’ounds, thought the Queen Mother was great, and couldn’t be in a house where cabbage had been cooked.

  By the time Paddy’s case had been recovered and the rest replaced in the boot, Tom knew everything there was to know about bypassing lecky meters to make the bill smaller, feeding a family of four for two weeks with a sack of spuds, four dozen eggs, some beans and a few loaves, and where to get a decent imitation of a road fund licence. The one thing Tom didn’t know was whether he was coming or going. The remark he’d made about Jesus feeding the five thousand fell on stony ground, as did a few suitcases, though Brian remained unperturbed.

  He shook Mate’s hand. ‘Thanks for the interestin’ conversation,’ he said. ‘Lonely life, drivin’. I hope your mam’s soon better.’

  Tom, slightly dazed, returned to his propped-up wife. Without words or ceremony, he replaced her in his car before marching off to find Paddy. This was going to be one of those moments, like had he been good enough to marry their Maureen and was he a real Catholic boy? Paddy was not only the eyes and ears of her world; she was also the voice.

  Then he saw her. He’d seen her earlier today – well, it was yesterday now – and she’d seemed all right. But a suddenly old female walked towards him, her face grey and drawn, her eyes ringed with darkness, her forehead lined and worried. She was alone, contained inside a head that wouldn’t stop thinking, and he remembered that, by God, he did. This poor woman was in a place he had visited, and he must help her out.

  As soon as she noticed him, she stood stock still. ‘Tom?’ Relief flooded her body, making her so weak that she lurched towards him, her legs unable to bear her weight. ‘Tom! Oh, Tom. Thank God it’s you.’ Only then did she realize how frightened she was. Big, brave Paddy who ran Scouse Alley, who threw grown men out of Lights, was reduced to a helpless fool.

  He grabbed her and placed the car rug across her shoulders. ‘We’re all here, love. Me, Maureen, Seamus and Dad. We couldn’t let you do this on your own. Don’t cry. Don’t let them see how tired and worried you are. Remember, Finbar and Michael are our sons, so we should be involved in getting them back.’

  She sniffed back wetness created by cold air and emotion. ‘I’m just so tired, so completely worn out.’ She couldn’t be bothered to ask how they’d discovered her plan and why they were here. Nothing mattered now. With her family around her, she could cope with just about anything. Tom led her across the car park to Kevin’s van. Kevin, having taken one look at his wife, came at her with medicine bottle and spoon. ‘Here, love. You forgot it.’

  Seamus joined Tom while Gran was helped into the back of the van. Even the child was quiet because he could see that she wasn’t quite herself. He walked with his dad back to the car, where he climbed into the rear seat. This was one time when he decided to keep his mouth nearly shut, because the less Mam knew, the better.

  ‘She’s with your dad,’ Tom said.

  ‘I know, I’ve been watching. Is she all right?’

  ‘Just tired,’ Seamus said helpfully. ‘She can rest stretched out in the van.’

  Paddy, prone on the mattress in the rear of her husband’s vehicle, fell asleep almost immediately. In her dream, she saw her brothers and her sons, all four lost to the London gangster and boxing communities. But her grandsons were alive and well, as were her great-grandchildren. The trouble with having strong and combative boys was that they started with boxing clubs, went to London, and …

  Groaning, she rolled over and pulled the covers up to her chin. She reached out for Finbar and Michael, for their wives and children, but they were dragged away by an invisible hand. Her arms weren’t long enough to grab them from the jaws of criminality. It couldn’t happen again, mustn’t be allowed to …

  The woman smiled and poured tea into delicate china cups on a tray. ‘Call me Violet, dear. Now, I know all about troublesome boys, because I’ve three of my own. Turn your back for a minute, and they’re either knocking somebody about in a boxing ring or, worse still, bare-knuckle fighting. And they don’t look after themselves properly, do they? What rubbish would they eat if we weren’t here to feed them?’

  Paddy tried
to answer, but the woman rattled on. She had a lovely smile and was possessed of a kindness that was real. She was also strong and overflowing with love for her twins. ‘Charlie’s a lovely chap,’ she said. ‘He’s my eldest. But my twins is special. You just know, don’t you, dear? That moment when you hold them for the first time, you just know these things. Instinct, you see.’

  Paddy took the line of least resistance and continued to listen. ‘Men?’ The lady of the house chuckled mirthlessly. ‘Best left out of it altogether, my love. Oh yes, we have to remember them ladies that threw themselves under horses and tied themselves to railings and got force-fed in clink. Only when this country’s run by women will we get any sense.’

  The sleeping Paddy moaned. Didn’t Violet understand that her children were now grown and members of the gender she dismissed as stupid and dangerous? Had she no true perception of the crimes that were being perpetrated out there on the streets of the East End? Or had she simply turned her back on reality; was this woman living in a parallel universe?

  Ronnie Kray came in. The smile he donated didn’t reach his eyes. There was something cold in his stare, as cold as the unidentifiable and unquantifiable Epping Forest graves. Yet when he looked at Violet, his whole demeanour softened. It was clear to Paddy that whatever else Ronald was guilty of, he adored his mother.

  ‘My Ronnie misses his twin, don’t you, dear? They hate being separated. Reggie’s away for a while, isn’t he?’

  Ron nodded. ‘A little holiday,’ he said. Paddy knew they meant prison. He turned his attention to the visitor. ‘It’ll be all right, missus. I’ll sort it. Tell the boys not to worry about a thing, but they’re better out of London.’

  Sort it? Would sorting it mean further death and destruction? The man wasn’t dressed for killing. His suit was very posh, probably bespoke, with bright red silk lining the jacket. There was money here, so perhaps he would use some of it to ensure her grandsons’ safety. No. She wasn’t like the adorable Violet Kray. Paddy O’Neil was sure that the payment for the freedom of her grandchildren was likely to involve a few corpses. She shivered.