Daughters of Penny Lane

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘My beloved Alice,

  ‘The money Granddad left me has paid not just for the house and alterations, but also for a male orderly to come in morning and night seven days a week rather than just weekdays. He will stay for a while, get me out of bed, clean me up and dress me every day, and he’ll get me ready for bed at night.

  ‘All you have to do is feed me and help me with exercise for one hour each day. I will not be so much of a burden, and it will be good to give a part-time job to someone who needs the cash.

  ‘I have missed you so much. Thanks for being mine, love.

  ‘Your Danny.’

  Alice took a deep breath. ‘You’re so welcome,’ she managed, eyes filling and lower lip trembling.

  He nodded. It had all been explained to him, the depression that followed stroke, the lack of confidence, the physical changes that might render him unable to make love. It would be all right. At home with his Alice, he was going to be on the mend.

  Frank sat with Dan while Alice went to prepare a meal. The dog knew Dan well, because he’d visited him in the other place that smelled so horrible, all sickness and other odours that made him sneeze. This man was a part of Frank’s job, and he would guard him well. Ah, food. That was a good smell, but Frank was a great dog. Instead of following his nose, he lay down and placed his head on his front paws.

  ‘S-good dog,’ Dan said.

  Frank emitted a friendly growl. Where he was concerned, the extra s didn’t matter a jot.

  Two

  Everyone within walking or cycling distance of Browne’s shop on Smithdown Road knew that Elsie Stewart was verbally lethal. She had a tongue sharp enough to slice bacon down the Co-op, held strong opinions on every subject from politics through religion and all the way to furniture polish, and people joked about selling her to primitives on the other side of the globe. Perhaps the natives of some faraway shore might learn to extract her poison and use it as weaponry. Her eleventh commandment – thou shalt keep thy daughters safe – had resulted in the Stewart house becoming a jail rather than a home, and her girls had fought for freedom.

  Hers had been a far from happy family. She had been free with her tongue, free with the flat of her right hand, and on occasion she’d also used implements – a belt, a slipper, or the ruler from her husband’s tool cupboard. But the youthful females had eventually fought back, while their father, a gentle soul, had shrivelled until he’d found his exit feet first in a box through the front door. Elsie, now in her seventies, continued vile and venomous.

  Elsie’s youngest daughter had been known to declare that curare should no longer be required – ‘All they’d need would be to shove the ends of their spears in her gob.’ This statement summed up perfectly the young Alicia Stewart’s view of her surviving parent. ‘My mother is a thing with no antidote. The School of Tropical Medicine will find no cure for the slime on her fangs, vicious old snake. Death on legs, she is.’ Thus was dismissed the mother of seven girls, widow of an excellent carpenter known as Chippy Charlie Stewart, and current self-appointed boss of the Brownes’ shop. Some custom had been lost to a newsagent across the road, but the shop continued to fare well enough.

  Legends were myriad. She had deprived her husband of peace and quiet until he’d lost the will to live, and had dropped stone dead with a massive heart attack. One of her daughters had clouted her with an old encyclopedia; Elsie had emerged unscathed, but the tome had crumbled into confetti, or so the fairy tale announced. She was a witch who made potions, and she’d killed her old man with a noxious brew disguised as frothy cocoa. He was better off out of it, as were three girls killed by German bombs and one who had escaped to the other side of the globe.

  The latest tale about her antisocial behaviour involved a paper boy who’d pinched a bar of chocolate from the shop and ended up in hospital with scarlet fever, mumps, measles and something multisyllabic ending in itis. Along Smithdown Road and all adjoining streets, the hatred for the old bag was treasured and nurtured like a cherished child. Against all odds, the matriarch thrived, while the daughter, joint owner of her husband’s business, retreated ever further into her shell. Poor Nellie had always been quieter and more timid than her siblings, so Muth was now clog-dancing all over her life.

  Elsie Stewart, widow/witch/monster, lived with the eldest of her seven daughters, Helen (usually Nellie) Browne, who supposedly ran the shop selling sweets, tobacco, newspapers and fancy goods on Smithdown Road. However, having seen off Martin Browne and his offspring, Mrs Stewart called the shots, while Nellie, reputed by her mother to be a few bob short of the full quid, kept a low profile. Muth did the selling, and Nellie wrapped things while Elsie looked after details like working the till and counting change. The elderly besom was in charge of everything and everybody, so very few answered back when her harsh words cut right through to the bone marrow.

  Nellie Browne wasn’t happy; nor was she good at expressing her feelings. Both her daughters had left home and married young, while her husband hadn’t been seen for well over eighteen months, and Nellie was sure that Muth had been the reason for all the disappearances, though she never said as much. So far, she’d been too scared to speak up. But even a slowcoach has her limits, and Nellie wanted her family back. She missed her husband, and would have done almost anything to persuade him and her daughters to come home. Inside, where she kept her feelings, a little cauldron began to bubble. ‘Your fault,’ she told herself quietly and frequently. ‘You should have thrown her out years back and made them stay.’ Was it too late? Could Nellie manage the shop without her mother?

  Unlike her eldest daughter, though, Muth wasn’t backward at coming forward, and she often pushed Nellie to one side even when customers were in the shop. ‘Born with a screw loose,’ Elsie Stewart would announce loudly. ‘Get out of me way – I’ll find the bloody magazine. Brainless, she is, absolutely without a clue.’ Many customers came along for the rather nasty entertainment value; shopping was incidental, because they all wanted to be there when Nellie finally snapped, as she surely must. Elsie was thin, Nellie wasn’t, so if the latter simply sat on the former . . . well, who knew what the result might be?

  Just lately, Nellie had started to get a bit steamed up about life. At the age of fifty-three, she had become decidedly menopausal and slightly fractious, so she resolved to go and have a word with one of the clever girls in the family, their Alice. Alice knew stuff. Alice was good-natured and generous and all the things Muth wasn’t, and she had no time – not even a split second – for Muth.

  On a fine Sunday in the middle of June, Nellie left the shop at the crack of dawn without saying a word, abandoning Muth to deal with the Sunday newspapers. ‘See?’ Elsie asked of the customers. ‘She doesn’t give a halfpenny damn for this bloody shop. He was the same, that Martin, always nipping out for a drink and a smoke, leaving me to cope because our Nellie’s as thick as tapioca pud during a milk shortage. I’m a slave, that’s what I am.’ She doled out newspapers and weighed sweets. ‘I’ve no idea where she’s buggered off to, and nobody’s seen her.’

  A man spoke up. ‘Never mind – you got the girls’ big bedroom, didn’t you? Oh yes, you made bloody sure you got what you wanted. Rid of me first, then your talons into my kids. Nigel’s right – you should be put down like an old cat.’

  The whole shop froze. A heavy silence rested on the shoulders of half a dozen customers while Martin Browne and his mother-in-law prepared for battle. This was interesting, because it looked as if neither party would give an inch.

  Elsie found herself staring into the eyes of a man she loathed. She swallowed nervously; she wasn’t used to being nervous. ‘What the bloody hell do you want?’ she snapped. She watched open-mouthed while her daughter’s estranged husband led the shoppers outside. ‘Go across to Miller’s,’ he advised them rather loudly. ‘You’ll get treated better there, away from the mother-in-law from hell.’

  He re-entered the shop, locked the door and turned the sign to display CLOSED. ‘Right,
that’s that,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Clear coast, so I’ll sort things out here and now.’ He addressed her. ‘Right, that’s your last audience out of the way. Get your stuff together and move out. Today.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing in this shop?’ she hissed. ‘Bad penny’s turned up again at long last – is that it? Run out of cash, have you? Or has some woman with sense thrown you out?’

  ‘Where’s my wife?’

  There was no joy in the chuckle she emitted. ‘She’s wandered off and left everything for me to do. She’s lazy and stupid and totally incapable of managing without me.’

  He nodded, lips set in a grim line for a second or two. ‘Listen to me, you old bitch. Gnawing away at me till I left was one thing, but chasing my girls out’s another matter altogether. And before you ask, because I know you have to be told everything, I’ve been in Manchester working as assistant manager in Woolworth’s and saving up to pay off the mortgage on this place. But I’m back now, and I’m staying, so go and pack your bags and bugger off out of it while there’s still room for you in hell. You don’t belong among decent folk, so that’s where you’ll finally meet your match.’

  Elsie sank onto a stool. ‘She doesn’t want you here, our Nellie. She’ll not have you back; I can tell you that much for no money. And she’s even stupider than she used to be.’

  Martin stood motionless for several seconds before speaking again. ‘She’s not stupid; all she needs is encouragement. So. Let’s see what’s what, then.’ He narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Right.’ She folded her arms and chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip.

  He raised the flap at the end of the counter and marched through the storeroom and upstairs to the living quarters. ‘Back in a minute,’ he promised as he went.

  Elsie stayed where she was for a while. Marie wouldn’t have her, would she? As for Alice – there was no chance in that household, either. She thought about her ‘treasure’, the seventh daughter who had arrived on Elsie’s fortieth birthday, a beautiful child, blonde and lively and happy. Alice had been a star.

  But the other six had been jealous of the favourite, because they’d had to make do with second-hand while Alice had worn only the best, everything new and pretty. And Elsie herself had reaped no reward from Alice’s ‘otherness’. She’d tried to force the girl to do séances or to perform for an audience in halls and small theatres, but the answer had always been in the negative, since Alice had insisted that she owned no control over her episodes.

  In spite of all she’d done for the child, Alice had turned nasty in her teens. A lot of girls did that, of course, mostly because of changes at certain times of life, but that one? Elsie blew out her cheeks. Alice had gone too far, had developed and nurtured a strong antipathy towards her mother, and that had intensified after the death of her father. Not that Chippy Charlie had ever been much use, but his youngest had adored him.

  Of course, three daughters had perished in the Blitz, stupid cows. Why had she let them out? Why hadn’t they used their brains and done the serving of soup and tea on different nights? That way, Elsie would now have had more options, more chances of finding somewhere to live in comfort. Marie, the other good-looking one, had married a vet who had offered to euthanize Elsie for the good of mankind – bleeding clever clogs, he was. No way would Marie’s Nigel – what a soft name – allow his mother-in-law to tarnish that great big house up in Waterloo. As for Alice . . . well, least said, soonest mended. Australia? Oh, bugger that for a lark; Theresa probably wouldn’t have her anyway.

  The inner door opened and two suitcases were hurled under the raised flap. ‘Your stuff, madam,’ Martin Browne said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. ‘I’m not so good at folding, so some of it’s a bit creased.’

  ‘Have you been rooting in my room?’ she shouted.

  ‘No.’ His tone had turned icy. ‘I’ve been emptying cupboards in my daughters’ room, because they each have a child now and we can help mind the babies. Nellie and I have two grandchildren, but we haven’t seen either of them. I bet Nellie doesn’t even know about them, because they’re kept away from you. I found out from a sales representative who covers Liverpool and Manchester. He knows our Claire, and he recognized me from here, from this shop. Anyway, that’s all by the by, isn’t it? You’re going. No matter what, you’re going.’ He retreated and slammed the door hard.

  ‘You bugger off,’ she screamed. ‘You’re not wanted. Our Nellie doesn’t need you; we’ve managed without you for long enough.’

  The door opened a fraction. ‘Nobody knew they were married till it was in the paper, two sisters having a double wedding. I bet you made damned sure my Nellie never saw that copy of the Echo. I had to find that out through the salesman as well. I’m going bloody nowhere, but you are. I hope your broomstick can carry you as well as the cases.’ He left the scene.

  She had nowhere to run, and she suddenly felt her age. Up to now, she’d been as fit as a whippet, but fear seemed to grip her by the throat. Breathing wasn’t easy. Then she remembered: the Turners had made a fortune out of their home-made ice cream, and they’d bought a house somewhere.

  They’d gone mobile with the ice cream, sending out carts every day to streets all over Liverpool, and there was a flat above the empty business premises a few doors down the road. She would have to pay rent for the first time in years, would have to cook for herself. But she’d be able to keep an eye on Nellie and all the goings-on, wouldn’t she? Did she want that? She didn’t know what the hell she wanted.

  Elsie was finally beginning to realize that this was the time to do it. Not for nothing had she stood over the deathbed of her own father in Ireland. Not for nothing had she listened to his moaning and groaning, because he’d owned two farms and some serious stock. As for her brothers and sisters, they’d all gone to America or Canada, so she’d inherited the lot, because he’d signed it over to her. The idea of sharing it out would have been silly and expensive, because nobody knew where the heck the other six were living. It was time to use the rainy day money. Bugger the Turners – Elsie didn’t need to stay near Nellie, did she? No, she would get away from Smithdown Road, make a fresh start elsewhere.

  Out of four remaining daughters, she had only one who was biddable – the big, daft lump who owned this shop with the fellow upstairs. Nellie, the oldest and daftest, was now a grandmother, and she would choose the babies, that much was certain. So it would have to be the bank, the money she’d hidden for years. Yes, she would be forced to use Da’s legacy and hope against hope that none of her older siblings would return to claim a share in it.

  What Elsie didn’t recognize was her own reluctance to live alone, her fear of isolation. Nor did she understand the quickening of her heart and the flood of adrenalin that announced the imminent arrival of panic. She picked up her suitcases, walked through the stockroom and left by the back door. A house. She would buy a house.

  Nellie Browne was also having serious breathing difficulties. After hanging around playing fields and cricket grounds since sunrise, she’d walked from the Smithdown Road area to Sefton Park, and she felt frazzled. The sun was already hot, she was overweight by a couple of stone, and Alice wasn’t here any more. She wondered what had happened to Dan, though she didn’t dare ask.

  ‘Do you know where she’s gone?’ she asked the handsome young man who had answered Alice’s front door. ‘They were sent to this flat after their house in Bootle got bombed. Dan’s her husband, but she would have been here on her own a lot, cos he got put in the ozzie for months at a time.’

  ‘I’ll find out, love,’ he answered. ‘There’s a woman in the roof flat who used to visit Alice and her dog. Just you wait while I go and ask her if she knows.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The young man went back inside.

  Nellie sat on the outdoor steps. The merciless heat seemed to be doing its best to kill her. If her arms hadn’t been so fat and flabby, she would have removed her coat. Muth was going to be livid
by this time; what excuse might she offer to explain why she’d left her to struggle alone with Sunday papers and delivery boys?

  The man reappeared. ‘You’re not her mother, are you?’

  ‘No. I’m twenty years older than Alice, though. Muth had Alice when she was getting on, you see. I’m Nellie – Helen, really. I’m Alice’s oldest sister.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well, Miss Foster said your Alice returned to Penny Lane, and the house is the one where she was born.’

  Nellie blinked. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. They’ve had it altered to suit her husband’s needs, or so Miss Foster said.’ He shrugged. ‘She was worried – Miss Foster – in case you might be Alice’s mother. Good luck, then.’ He returned to the hall and closed the door.

  ‘Bugger,’ Nellie muttered under her breath. In this family, everybody kept secrets because of Muth. The Stewart girls had been born to a terrible woman, and that terrible woman had damaged Nellie’s life, and Martin’s, and the girls’. Where were they? Where were Claire and Janet? They were married; it had been in the Echo – a customer had told her. She’d found a copy of the paper and cut out the photo, without telling Muth, of course. Were they happy, and did they have children?

  On leaden legs, she retraced her steps. But she wouldn’t pass the shop, so she cut through different streets. There would be hell to pay afterwards, but it was time for the worm to turn. Alice, the prettiest and cleverest, would have an answer, wouldn’t she? Or Marie, who was similarly blessed in the looks and brains department.

  Happening on a little cafe, Nellie bought a glass of iced orange and swallowed it within seconds. In the tiny washroom, she splashed cold water on her face and tried to tidy dull brown hair. ‘I’m ugly,’ she mumbled. ‘Ugly and fat because I eat too much.’ Food had become her first love since the disappearance of Martin, followed by Claire and Janet. What sort of mother didn’t know where her daughters were? What sort of grandmother chewed away until granddaughters sneaked out at night and never came back? What sort of mother came between a daughter and the man she loved?