Yes, the problem had worsened. His stupid left foot seemed determined to drop and trip him up, but he wanted to make it to the lions’ den. This was going to be his first unsupervised journey, and he had decided to make it happen.
But Nellie found him. ‘What the hell are you up to, Dan? Alice’ll kill both of us if she finds out what you’re doing.’
‘Hold my s-left leg.’
‘You what?’
‘Just stop it from s-dropping. Sometimes, I can’t s-feel it, and it trips me up. Grab it, s-please.’
Thus they arrived at the laundry room, Dan on crutches and Nellie bent double in charge of the offending limb. ‘This wasn’t my idea,’ she told Alice when she and Dan reached their destination. He was placed in a lion-chewed chair. Alice shook her head and tutted, though the smile remained on her face.
Nellie turned to leave; she’d had enough exotic carryings-on, thanks.
‘Don’t go,’ her youngest sister begged. ‘How many people can brag about having held a lion? Not many.’
Tommy entered with a tired and droopy cub under each arm. Marie took one and placed it in Dan’s arms before offering the other to Nellie. ‘They just need love. Like any young animal, they play, eat and sleep, that’s all.’
‘Where’s their mam?’ Nellie’s voice shook.
‘In the zoo. She was too young. The pregnancy was an accident. She treated them like toys, like rag dolls. They’re just a few weeks old.’
Nellie sighed and smiled. ‘A lion,’ she whispered, ‘a real lion.’
Dan knew he would savour this moment for the rest of his days. The density of the fur, the little grunts and growls, warm breath at his throat, claws tapping his neck. ‘You’re s-beautiful,’ he said, his voice heavy with emotion. Would he ever hold a child of his own? Would Alice have her longed-for baby?
Nellie burst into loud sobs. She was holding an African youngster, a cub that would grow into one of those big things like the one that growled on the cinema screen before a film started. He carried a warm, slightly oily smell, and he smiled at her. Oh, God. Where were Claire and Janet, her babies? Where were their babies? Then the rough, pink tongue made contact with her cheeks – the little fellow was drinking her tears.
‘Don’t cry, love,’ Alice advised. ‘He won’t hurt you.’
‘I’m not frightened any more. I just want to take him home. He’d be a great guard cat in a few months, eh? His tongue’s a bit rough, bless him.’
Marie smiled and said nothing. Everyone loved the cubs.
Frank sat between the two people who had stolen these new friends. His companions were tired. Did none of these humans know about the young? Pups dashed about, made a mess, ate, and slept. Ah. It was clear that one of the two-legged agreed with him. Marie unrolled a battered mattress. ‘Dump them here,’ she advised. Nellie placed her burden on the mattress before relieving her brother-in-law of his. ‘God bless,’ Marie whispered. ‘And don’t eat any more of your bed, eh? You’ll have nothing left to sleep on if you carry on ripping it up.’
‘Come on, s-Alice,’ Dan said. He stared at her. ‘She’s gone again,’ he whispered. His wife was staring through the doorway into the cubs’ empty play run. Her expression-free face was suddenly visited by a slight smile as she resurfaced. ‘What’s mass-eye?’ she asked.
Everyone stared at her.
Marie laughed. ‘Masai are warriors who live on an African plain. Some people call the plain Serengeti from the native language. I think it means land that never ends. Nigel will know. What did you see?’
Alice looked at the little lions. ‘I saw them. They were huge, and they had great big manes; they were together, but apart. Lots of lionesses and cubs. That’s the future. I don’t think I’ve seen the future before; it’s always been the past or the present. There were elephants and zebras and funny-looking trees with flat tops. Oh, and a bright red sunset, too.’
‘People?’ Marie asked.
‘No, just lots of animals.’
‘The lionesses do all the work, Alice.’
‘So what’s new?’ Alice raised her hands and shrugged. ‘Same with us, isn’t it?’
‘Sorry, love,’ Dan whispered.
‘I don’t mean you, you fool. But men do one thing at a time; a woman can iron with one hand and bring up kids with the other.’
He offered no reply. She needed a child; she’d always wanted children. It might be achievable, but she would need to do the work. As a gentleman, Dan had never introduced his wife to unusual positions in the marriage bed, but it had to be done. Alice, at thirty-three, was already past the best of her childbearing span, so the delicate subject needed to be discussed very soon. And would the activity cause him to have another stroke?
‘Smile, Dan,’ his wife ordered.
Removing Frank from his adopted brood proved difficult, though Marie managed to entice him eventually with a slice of boiled ham. When Dan and the three women returned to the main part of the house, they found Nigel and Martin embedded in armchairs and in a heated discussion on politics.
Once seated, Dan joined in with his usual gusto and with fewer s’s in the mix. Nigel, who had still not recovered from what he termed the betrayal of Winston Churchill the previous year, now faced a dyed-in-the-wool left-winger, and voices were soon raised.
Marie led her sisters back into the kitchen where all three washed their hands. ‘Nellie, you’re on brewing tea and setting trays. Alice, you do the buttering while I find some innards. Nellie, why are you wriggling?’
‘It’s me corsets.’
The other two stared at her. ‘Corsets? All that whalebone?’ Alice cried, her eyebrows raised. ‘They do elastic things now, Nell. They still have the doo-dahs to hold your stockings up, but there’s no need to be trapped in whalebone these days.’
Nellie actually laughed. ‘Are you trying to deprive me of my moment? When I take this thing off at night and have a good scratch, it’s heaven.’
The men’s voices grew louder. ‘He was all right and fit for purpose when it came to s-war,’ Dan yelled. ‘But we need a proper s-Labour lot to sort us out s-now.’
‘We need Labour like we need a hole in the head,’ was Nigel’s reply.
Martin chipped in. ‘I’m bloody sure they’ll be more use when it comes to the National Health thing.’
Nigel was becoming excited. ‘They know nothing––’
‘Shut up,’ Marie screamed. ‘I’ve two bloody lions that make less noise than you lot. Talk about the weather or something.’
‘He’ll blame Labour for that as well,’ Dan shouted.
‘No esses on him,’ Alice whispered. ‘He’s getting better.’
The three sisters worked together, each content in the company of the others. Most people in Liverpool ate their dinner in the middle of Sunday instead of at the end of the day, because few worked on the Sabbath, so high tea was commonplace in the late afternoon.
Three women bearing tea, sandwiches, cake, and scones with strawberry jam and cream entered the war zone. ‘Stop the arguing now,’ Marie chided from the doorway. ‘We’re having a civilized Sunday tea, no Churchill, no Clement Attlee, because they weren’t invited.’
Dan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. Alice looked displeased.
Nigel rolled his eyes. ‘Here we go. The boss has spoken.’ He winked at his wife, picked up a sandwich and got on with life. The beagle would survive, so all was well with the world; for now, anyway.
‘Take it away! Now. Get rid of––’ Elsie Stewart sat bolt upright on the narrow bed. ‘Get rid of it,’ she whispered. She didn’t want to look at it, couldn’t look.
It was happening again. Someone tapped on her door. ‘Mrs Stewart?’
Oh, no. Somebody had heard her; she’d been screaming out again, and she hadn’t done that for years. She’d felt safe with Nellie, hadn’t she?
The door opened slightly. ‘Sorry,’ said the woman in the bed. Unused to apologizing, she had to force the word out. ‘Nightmare,’ s
he added. ‘I haven’t had one for a very long time – it must be because I’m in a strange place. I don’t mean you’ve got a strange house, but it’s just that I’m not used to it. And I thought I’d grown out of these bad dreams.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, love.’
‘It’s not your fault, but thank you.’
‘Shall I make you some cocoa, then? It might just settle you, take the heat to your stomach.’ The intruder opened the door further so that Elsie’s room could borrow light from the landing.
Elsie wasn’t used to kindness, either. ‘Please,’ she answered, her tone shaky. ‘A hot drink might help me to drop off to sleep again.’
‘I’ll leave the landing light on for you.’
Alone once more, Elsie emitted a long sigh. Perhaps hot cocoa might make her sleep more heavily, might keep her beyond the reach of dreams and nightmares. She propped herself up on her pillows, her brain working hard to avoid dregs that lingered at the edge of her mind. God, she didn’t want to go back there after all these years, to the pain, the hideous sound, the smell of death and the sight of him, his face all twisted and horrible and wrong, so wrong. No. That terrible time needed to be forgotten.
She tried to concentrate. Should she buy a house or rent one? What about a flat? With the nightmares back, she would be waking everyone in other flats, so she needed to be separate . . . Detached? How much did detached cost? Even in a semi, she might wake the neighbours. Why hadn’t she suffered while living with Nellie? Or would this have been about to happen anyway, that terrible scene, that awful night when . . . ? ‘Stop it,’ she murmured. It was in the past, and it should stay where it belonged. Chippy Charlie was dead, so it was all over and done with. Wasn’t it?
The landlady entered with a tray. ‘Now, I don’t want you worrying,’ she said, ‘because you’re the only guest at the moment. Mostly, I have people who live in Manchester and work in Liverpool. They sleep here Monday till Thursday nights, then they go home Friday after work and set out early from home on Monday morning. So there’s only me, and I don’t need as much sleep as I did. Now, let’s have a nice drink.’ After passing a cup to Elsie, the woman perched on the edge of the bed with a mug of her own and asked, ‘What are your plans?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Hello, Not Sure. I’m Annie. Annie Meadows.’
‘Elsie Stewart.’
Annie took a gingerly sip at the boiling hot cocoa. ‘Elsie with two suitcases and no idea where she’s going? That’s a kettle of fish, as our Doe might have put it.’
‘Yes, that would be me, a kettle of fish.’
Annie nodded. ‘Well, while we’re talking about fish, I’m in the same boat. See, I buried our Doreen last week – she went with something to do with her heart, bless her. I don’t know where to turn. I’m not used to being by myself, you see.’
‘Have you got kids?’ Elsie asked after a sizeable pause. ‘Are they grown up and gone, like?
Annie shook her head sadly. ‘No, love. A pair of spinsters, we were, never married. There was just me and our Doe, and we liked it that way. I might sell up. I can’t see me running this place without Doreen. I mean, she couldn’t do much for her last few months, but she was there.’
Elsie immediately thought of herself; was there anything to be gained here? ‘Well, I’d stay a few days to help you out, Annie, but if I’m kicking off with these nightmares again your lodgers won’t get a wink.’
Annie Meadows nodded thoughtfully. ‘There’s always our Doreen’s room – and no, she didn’t die there, because she was in hospital. It’s next to the kitchen, her room. Doe couldn’t manage stairs, so there’s a little bathroom, too.’
Elsie wasn’t sure, and she said so.
‘Try it tomorrow. If you don’t wake anybody up, you could stay till you make your mind up. Where’ve you come from?’
‘Smithdown Road. Don’t get on with my son-in-law, so I got thrown out.’
‘That’s terrible. Do you think you’ll be all right for the rest of tonight?’
‘I hope so.’
Annie stood up. ‘I’ll leave your door open a bit then you won’t be in darkness. The landing light will be on.’
‘Thank you.’
Elsie finished her cocoa, settled down in the bed and pondered. A great believer in fate – as long as fate stayed on her side – she considered the idea of staying here with this woman who clearly needed help. It would be much better than living alone, though she would need to learn to bite her tongue.
Within minutes, she was asleep. And the nightmare paid no return visits.
It had been a difficult few weeks for Olga Konstantinov. Between spending twelve hours each day running the shop, and most Sundays searching for a dog like Frank, she was exhausted almost to the point of coma. After visiting Alice and Dan several times, she had learned that friendship was vital and that living alone would always be tedious, so had decided to get a boxer. This would mean a walk every morning and each evening; she would also close the shop for an hour on workday lunchtimes, because dogs needed exercise and contact with humans and, eventually, with other dogs.
Her patience was eventually rewarded on the Sunday when Dan and Alice were out in Waterloo with family; she finally got her hands on a white boxer. Well, he owned several black patches and a bit of brown on his chest, but he was mostly white. He was an adorable little package, silky, warm and ridiculous. She introduced him to the living quarters on the first floor, cleaned up his deposits, then thought about his name. Romanov was too near the bone, Pushkin seemed more suitable for a cat, and Konstantinov was too long. So she decided on Tolstoy. Within half an hour, Tolstoy was Tolly, and all was well in his confused little world.
He liked the shop, loved his basket bed in a corner behind the counter, but was rather less than helpful in the firewood department, because he ate it. She liked him, and he knew it. After eight long weeks in the world, he had learned a lot. Be nice to the bipeds, and they’ll give you fun and food. He knew now that chewing on bundles of wood was a no-no, and he needed to find somewhere acceptable to relieve himself.
His new companion took him out again into the yard at the back of the shop. He tried to cock a leg, fell over, righted himself, and squatted like a female; soon he would get the hang of it, but for now his centre of gravity was preventing him from conforming to the behaviour expected of grown-up dogs. Stairs, too, presented a problem, but he was being carried up and down until he got the hang of things.
‘I want to be showing you to my friend who is Alice. She is having a husband, Dan, who cannot walk well at this time. You will make him smile. I am believing that peoples get better if they do smiling. And now, you smiling at me, is it?’ She picked him up and allowed him to lick her face. Was this healthy? Did she care? He was wonderful; Leo was her little baby, and she adored him. Would Mr Atherton be there, she wondered?
At seven o’clock precisely, she walked down to Alice’s house. Peter Atherton opened the door. ‘Come in,’ he said, a smile plastered across his face. ‘They’ll be back soon, I expect. I’ve spent the day cleaning windows and twiddling my thumbs. Alice and her sister went upstairs to do some dressmaking after dinner, then everything changed in the blink of an eye, because they decided on a family reunion up in Waterloo. They change their minds more often than some folk change their socks. And yon’s a grand little dog.’
Olga stepped into the house. Yon? He was Leo, not Yon.
‘Tea?’ he asked.
‘Please. Russian style, no milk. I have some cube of sugar in my bag.’
She dug out the little box in which she carried hard-to-come-by cubed sugar wherever she went.
When the tea was made, Peter sat fascinated, watching his visitor as she sipped hot, black tea through the sugar lump held between her teeth. ‘Well, that’s a new one on me, love. I’ll just let your pup out, shall I?’
‘As you wish.’
Olga gazed lovingly at the little dog. ‘He started off as Tolstoy, then he was Tolly. Now
, I am thinking he is Leo; this was first name of the great Russian writer. Yes, he can be Leo.’
‘There’s a few things women are always changing,’ he said. ‘Sheets, pillowcases, towels, and their minds. Come on, Leo, before she gives you another name.’
Olga smiled to herself as Peter Atherton took the puppy on another small journey of discovery. She now had a partner to share the adventure, a little companion to take with her when she visited new friends. After pouring herself a second cup, she picked out another precious cube from her bag and drank tea the way she liked it, uncontaminated by the addition of dairy products.
The front door crashed inward. Startled, Olga jumped to her feet and swallowed the remains of her sugar. Who would treat a door so badly? ‘Hello?’ she called. ‘Who is there, please?’
Vera Corcoran fell into the kitchen. ‘He’s going to kill me this time,’ she muttered before passing out in a pool of blood. Even Olga knew about the situation in that household. She ran to the window and rapped her knuckles on the glass. ‘Coming in now!’ she yelled at Peter. ‘Quick, quick, please!’
Peter and Leo entered the scene just in time to see Olga at her brilliant, brave, Russian best. Open-mouthed and riveted to the spot by shock, Peter held on to Leo and watched as the action played out in slow motion. What he saw was barely credible, yet he knew it was real, it was happening, and it was now. The woman was absolutely bloody magnificent.
Corcoran held an axe. Olga dashed it from his hands so hard that Peter swore he could hear a bone breaking. Grabbing the front of the puny man’s clothing, the shopkeeper lifted him up the wall. She bunched her other hand into a fist and smashed it against his face. When he was out for the count, she allowed him to fall in a crumpled heap where he lay motionless. ‘Get police,’ she ordered. ‘Take Leo to phone – he should not be seeing these things.’
‘Bloody hell, Olga,’ Peter whispered.
She raised her chin. ‘Bloody hell is true – look at her. This is going on many years. Get ambulance also. We must try save life of this poor woman.’
Daughters of Penny Lane Page 6
