Harry shook his head. ‘No, lad. Pretend you didn’t notice.’
‘Leave him,’ Alice advised. ‘He’s too proud to be seen crying.’ She gave her full attention to the figure in the bed. ‘Come on, Vera; they need their mum.’
Harry looked at his neighbour. ‘You shivered then. Are you cold?’
‘No.’ It was true, though she could have expanded on the single syllable had she so wished.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ She didn’t tell him that she’d just seen two Veras, one in the bed and another near the door. It had been just a split second, anyway, and she didn’t want to raise false hope in Vera’s boys. ‘Time to go home,’ was all she managed.
Five
Four adults plus two babies lived in almost organized contentment in a large, four-bedroom house on St Michael’s Road, Blundellsands. Claire Holden and Janet Myers, daughters of Nellie and Martin Browne, had set up home together; each had a husband and one boy child, and it was a lively household. Away from their dictatorial grandmother and their loving but weak-willed mother, Claire and Janet began to thrive. Life was fun, babies were fun, and husbands were hilarious, especially when it came to interior decoration and the cleaning of windows. Had the house merited a motto, it would have been You Missed a Bit.
The babies, just a few months old, were almost exactly the same age, both precocious, both noisy, both adorable. Often mistaken for twins, the happy duo provided priceless entertainment in queues for shopping, since they had developed to a high standard a routine of synchronized crying, babbling, laughing and singing, though the singing was still under development, with many of the more delicate points in need of fine-tuning.
Mam and Dad had phoned several times. Dad had come back from Manchester to throw Gran out of the Smithdown Road shop, so there had been much rejoicing in the Holden/Myers residence. Guinness and sherry were consumed, and it was fish and chips all round for supper on the day the girls heard about the eviction of Elsie Stewart. They were a delighted group except for one important aspect of life – there wasn’t much work to be found.
Having survived till the end of the war as mechanics servicing RAF fighters and bombers, two weary servicemen had come home to their women and to their dream – a business of their own. Since leaving school together, this had been their plan, and they remained determined to be their own bosses, answerable only to their wives, a strong-minded pair of sisters who shared plenty of sense seasoned by a great deal of humour. Holden and Myers formed a motor vehicle outlet; they sold cars and motorbikes, and mended broken ones. The two women took turns at working for the business one day and child-minding the next, and thus the four soldiered on against odds which included a shortage of car parts, teething, nappy rash, clients who needed to pay instalments for work already done, and petrol, which showed few signs of coming off rationing. A plan was necessary, because rumour had it that fuel might well be restricted until the end of the decade. In some senses, this post-war period was almost worse than the battlefield, because young men had expected to return to a land fit for heroes, but rationing continued to be harsh. Having come home, survivors of warfare and their families had slid towards the Labour Party; a coalition was fine when it came to protecting the homeland, but Labour was nearer the common man.
Often, one of the husbands expressed regret about not having served abroad. His wife’s answer was always the same – ‘You had to go up in the bloody planes to prove you’d fixed them properly, so stop talking soft.’
Kevin Holden and Paul Myers each had a full complement of slates on the roof, plus qualifications more than adequate for working with vehicles, and neither was backward at coming forward. ‘We need to diversify,’ Kevin said, bouncing baby Simon on his knee. ‘No point hanging about till we fall off the tree, lose our home and stop putting food on the table.’
‘We need a bloody miracle,’ was Paul’s terse reply.
‘Domestic machinery, repairs of,’ Kevin continued, not in the least perturbed on the surface. ‘Hoover cleaners, sewing machines, wirelesses and the like. Anything that needs fixing, we fix. Cars will come back, Paul. Petrol will come back. There’ll be washing machines, too, them Hoover things with the swing-across rubber mangles – they might need repairing. We’ve got a key-making kit, so we can help people who need spares. And we can sole and heel shoes, too.’
Claire chipped in. ‘I suppose me and Janet could take washing in.’
Janet laughed. ‘Not flaming likely. We’ve enough with nappies and greasy, oily husbands.’
‘I resemble that remark,’ her husband said, using the malapropism deliberately. ‘It’s a mucky job, mending engines.’
The phone rang, and Claire went to answer it in the hall. ‘Don’t cry, Mam,’ she begged, a deep frown transforming her face. She covered the mouthpiece. ‘Janet, it’s Mam. She’s at the Turners’ place again and still a bit dampish after finding us. Very weepy.’
Janet arrived at her sister’s side. ‘Don’t worry, Mam, we’ll get there. We’re just worried about you-know-who following you up here. Sunday week, yes. We’ve got the address, and the boys know every inch of Liverpool – Waterloo’s only down the road.’ She handed the phone back to Claire. ‘Stop her crying. Tell her they can come up here tonight. And you can dry your tears, too – you’re getting on my nerves. We’d better peel more spuds.’
They returned to the front room. ‘Claire?’ Kevin winked at his wife. ‘That shed at the back of our workshop – what do you think about second-hand furniture and household goods?’
Claire stood still, immobilized by too many thoughts. ‘Mam and Dad are coming for their tea.’
‘I thought we were going to your Auntie Marie’s Sunday week? Have I got it wrong again?’
‘No, we are going to Auntie Marie’s, but Mam can’t wait. And it would be nice if she and Dad could see just us first, us and the babies, as long as old Elsie doesn’t follow them. I can’t cope with more spuds and second-hand furniture on top. Sausage, egg and chips is all we can offer.’ She took a pace towards the kitchen, stopped and swivelled. ‘Furniture?’
Kevin, struggling to contain laughter, nodded at her. ‘Furniture,’ he repeated, grinning in reaction to his wife’s expression.
‘Why, Kev?’
‘Why not? It’s a big shed, and we need to keep going till the rationing stops. People always need furniture, and they’re fed up with Utility. We could do house clearances when somebody dies.’
Claire sighed. ‘That’s what I love about you,’ she said, ‘so bloody cheerful.’
Kevin covered their son’s ears. ‘No swearing in front of the children, Claire.’
Claire dragged her sister into the kitchen. ‘Why did we marry them?’
‘Love,’ was Janet’s swift answer. ‘Well, that or mental illness.’
They pondered the subject for seconds, then began chipping the spuds. Mam and Dad were coming.
She didn’t need Frank any more. Well, she did, because she loved him, but the dog was no longer attached to the otherness. A part of Alice understood why; Frank had been an extra receiver, because the signal had to travel over some kind of immeasurable distance, but now that she was right on top of the main transmitter the boxer was no longer a necessity. Here, in this house, a baby cried, and she alone heard it. Whatever she needed to know, it would come from the house in which her life had begun thirty-three years ago. Waiting for an answer wasn’t promising to be easy, but she owned no say in the matter, because the whole mess was acres beyond her control.
‘Frank,’ she whispered, addressing the best dog on the planet, ‘you’ve always been a good lad, but I’m glad you’re getting a rest. I think it’s all down to me from now on. Whatever it is will find us, but thanks for sticking by me, beautiful boy.’ She patted his head. The ‘whatever’ was getting closer, and she felt it in her bones.
And to top all that, there was the other thing. Dan had been reading a book, had finally made her sit and listen, and thi
s was the day on which the deed must be done. Oh, bugger in a bucket.
‘Frank, life’s getting very strange.’
She cast her mind back to the start of the war. Dan had chased her all over Blackpool beach, round the house, round the bed – there’d been fun and romance and joy before the strokes. Now it was all how many days since bleeding, and she would have to be on top, because he was crippled, poor soul. It was like discussing some kind of scientific experiment or planning a list for the shops. She wanted love and laughter rather than a list of instructions which ended with her lying flat on the bed with her legs up the wall. Yes, she wanted a baby, but wasn’t Dan enough when it came to nursing care? Peter wasn’t here all the time . . . She found herself blushing. Harry was usually available in the evenings. Dan sometimes acted like a spoilt child who had to get his own way no matter what the cost to others. He’d become institutionalized. Hospital staff had indulged him, and he seemed to expect the same behaviour from his wife.
Alice pulled herself together. The mechanics of the bed business didn’t quite defeat her, though she remained slightly puzzled. He would put her right if she got flustered, or so he’d said. To hell with it; she was going to make herself look good: brushed hair, a bit of make-up, a new nightie. Somebody had to make an effort in the area of romance.
Romance? When they were finished, she must lie on the floor or the bed with her legs up the wall – she’d never heard anything like it since gym class at school with those flaming medicine balls. After lugging one of those things round, a girl needed a dose of medicine. He was frightened; she was frightened. They both feared another episode in his brain, though nothing had been said.
She blew out her cheeks and huffed. Oh well, better get on with it.
Leaving Frank in the kitchen with a juicy marrowbone, she walked into Dan’s bedroom.
‘Turn the big light off,’ he ordered quite brusquely.
She blinked before complying and moving to stand awkwardly by the bed. Just two dim lamps illuminated the room.
‘Get undressed,’ he said. ‘The less that gets in the way, the better.’
Struck almost dumb, she stripped. It was like preparing to be examined by a doctor.
‘You have to straddle me,’ he muttered.
Naked, she lingered at the foot of the bed, feeling safer there for a reason she didn’t want to investigate. Where was the love? Where were the kisses and the whisperings and the silly words? Not even a smile – nothing. ‘I don’t want to do this,’ she whispered on unsteady breath. ‘Please, Dan, there has to be some other way, something nearer normal.’
He stared hard at her. ‘We have to make the effort if we’re to have a child.’ He paused, his expression blank. ‘Alice, I love you, but I have to concentrate. Things aren’t as easy as they were before the second accident in my head. We need a child, don’t we?’
‘Why?’
‘What do you mean?’
She swallowed hard. ‘Why?’ she repeated. ‘Is it so that when he grows up he can look after you and push your wheelchair? I suppose that’s as good a reason as any in your case.’ She wished she could bite back the cruel words. ‘Sorry. I just don’t want to carry on like a robot. It’s too . . . too scientific, too medical.’
‘I have to,’ he almost growled. ‘No choice in the matter.’
‘But I have a choice, Dan. I’m supposed to climb up there and bounce about like a ball on a field – no. I’m not a machine. I want to make love.’ She pondered. ‘I could get the double bed down and put it in the front room. If we were sleeping together, we could have cuddles and kisses and . . .’ Her voice faded away. ‘I’m sorry.’ She pulled on her nightdress. ‘I’m going to bed, because I can’t do this. I won’t do it.’
‘This is not my fault,’ he roared as she reached the door. ‘I didn’t ask to end up like this, did I?’
Alice stopped in her tracks. ‘It’s not my fault, either. Or perhaps it is. If I’d died under that blooming bomb, you wouldn’t have had the first stroke.’
Dan banged his head against pillows. ‘Why don’t you go elsewhere, then? Find yourself a man whose body works right.’ There was Harry-next-door for a start. Oh yes, he’d noticed Harry glancing briefly at her with hungry eyes.
She faced him and his fury. ‘I left home for you.’
He grimaced.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Did you leave home for me? I thought I might have been the excuse that got you away from your nightmare of a mother.’
‘I loved you,’ she snapped. ‘You know damned well that I loved you. I married for the right reason – for love.’
‘But you don’t love me any longer because I’m not normal.’
Alice shook her suddenly weary head. ‘Love moves in two directions, Dan. When you came home from Maryfields, your eyes shone with it whenever you looked at me, but something’s changed in a matter of days. And it’s all gone too . . .’ She paused, searching for the word. ‘Too clinical,’ she concluded.
He closed his eyes. ‘You’re a beautiful girl, and I’m a mess. I don’t want you turning to someone else, some bloke who can make love right. And I don’t want you being on your own when I die. We always planned to have kids, didn’t we?’
‘Yes, we did. But children should come from love, not from a textbook. I can’t do that thing – it’s not normal.’
‘But it is normal, Alice. It’s one of the normal positions in the book Pete brought me—-’
‘What?’ She approached the bed. ‘You’ve talked to him about this, about us and our private life?’
‘And Dr Bloom. Where else am I expected to go? You need a baby, and I need a new left leg, so this is the only way – you on top.’ He paused. ‘Well? Are we doing this or not?’
‘Not. I’d rather try knitting fog. This isn’t what I want from you. I want us to be us, or as nearly us as we can manage. A baby would be lovely, but we should make him in a proper bed, not a hospital one. Let me bring ours down. We could have two bedrooms down here, and I could move my sewing into the biggest one upstairs. I can make it into a sitting and work place. Please, Dan. You’ll have your hospital bed for physiotherapy, and our bed for sleeping in with me.’
‘All right.’ Anything, he told himself inwardly; anything that would make her his, just his. Perhaps she might become capable of looking Harry Thompson in the eye again. Was he imagining the attraction between her and the neighbour? ‘Get the bed down and we’ll see what happens.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘For seeing my point of view.’
‘You’re welcome.’ His tone was terse.
She left the room and walked upstairs. The baby who wasn’t there was grumbling, as if working himself up the short road to a full scream. ‘Sssshhh, Callum,’ she whispered without thinking. Where had that come from? Who the bread and dripping was Callum? ‘Callum?’ she repeated.
‘Yes?’ The single whispered word seemed to brush her cheek.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she muttered. ‘You’re not a baby. Or you’re not the baby.’
She felt him leaving. A slight movement in otherwise still air told her that he was gone. And it came to her in a blinding flash that perhaps babies matured after they were dead; maybe they became in spirit what they might have become in life, in body. ‘Who the hell is he?’ she asked herself aloud, ‘and where the heck did I get that name?’
She removed the best nightdress and folded it before pulling on her old summer weight cotton pyjamas. Determinedly, she worked her way through tomorrow’s agenda. When Peter Atherton came in the evening, she would get him and Harry-next-door to move the bed. Vera’s boys were still with Harry, so they might help as well. Poor Vera – she was still unconscious, bless her. ‘They can move everything down,’ she told the room. ‘Wardrobe, dressing table – the lot. And they can bring the suite up here. Let them think what they like, because I’m going to sleep with my husband, and that’s that.’
&nbs
p; She brushed her hair, cleaned her teeth in the bathroom and stared in the mirror. Callum. Wasn’t it an Irish name?
As usual, she was halfway to sleep very soon after her head hit the pillow. It was a lovely, snuggly bed, and she drifted happily into the Land of Nod. Yes, she slept like a baby in the place where she’d been delivered as a baby . . .
Oh no, here he came again. It was late, far too late for visitors.
Olga stepped back from her bedroom window. Terry Openshaw, butcher, was going too far with his gifts and his attempts at courtship. She didn’t want him, didn’t want anyone, especially now. Half her heart had been given away to Peter and a boxer pup, while the other half hung somewhere between Penny Lane and Moscow, because she had always loved the land of her birth. ‘One day,’ she mumbled, ‘one day, all will be well and people will visit Russia without fear.’
Picking up her beloved Leo, she descended the stairs and threw open the shop door. ‘Yes?’ she asked.
He stared at her. She was tall, elegant, beautiful and rumoured to be related to foreign royalty. ‘I’ve brought you a couple of lamb chops,’ he managed to say, ‘and a bone for the pup.’
‘Time has come for me to talk the truth, Mr Openshaw. We both are members of Penny Lane traders’ group, no more than that.’
He stepped back a few inches. ‘So they’re right, then? You’ve been seen walking out with that Peter fellow who looks after Dan Quigley?’
She nodded. ‘He is my friend. He helps training Leo.’
‘You hold hands.’ His tone was accusatory.
‘And this is your concern, Mr Openshaw?’
He cleared his throat. ‘I’m not without money. We’d have two shops between us. He’s worth next to nothing.’
‘Good night,’ she spat before closing her door on him and his chops. The man was a nuisance, and she didn’t need him. But Peter? She smiled. Time would tell.
Nellie finally managed to stop crying. At ten o’clock, she sat in the best room with one little boy on each knee. Simon, at five months, had as strong a spine as Keith, who was six months of age. They held their heads well, ‘talked’ to their newly discovered grandmother and chortled at Granddad, who sat on the floor at his wife’s feet pulling funny faces. He laughed at their toothless, bubbly grins, and they laughed when he did.
Daughters of Penny Lane Page 9
