‘Yes, your majesty,’ was his quick reply.
She snuggled down in the bed. How to explain a miracle to family and friends? ‘Well, we have this rainbow in the house, you see. It’s a bit like stained glass, all different colours, and it drifts round the rooms. So does my dad’s tobacco smoke. A baby cries, but not as often as it used to. The rainbow or stained glass is my uncle Callum, and he got God to do a miracle, because he’s been promoted at work – he’s an angel – and God made Dan walk again.’ It would sound bloody pathetic, and she might well end up in the madhouse in a back-to-front coat and on tablets. ‘Still, it would be a rest, I suppose,’ she murmured.
Alice sat up and inflicted grievous bodily harm on an innocent pillow; she would achieve some comfort even if it took further assault and battery on linen and feathers. Ah, he was snoring. Callum had probably made that happen. ‘Give me a few more awake minutes,’ she begged her now invisible companion. ‘I need to think.’
She thought. With just one clear day between now and the wedding reception, Dan would be forced to rush around tomorrow telling everyone about the sudden improvement in his health. Otherwise, he would need to play to the gathering on Saturday with crutches, sticks, wheelchair . . . He should definitely not be the centre of attention at the celebration. ‘You got it wrong again, Uncle Callum. Your timing’s rubbish.’
Callum was back yet again. He chuckled. ‘The best wedding gift you could offer to your friends would be Dan’s God-granted ability to walk.’
‘We got them some velvet cushions and a crystal vase.’
‘I know. They’d rather see Dan’s crutches on the rubbish heap. Learn to play life by ear, sweetheart. Write your own music, live in the moment and enjoy the good bits. You can’t always follow the score of other composers, you see. Life happens, and sometimes you have to go along with your flow. Stop worrying. Stop trying to control everything. And go to sleep.’
She heard no more, though the dream she experienced that night would stay with her forever.
‘I baptize thee Callum Daniel in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.’ The priest wore happy vestments. A gold and white maniple hung from his left arm, while the chasuble glistened with strands of precious metal thread. Gold meant Eastertide or Christmas. Or did it mean baptism? Alice couldn’t see the baby, as he was in the arms of Nellie’s Claire, his godmother.
The scene faded, though priest and church remained the same. She looked down at her dress; it was cream with long sleeves, and the skirt rested on beige shoes in good leather. She turned to her right and saw Harry. He was very smart: dark grey suit and a cream shirt with a tie in a slightly darker shade. In his buttonhole sat a yellow rose. The man looked wonderful, yet she felt sad, because Dan was dead.
When the priest had finished speaking of consanguinity, affinity or spiritual relationship, bride and groom had nothing to confess. A small congregation was asked to declare any reason why the couple should not be joined, and a whirlwind travelled up the aisle. It brought with it an icy draught, and Alice shook in her new shoes. She felt cold and afraid.
‘There is no Callum,’ the whirlwind shrieked before placing itself in the front pew to the left of the bride. It was Muth, of course.
Stained glass behind the altar was suddenly brighter. In its centre, a figure stood out, arms raised to heaven, beautiful wings unfolding and spreading outward. Muth was wrong; there were two Callums, one Alice’s baby, the other a dead uncle who was part angel, part comedian and part crazy magician.
But the priest’s garments had changed. He wore purple. Alice’s cream dress became a dark suit, and a coffin stood on a bier at the foot of altar steps. Who was in the coffin? Was it Dan?
She woke at ten minutes past one, wet with sweat. Her first thought was for her unborn child; her second for her husband. She slipped out of bed and went into the next room. The dream had been in the wrong order – it should have been baptism, funeral, then wedding – but dreams were seldom sensible.
‘So it’s all right for you to wander about in the night,’ grumbled the man in the bed. ‘Whereas I have to do as I’m told by my bossy wife.’
‘I’m borrowing your bathroom. There’s a baby growing above my bladder, so I go more often these days.’
Dan yawned. ‘Leave the money on the shelf above the sink,’ he ordered before falling asleep again very suddenly.
In the bathroom, Alice soothed her heated face with cold water. Callum was up to mischief again. Had he sent the dream; was it some kind of warning about the future? No. Everyone had dreams, and not all dreams were sent by angels.
‘Nothing to do with me,’ Callum said. ‘I was concentrating too hard on Mr Atherton’s poker. Ten pounds he won tonight. The dream was your own, dear Alice. I know what it was, because it remains in your mind, but don’t be afraid. As I told you earlier, life has its ebb and flow. Ride the waves, because you can’t stop the moon’s phases, nor the water’s rhythm.’
Alice shook her head. ‘You talk in riddles,’ she accused him.
‘Do I?’
She sighed. ‘What’s poor Olga doing while her new husband’s playing cards for money he doesn’t need?’
Callum chuckled. ‘She’s playing, too. The other two fellows have no chance. Fascinating to watch; nobody smiled.’
Alice shook her head sadly. Gambling was a crime, and the country was going to the dogs. Mind, if the dogs were anything like her Frank and Olga’s Leo, there would surely be a chance of recovery. Recovery. Her Dan could walk again, and that was a recovery that should be truly appreciated. But she still worried, because he would probably go too far, too fast, and wear himself out. Worn out herself, she returned to bed, placed herself in the hands of her guardian angel and slept till morning.
Homing pigeons, they were supposed to be, but they didn’t know north from south, east from west, tail feathers from beak, and he was fed up with them, because they seemed to be educationally subnormal. Blue Lady was safe, caged with others at her new place where all she had to do was look pretty for Liverpool’s pigeon folk who visited in droves. Or were they in flocks? A few of these birds were . . . confused, Harry supposed. They’d had too many moves, and he should feel sorry for them, but what could he do? And he was supposed to be taking Vera on holiday—
‘Psst.’ His train of thought did an emergency stop at the buffers, while his heart went into overdrive. It was just gone eight o’clock in the morning, and he hadn’t yet had so much as a cup of Horniman’s, but Alice was here, peering over the wall that separated the houses. She was mouthing at him.
He stepped to the wall. ‘What?’
‘Dan can walk,’ she said bluntly. ‘It was Callum’s doing.’ With the exception of her husband, Harry and Olga were the only ones she trusted completely to believe in her. ‘Happened last night,’ she said. ‘I had a job trying to get him to stop. But the fact is, he’s mobile again.’
‘I see.’ What he saw was a sweet little face with tendrils of blonde hair acting like tiny dancers in the light, summer breeze. Clear blue eyes were wide and solemn, while her mouth continued to look extremely kissable. ‘So?’ he asked. ‘I’m glad he’s back on his feet, but why are you acting all mysterious?’
‘So he can walk. We can’t do any more meetings by accident when I take Frank out for exercise.’
‘But we only talk, queen. We’ve not done anything wrong since . . . since you made my front room curtains. Even then, we didn’t do much.’
‘I know; I was there, if you remember.’
‘Where is Dan now?’
‘He’s gone up to see Olga and Peter so he can prepare them before the reception.’ She paused. ‘I know what’ll happen, Harry.’
‘What?’
‘He’ll go all busy and wear himself out dashing here, there and everywhere. Course, now that I want a word with Uncle Callum, he’s keeping a low profile.’
Harry nodded pensively. ‘Look, Alice, you didn’t want Dan struggling up and down Penny Lane on c
rutches or sticks for the rest of his life, surely? In the time he’s got left, let him live. By living I mean having a choice, a laugh, a pint down the pub. He can go to the pictures, the football, have a game of arrows or dominoes. It’s a freedom he probably never expected.’
She nodded her agreement. ‘I suppose you’re right.’ She changed the subject. ‘When are you going to get rid of that loft?’
‘When the birds stop coming back to it. They’re creatures of habit.’
‘I know,’ she snapped. ‘Bad habits. One of their bad habits is all over my sheets and towels. They’re filthy little devils.’
‘They’re birds, love. Shit happens.’
‘Don’t be crude, and draw them a map. Show them where they should be and where they shouldn’t.’
‘It doesn’t work that way, and well you know it. They’ll learn in time.’
She bridled, her chin held high and arms crossed on top of the wall. ‘It doesn’t work at all. They’ve dumped stuff on Vera’s blouse, the one she was supposed to be wearing this weekend for posh. She’s only had it on once. Your feathered friends’ offerings bleached the colour out. She had a mad screaming fit in the middle of a play on the wireless. A woman was having trouble with her twins and . . . stop grinning, cos it’s not funny. These twins were going bad ways, then Vera found her ruined blouse, so she missed the end. She’ll never find out what happened, will she?’
Harry sighed resignedly. ‘I’d best buy my ticket for Australia, then.’ Vera in a bad mood was not something he looked forward to. ‘She’ll be round here any minute screaming and ranting.’
‘No, she won’t.’ Alice’s chin thrust itself forward, and she folded her arms on top of the wall. ‘She’ll be here, at my house. I made the blouse, and I’ve enough material left to replace the back where the pigeon left its deposit. Get bloody rid, Harry.’
‘It might have been a wild bird – any bird.’ He could tell she wasn’t going to back down. ‘OK. I’ll get rid; I’ll poison them.’ He waited; his statement had finally shut her up. Or down.
‘You can’t be doing that,’ she cried.
‘I can. There’s only four regulars left, anyway. The rest have had the sense to move on.’ He kept his face as straight as possible. ‘I’ll get rid of them for you.’
She gulped. ‘Will it hurt them?’
‘How the pigging hell should I know? I’m not a pigeon, and I’ve never been poisoned. Well, not so far.’ This was one of the aspects of Alice that he adored. She was mouthy, obstinate, fierce, proud and ridiculous. Oh, and she was beautiful with it.
‘Aw, but—’
He turned away so that he could no longer see her; she was flustered. When flustered, she was something else, and the Yanks called it cute, or so he believed. He didn’t want Dan to die, but how long would he have to wait before keeping Alice in a permanent state of flustered?
‘You can’t do that,’ Alice repeated. Emotion sat in her throat, causing her voice to wobble slightly. ‘It’s cruel,’ she concluded.
He gave her his full attention. ‘Then shut up and put up. What can’t be cured must be endured. Or poisoned.’
Their eyes locked in the small space that separated them. ‘You won’t, will you?’
‘Of course I won’t, you soft girl. I’m just acting as daft as you.’ His mouth spread in a wide grin. ‘Don’t ever change, Alice.’
‘Into what? Clean knickers?’
‘Please yourself when it comes to underwear. What I mean is don’t turn reasonable, predictable and boring. And I’ll take the loft down and they can follow the rest to their new home. That doesn’t mean they won’t dump on your washing, because they might do a fly-past or a lap of honour before moving on.’ He lowered his tone. ‘I love you, Alice.’
‘Do you?’
‘You know I do.’
Her face coloured slightly, emphasizing fine cheekbones in a face whose underlying structure was nearly perfect.
‘You should be a film star,’ he whispered, ‘but I’m glad you’re not. If you were in Hollywood, I wouldn’t be able to keep an eye on you.’
‘Shut up.’
He shut up for a short time. This relationship – if such it might be termed – was unusual, to put it mildly. He was waiting for the death of a man he admired, for a woman who was probably pregnant with the child of that man, and there was no time frame. This situation might well continue for years, and Alice was determinedly monogamous. But he hated to upset her. ‘Are you going to tell the doctor who said Dan was worse? Will Dan go to see him?’
Her blush deepened. ‘I lied,’ she admitted. She could tell him now, surely? Because he knew about Callum, believed in Callum, and believed in her. ‘It wasn’t the doc, Harry. You knew about my otherness, but I wasn’t sure you were ready to accept the idea of a haunted house. Callum told me. He’s never wrong. He’s daft, but accurate. Sorry.’
Harry shook his head slowly. ‘He’s good with paintwork, too. Don’t lie to me ever again, Alice. Love between a man and a woman has to be honest. It’s not like parents and children, because that sort of love forgives no matter what.’
She blinked. ‘I’m sorry.’ He looked so hurt, so crestfallen. ‘It’s wrong of me to expect you to wait. Take your own advice – go and live, meet a nice girl who doesn’t tell lies.’ She turned to step down from the chair on which she had been standing.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Harry exclaimed.
Alice righted herself, staying where she was and looking at Harry’s garden. The grass was covered in a blanket of split light, one huge rainbow with each colour merging with its neighbours. ‘That’s Callum,’ she whispered. ‘He’s come to tell you what he told me. It’s all right, only you and I can see it.’ She waited. ‘Has he spoken to you? Have you been visited by the ghost from next door?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘And?’
‘He said we’ll be married, but I have to be patient. Then he said I’ll need to continue patient if I’m going to live with you because you’d drive a saint mad.’
‘I told you he was daft.’
‘No, he’s dead right. You’re more trouble than a box of monkeys.’
The rainbow disappeared, only to be replaced by Vera, who entered the scene via Alice’s back gate. ‘Have you told him about these last few birds?’ she demanded to know, her thumb jerking in Harry’s direction.
‘I have.’
‘I’ll poison the beggars,’ Harry told the newcomer.
Vera’s head moved to look at Alice, then at Harry, then back to Alice. ‘He can’t do that, can he?’
‘He can,’ was Alice’s reply.
Vera’s fists were on her slender hips. ‘He’ll be had up by the RPSC hay.’
‘Did you hear that, Harry?’ The tremble in Alice’s tone betrayed her barely contained laughter.
‘I did.’
The visitor closed the gate. ‘That is unexactable behaviour,’ she cried. ‘Poor bloody pigeons.’
Harry stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I could strangle them instead. Then you could make pigeon pie. That’s what we did during the war, though they were mostly wood pigeons; they’re also called collared doves, I think. In fact, we’re shipping some in from America so they won’t die out completely. We seem to have eaten most of them.’
Vera’s mouth closed with a snap. The old teeth had loosened somewhat during her time in hospital, but her new ones fitted nicely. ‘You are not killing no pigeons,’ she spat.
‘OK.’ He stepped back. ‘I’ve had my instructions from two members of the superior sex, so I’ll go in and make myself a cup of tea. Good luck with the sewing, Alice. See you later, Vera.’ He went into the house, closed the rear door and placed his forehead against it. If he started laughing, he would never stop. So he didn’t bother to start.
Toothy Tommy gazed into the area that had housed lion cubs.
Nigel winked at his wife; Tommy was perplexed.
‘They’re not the same as lions, are they?’ This rhetor
ical question was delivered by the Irishman.
‘Well, they’re Asian for a start,’ Marie said. ‘And striped. There are people who live among lions and get accepted by a pride. Tigers don’t negotiate. I think they’re missing the sense of humour gene that lions have. But too many tigers have been killed by people with guns and an odd sense of fun. We have to save some before they become as extinct as dinosaurs. There are only a few thousand Bengals left.’
‘And their mammy’s dead?’
‘Yes, Tommy.’
‘That’s sad, so it is. But tell me – how do we feed these snarling babies?’
Marie shrugged before walking back to the kitchen. She returned with two enormous feeding bottles, placing them where the cubs could see them through the bars. ‘Don’t worry, Tommy – they’ll be gone in days.’
‘Don’t they scratch?’ Tommy stood fascinated while his employers helped each other don back-to-front coats in what looked like thick leather. ‘Straitjackets?’ he asked.
‘And gloves,’ Nigel answered. ‘They don’t go for faces. Yet.’
At that moment, the larger of the cubs approached the gate and stared at Tommy, who was transfixed for several seconds. When he retrieved his senses, he blessed himself in the good old-fashioned Catholic way, though he continued to stare at the animal.
‘Tommy?’ Marie stared at him.
‘The great decider,’ he whispered.
‘What?’ the other two asked almost simultaneously.
‘If God had a face, He would look like this. If I’d had no faith, I would have found it today. There’s a poem – something about fearful symmetry, I think. Would you ever take a look at that? It’s magnificent. An architect was involved here. This thorough killing machine was made to God’s design. I never in my whole life saw anything so beautiful. It’s the embodiment of anger.’
‘Well, we’re going to wean them,’ Marie said. ‘It’ll be a short stay.’
Nigel agreed. ‘That’s the truth. We have to get them from milk to meat, because the Jersey folk are too busy. So we’re doing this, but we’re trying not to let them come in contact with human blood in case they develop a taste for it. They hunt singly and with dreadful intent. Tigers can kill humans.’
Daughters of Penny Lane Page 24
