‘Like everybody else, I have animal instincts,’ she replied. ‘The difference between you and me is that I can control mine.’
He nodded very slowly. ‘Can you? Can you really?’ He left the room.
Eileen sank slowly onto the lavatory seat. She couldn’t control her limbs, let alone the sensations that rippled through her body whenever he was near. There was a sixth sense, and she was its victim. That extra faculty was nothing to do with looking into the future or talking to spirits. It was a two-way traveller, and very difficult to ignore. He was suffering, too, because his extra sense had met hers halfway across the space that separated them. There were better men than him; there was Keith, for a start. She hadn’t spent enough time with him yet, but he was definitely interesting, because even his letters made her innards melt. ‘Why do I suddenly need a blasted bloke anyway?’ she asked the door.
Tom was telling Miss Morrison that Eileen hadn’t quite finished her work, and that he had more patients to see. For the sick and elderly, he used a different tone, but it was genuine. Tom Bingley was perhaps oversexed, but he actually cared about his patients. Miss Morrison thought the world of him, and he came and went as he chose in this house.
‘He’s not a completely bad man,’ Eileen whispered to herself. ‘But Mel matters a damned sight more than he does.’ There was no turning back now; she and Mel had to move from Rachel Street. Rumours of dogfights over Hastings and other southern towns were rife. She couldn’t give back word to the lady downstairs, couldn’t stay in her own house, was going to be living within reach of Tom for as long as the war lasted. He had in his possession a potion that could guarantee her freedom from pregnancy. It had come from abroad, and very few knew of its existence. Oh, God. She should not be thinking like this.
Having regained the ability to walk properly, she finished her work and went downstairs. A neighbour would come in later to heat thoroughly the meal she had prepared for her precious old lady. Frances Morrison was sweet, partially deaf, and as bright as a new button. She was looking forward to having Mel in her house, as she approved strongly of the public school system. She was a member of the Conservative Party, an ex-headmistress of a small and very exclusive primary school, and she had objected strongly when advised to lower the union flag from its post in her garden.
‘Are you going, dear?’
‘Yes. We’ll move in at the weekend if that’s all right with you.’
‘Good, good. I shall get the chance to converse in French.’
Eileen laughed. In her day, Frances Morrison must have been the subject of gossip, as her bible held a commandment stating that all children should begin a second language by the age of nine. The pupils of Abbeyfield School had entered secondary education with a smattering of French, and they usually outstripped all others in that subject, a fact that was much mentioned in this house.
Eileen bent and left a kiss on a soft, papery cheek. ‘The minute this war’s over, I’ll run your flag up myself. God bless.’
‘And may He bless you, my dear.’
Tom was outside, car parked at the pavement’s edge, his person propped casually against a garden wall. He couldn’t have done a better job had he actually set out to advertise his intentions. ‘Get in,’ he ordered.
‘No.’ Her heart was doing about ninety miles an hour in a built-up area, and there was a war on. Fuel, she told herself irrelevantly, should be saved.
‘Get in, or I shall kiss you now in full view of the inhabitants of St Michael’s Road. My wife will be told, and you will be co-respondent in the ensuing divorce. Come along, hurry before a docker spots me.’
Fuming, yet hungry for him, she placed herself in the passenger seat. He closed her door, walked round the vehicle, then sat next to her. The engine roared as he turned and drove towards the river.
‘You’re wasting petrol and your time,’ she said. ‘You’re also attracting attention with all that noise.’
He slammed on the brakes, and a shard of fear entered her chest, because they were still in a residential area.
‘Damn you.’ The words were forced between clenched teeth. ‘It’s not just about sex any more, is it? I have fallen in love with you, my little urchin. And you are a mere inch from returning the compliment. If I were free, I’d marry you tomorrow.’
‘No, you wouldn’t.’
‘I would. You know I would.’
‘Get me away from all these houses. Now!’
He carried on until he reached a quiet stretch of river before parking again.
She told him straight. ‘I have three sons who can curdle custard just by staring at it for a few seconds. Because we live in a poor area, and because they have no dad, they’re very wild. Only last week, all three were arrested, and there was talk of them going into an institute for young offenders. Instead, I’m sending them with my mother to a farm on the moors outside Bolton. Whoever marries me gets lumbered with them. All three of them. Mel’s no trouble, but Philip, Rob and Bertie are nightmares. You wouldn’t last a week.’
‘I love you, Eileen.’
‘That can soon be killed by three lads who think nothing of stealing, running bets and making enough noise to rip the skin off your rice pudding.’
‘I don’t like rice pudding. Or custard.’
‘Neither do I, but that’s not the point. You know Mel. You can see how she is: clever, polite and kind. They are the exact opposite. But they’re my lads, and they go where I go once we get Hitler sorted out.’
He stared ahead at the grey, angry water. ‘Then we’ll live in the countryside. We can move as soon as you like.’
‘I have to stay with Mel. Mel is my real bit of war work. She’s going to Cambridge if I have to drive her there with a whip, Tom. How do you think she’d cope if you and I were found out? She’d fall behind. Your daughter would lose her best friend, and I’d lose what’s left of my self-respect. Oh, and a Catholic can’t marry a divorced person. It would mean excommunication.’
She could build all the barriers she liked, but he would not give up. ‘I can’t live without you. Wouldn’t it be murder if I popped off?’
‘No. It would be suicide, and that’s a prosecutable offence. If you survived, you’d be charged.’
He laughed mirthlessly. ‘You’re a clever girl.’
‘I read a lot. I don’t resent my daughter, yet I know I would have done well if I’d had her chances. But I didn’t, and that’s that. Then there’s my mother. You’ve met her. You know how she is. As long as she’s alive, she’ll be with me. I’d have gone with her to the country except for Mel. I had to choose, and I picked my daughter, because she’s too beautiful and clever to be left to chance. You must have looked at her yourself, because she’s me all over again. And yes, I know I’m pretty, and false modesty is pointless. If and when I want a man, I’ll find one with no ties and plenty of patience, because he’ll have to put up with the boys and my mother.’
He studied her face hard. ‘And you’ve someone in mind?’
She nodded. ‘But it’s early days. He’s a good man, a hardworking man. Like me, he’s educated himself, and he will help Mam with the boys.’
‘So he’s a farmer?’
Eileen shook her head. ‘No, he isn’t a farmer. He supervises half a dozen farms and a load of houses. That’s the sort of man I’ll go for. He’s also promising to be adorable.’
Tom was angry. Why had he married Marie? Why had he married for money? ‘Then just allow me a little time before you commit to him. I’ll take care of you. Who knows who’ll come out alive when the bombing starts? Let’s grab what we can while we can. I know you want me, Eileen. I could repeat now what I did last time we were in this car, and you’d let me. In fact, you’d encourage me. Am I right?’
‘Yes, but it would be wrong. It’s the war, that’s all. This isn’t real.’
He told her that Tuesday and Thursday nights would be her time to be in Scotland Road at her post. But he had informed the ladies of the WVS that she woul
d be caring for the sick in Crosby, so she wouldn’t be required to go. She could walk instead to the flat above his surgery on Liverpool Road. ‘I’ll be waiting,’ he threatened. ‘A nice fire, double bed, bathroom, small kitchen. We can make toast afterwards and feed each other. I’ll lick the butter from your fingers, Eileen.’
‘Stop it.’
‘Your daughter need never find out.’
But Eileen didn’t believe him. If Mam could notice a glow on her daughter’s skin after a quick fumble in a car, surely Mel would catch a glimpse of the same? ‘It shows,’ she told him. ‘In my face.’
‘You miss lovemaking.’ It was not a question.
‘Of course I do.’ But she’d learned to cope, had never met a man who lit her up quite as readily this one did. ‘We had a good life, Laz and me. We weren’t wealthy by any stretch of the imagination, but he always worked, didn’t drink, and we were very close. Lovemaking was something we learned together, and it was private and special. That was real love, you see. This isn’t, and it never could be, because I think you’re greedy and . . . unwholesome, I believe the word is. You’ll become a dirty old man who pays for sex.’
He could manage no reply. She was insulting him, yet he could not for one moment doubt her honesty. Eileen said what she felt, and delivered her opinion unadorned by dressing. It was this earthiness that made her so appealing, because her raw, almost visible sexuality was rooted in directness and lack of inhibition.
‘Take me to the tram stop,’ she said now. ‘And my war work will be of my choosing, not yours. I’ll be on my feet, not on my back in your double bed dripping with butter.’
‘Eileen—’
‘No. If you play on my baser side and get me to do what you want, I’ll never forgive you or myself afterwards. Mel comes first. She leaves the rest of her class standing for brains and for beauty, and you know it. Do you really think you’ve a claim on me while she’s parked in the way? Do you?’
Tom lowered his head. To get the better of Eileen, he would need to dispose of Marie, Mel, three boys and Eileen’s mother. Since mass murder was not in his nature, he seemed to have come up against six insurmountable barriers. He took her to the tram stop.
Just weeks earlier, everything Mel and Eileen owned would have fitted into a couple of medium-sized boxes. Now, with clothes, shoes and bags kindly donated by Hilda, the carter would be needed to take their possessions to St Michael’s Road. Eileen, the proud owner of a Singer sewing machine, property of the deceased Mrs Pickavance, planned to make over some items for Mel, who was growing at a rate of knots she described as ghastly. ‘Nothing fits,’ she pretended to complain. ‘And I need a brassiere, Mam. Can you adapt one of yours?’
‘I’ll try when we’ve moved,’ Eileen promised. ‘Go and help your brothers with their homework. It might be half-term before you see them again.’
‘And that is not ghastly.’
‘Mel!’
‘I know, they’re my flesh and blood, and the priests say I have to put up with them. It’s all right for priests in their nice, quiet presbyteries. They don’t have to live with three monsters and half a police force, do they?’
‘Your gran and Hilda will straighten them out.’
‘And your penfriend?’
‘Stop being ghastly, Mel.’
The girl laughed. ‘Ghaaahstly, Mother. You have to get the ah into it.’
‘So it’s not just my Ps and Qs, then? I have to get my Rs right, too?’
‘That sounds rude.’
‘Good. Go and help the poor woman who’s lumbered with the junior branch of the Al Capone fan club.’ Eileen paused. ‘I’ll miss round here, you know. People think Scottie Road’s all bad news, but it’s not. We’ll not find a community like this ever again.’
‘Oh, you will. Just do a burglary and you’ll meet half of this lot in jail.’ Mel left the house before her mother could reply.
Eileen sat for a while waiting for Nellie, who was next door trying to comfort Kitty. Kitty Maguire had decided to panic again about moving, and Nellie was trying to calm her down. The calming down involved tea, brandy and many words of wisdom, and the ensuing period of peace seldom lasted long.
Alone, Eileen looked round the front room of number two. She knew every crack in the plaster, every mark on the walls. Her children had been measured near the outer door, four sets of lines with names near the floor. There they were, step by step, all four of them caught, held still, a pencil drawing a line level with their heads. Two and a half was the significant one, because when doubled, it gave the approximate height of the end product, the adult. Her boys were all going to top six feet, while Mel promised five feet and eight inches, which would be tall for a girl.
The fireplace was small, as was the room. There was always a fire in the kitchen, and when one was required in here Mam would carry through a shovel filled with burning coal and pour it into the little iron basket. Cupboards built in at each side of the chimney breast were battle-scarred, paint that was years old flaking off, two handles missing, one door drunk because of a failed hinge. Eileen and Laz had set up home here, and she would soon close the front door for the final time. He would never come back. Sometimes, in the early days of widowhood when she had heard tuneless whistling in the street, she had imagined . . . But Laz hadn’t been the only bad whistler in these parts, and he had never burst in with his silly ‘da-da’ of a fanfare employed to announce his safe return from Liverpool’s docks.
The docks had killed him. His funeral had been enormous, and few men had sought work on that day, because he’d been a good, well-loved man. Eileen remembered a full church, flowers, and a box near the altar. She would never meet his like again, but Keith Greenhalgh was a fair copy. In fact, he was cleverer than her beloved Laz had been, and—
Nellie came in. ‘Hello, love. All by yourself? She’s a mess next door. When push comes to shove, I’ll not be surprised if she stays here. Eileen? You all right, queen?’
‘No, I’m not. I need help.’
‘Right.’ Nellie sat down near the fireplace. ‘Is it him again?’
Eileen nodded. ‘I’m frightened. Frightened of me.’
Nellie understood. ‘I know. There’s something about him. I saw it meself just before I took the swing at him. What needs doing, then?’
After a lengthy pause, Eileen made her reply. ‘Dockers’ Word. Make it real.’
‘It is real.’
‘Mam? I thought you were kidding.’
Nellie Kennedy folded her arms. ‘You are my life, girl. I spoke to Nobby Costigan, and he rounded up a few of Laz’s mates. The Word’s out.’
Eileen’s jaw dropped for a second or two. ‘I don’t want anybody dead. And I don’t want Laz’s pals in prison. I just need Tom to know it’s real. Like a warning. No real violence. Their faces must be covered by something or other, and it’ll have to be done in the dark. How much will it cost?’
‘Nothing. It’s for Laz.’
‘Right. Can you deal with it?’
‘Consider it done. They’ll scare the living be-Jaysus out of him, as my old gran would have said. He’ll be needing clean underpants and a bodyguard, but you just forget about it. It’ll be a cold day in hell before he lays hands on you again.’
Bertie ran in and started complaining loudly about Miss Pickavance and the five times table. Tables were for eating off, and what had five times to do with that? He was fed up and he wanted to come home. Mel collared him and prepared to drag him back to be reincarcerated at number one. Phil and Rob arrived and helped their sister to return the miscreant to the posh prison where the food was good and a bit of homework was a small price to pay for spare ribs followed by trifle, followed by cheese and biscuits, followed by cocoa.
Nellie puffed out her cheeks. ‘When was life easy, Eileen?’
‘Before my body started screaming out for a selfish man who has the power to make my insides turn to un-set jelly.’
Nellie went to brew tea. Halfway through the exercise,
she had a thought. ‘Like I said, it’s this bloody war we’re waiting for, folk getting wed and all sorts. She paused. ‘Why don’t we do turns?’
Turns? What was she talking about? A song and dance act? ‘How do you mean, Mam?’
Nellie appeared in the doorway. ‘Well, if Miss Morrison and your other ladies can put up with me, we can swap every couple of weeks, then Tom Doodah won’t know whether he’s coming or going.’ She grinned impishly. ‘And you can get to know Keith Greenhalgh. If we can get the transport, that is.’
‘Mam, your blood’s worth bottling.’
‘I know. I’m great, aren’t I?’
For October, the weather was good. A slight breeze shifted leaves, causing some to flutter downwards to the ground where they joined close relatives in crisp red and brown heaps. The sun had said goodbye, though a trail of salmon pink and blush red reminded any onlooker that tomorrow would be equally gentle. Time slipped by, and the sky darkened towards an inky blue. Offices and shops, now long closed, stood like sentries ordered to attention. Like the rest of England, Liverpool waited in stillness for the unimaginable to begin.
At approximately eight o’clock, Dr Thomas Bingley left his Liverpool Road surgery. He rummaged in his pocket for keys as he walked round the corner to where his car was parked in a side street. Thoroughfares were no longer lit, while houses, too, were blacked out against the threat of bombardment. He stood for a while to allow his eyes to adjust. After a late evening of catching up with notes, he had to linger in order to allow the pupils to widen and absorb the meagre offerings of late dusk. The drive home would have to be careful, since shaded headlights were almost useless. Fortunately, most people stayed in their houses; only wardens and fire-watchers patrolled streets that would be completely black within minutes.
When he reached the car, he suddenly found himself lying face down on its bonnet, both arms pinned behind his back, severe pain invading his left shoulder. There were two of them. He could hear their heavy, unsynchronized breathing. The second man gripped his neck, the hold vice-like, yet restrained. These were powerful men, and they had him at their mercy. Mercy?
That Liverpool Girl Page 13
