Cover Up

by Patricia Hall

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m doing before and after pictures, showing how Liverpool’s changed since the bombing.’

  ‘Well you’ll see all the dolly birds in their mini-skirts anyway. Having a fantastic time they are with their skirts up to their knickers, driving the Monsignors to distraction. You know the story. And the lads can’t get enough of Beatles suits and mophead haircuts. Apparently, when they went to America there were those who loved them and those who thought they were all queer.’ He laughed. ‘It’s certainly changed since we were kids. Anyway, come and have a drink and something to eat. It’s great to see you.’

  He took her to an unprepossessing pub in one of the back streets close to the docks and the Sailors’ Home, where to her surprise a fiddler was playing an Irish reel in the lounge bar with a mainly male audience who seemed to be listening with rapt attention.

  ‘Surprised?’ he asked with a grin. ‘They also do a good Irish stew, and Guinness to die for. We come here quite a lot for the music. It makes a change from the endless Merseybeat.’

  ‘We?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s called Kevin,’ Tom said. ‘You’d like him.’ She nodded, but it was obvious he wasn’t going to tell her anything more. After his experiences with hostile police in London that was not surprising, and when he asked her if she had a boyfriend she hesitated for a moment before telling him.

  ‘I’m seeing Harry Barnard, the copper who helped us in London.’ Seeing, she thought, was a neutral enough word to cover a multitude of sins that would have had Father Reilly foaming at the mouth about confession and contrition and the ever-open doors of hell. Tom was silent for a moment.

  ‘Aren’t they all bent?’ he said at last, and she could see that he was trying to tame his hostility. ‘They certainly seem to be up here.’

  ‘Not as bent as some,’ she said carefully. ‘You wouldn’t have survived without him.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Tom said. ‘So I should be grateful. But that’s not to say I fancy a cop for a brother-in-law.’ Kate laughed.

  ‘It’s certainly not got as serious as that,’ she said, neglecting to admit that at the moment it did not seem to be going anywhere at all. ‘Anyway, aren’t they talking about changing the law?’ she asked, keen to change the subject.

  ‘Talking seems to be as far as it’s got,’ Tom said. ‘The bizzies up here still enjoy careering round the queer pubs and public lavvies on the off-chance of finding someone to thump. There’s no sign that you won’t be dragged down the Bridewell and given a good going over at the very least, and a trip to court on top if they’re feeling particularly vindictive.’

  ‘So you have to be careful?’

  ‘We’re very, very careful,’ Tom said. ‘That’s why I don’t come into the city very often, except for going to and from work.’

  ‘And is that why you don’t go to see our mam?’

  ‘You’ve no room to talk on that score,’ Tom said, reddening slightly. ‘But in my case it’s to keep out of da’s way. I don’t know exactly what he’s up to these days, but he’s got some very odd friends.’ They made a space on their table for brimming plates of Irish stew, and Kate realized that she was hungry.

  ‘I was going to ask about da,’ she said. ‘Mam said he’s working in construction, which must be better than queuing up at the dock gates every morning hoping to be taken on.’

  ‘The docks are changing, anyway,’ Tom said. ‘Less shipping, less work. He’s probably sensible to move into something different. And he seems to be quite thick with Terry Jordan, who by all accounts is doing very well for himself as a builder, especially now Labour’s running the council. Being Irish, he wouldn’t have got much of a look in while the Tories were in charge, in spite of being a bit of a local hero.’

  ‘Mam mentioned Terry Jordan,’ Kate said. ‘What’s that all about?’

  ‘I don’t know all the details but dad told me about him once when he was in a good mood – drunk probably but not too drunk, you know how he was. This is years ago, before I fell right out of favour. Anyway, da started talking about the war and the bombing when we were babies, which he hardly ever did, so I kept very quiet and listened. He told me about Terry Jordan. He was a bit of a crook, apparently. A spiv. If you had the money and wanted nylons for the wife or something off-ration, then Terry could get it for you. So da said. Anyway, he must have been working in the docks, like da when he wasn’t at sea, and the other thing Jordan did was sign up as a rescue man, probably to avoid being called up. Apparently the rescue men went round with the fire brigade, but they were the ones who went into bombed buildings to try to get people out that were trapped inside and crawled into the rubble through tiny holes and cracks. They were generally quite small-built, like da was of course, so I suppose this Terry Jordan was too. Like ferrets, da said. God, that must have been scary!’

  ‘I’ve often thought that we were actually lucky to have been born when we were,’ Kate said. ‘We were too young to know what was going on. Think what it must have been like to know you could be blown to smithereens any moment.’

  ‘True,’ Tom said. ‘Anyway, whatever his sins, Terry Jordan saved a lot of lives in the Blitz. And he got some sort of a medal after one bad night in 1941, dad said. There was a direct hit on a shelter packed full of people. A lot were killed outright, and there was a fire and no way out for the people who were still inside in the smoke. Jordan managed to squeeze in with a hose and got the fire under control, then he used sheer brute force to help move some of the slabs of concrete that were blocking the entrance. He is said to have rescued about a hundred people, and became a hero overnight.’

  ‘So was da seriously a rescue man too?’ Kate asked, finding it hard to slot her father into that mould.

  ‘I don’t think so, not officially anyway,’ Tom said. ‘As far back as I can remember, he’s always been a drinker and a gambler. I wouldn’t have thought he was hero material. He’d be more likely to have been into the black market during the war. I can remember he sometimes came home with unexpected treats for mam, and we had no idea where they came from. I’ve never really thought about it, but if he was mates with Terry Jordan that may be the answer. And I think sometimes he took a chance and went into damaged buildings with Mr Jordan.’

  ‘And he’s still in contact with Mr Jordan, is he?’

  ‘Terry Jordan’s gone from strength to strength since the war,’ Tom said. ‘From Scottie Road to some massive mansion he’s built out by one of the golf courses beyond Formby. He probably realized that there would be lots of building work putting the city back together again and bought a small company to cash in. And he’s certainly done that. He was on the up way, way back, probably buying his way into contracts one way or another. Certainly using cheap labour – when I was a teenager, there were a lot of Irish workers around, straight off the boats. And since Labour took over the Corporation his signs have been up all over the place. Demolition sites, housing estates, and some big contracts in the city centre even. He must be making a mint. And dad does seem to be working for him, so he must have sobered up a bit. You wouldn’t want a drunk six stories up on scaffolding, would you?’

  ‘Terry Jordan might be a good person for me to talk to if he’s done a lot of reconstruction,’ Kate said, mopping up the last of her gravy with a chunk of bread.

  ‘He might talk to you I suppose,’ Tom said. ‘You could always tell him who your dad is,’ Tom said with a laugh.

  ‘Maybe that wouldn’t be a good idea,’ Kate said. ‘Not unless I can check out what’s really going on there. Maybe I’ll ask mam.’

  ‘That might be best,’ Tom said. ‘Now listen to these two.’ He waved at the musicians, who silenced most of the noise in the bar as they launched into a plaintive lament. ‘They’re good.’

  Kate O’Donnell’s first port of call next morning was the Liverpool Echo, the local paper where she had arranged to meet the show-business specialist to get the latest details on the film premiere and perhaps pick his brains on the reconstructi
on of the city. She was waved into a chair in reception while they rang up to the newsroom to locate him. She had not slept well in the lumpy bed, was regretting a cooked breakfast swimming in grease, and had already decided that the Lancaster was a hotel she would never willingly stay at again. But weighing more heavily on her mind was the conversation she had had with Harry Barnard when she called him at home the previous evening.

  Barnard had sounded distracted when he picked up the phone and she guessed he’d been hitting the bottle again.

  ‘How are you?’ she had asked. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘As OK as I’ll ever be with you up there and me down here, not knowing what the hell’s going on,’ he said.

  Kate sighed. ‘Is that why you never contacted me last week?’ she asked, trying to disguise the resentment she suddenly felt.

  ‘I thought you wanted to be left alone,’ he said. ‘You said you had a lot of work to do.’

  ‘I did,’ Kate said. ‘But it would have been nice to hear from you. I thought you would have liked to come to the film premiere with me.’

  ‘Is this how it’s going to be?’ he asked. ‘You can drop out of my life whenever you feel like it, but I have to keep in touch.’

  Kate had fallen silent for a moment. This was a Barnard that she had not encountered before and she felt as though she was being backed into a corner in a way she didn’t like.

  ‘You know why I’m here,’ she said. ‘It’s important to me. I’m starting on the serious stuff now. I’ll be busy, really busy, for the next few days but I’ll try to call you when I get back to the hotel in the evenings. I thought you were busy too, with that murder case you’re working on – the woman in Soho Square.’

  ‘Not too busy to wonder how you are, what you’re doing …’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ he said, so faintly that she’d hardly been able to hear him. ‘Maybe we’d just better get on with our jobs. We’ll get other things sorted when you come back.’ And before she’d been able to reply, he’d hung up.

  She had gone up to her unwelcoming room and sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, wondering if she’d just heard a relationship crash in flames and asking herself if she cared. But she knew from the tears which began to flow that she did care very much indeed.

  She shook herself back into the present as two men came down the stairs into the Echo’s reception area, evidently looking for her. The younger of the two, tall and skinny and bright-eyed, with his jacket slung over his shoulder, held out his hand and shook hers warmly.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Liam Minogue, the Echo’s Beatles correspondent. If you’re planning to write about the Merseybeat, I’m the person most likely to be able to help you. And this is William Jones – Billy – who covers local politics and the Liverpool Corporation, for his sins, because you said you wanted to know about how Liverpool bounced back after the Blitz. That’ll mean going back before my time.’ His companion was an older man, in a severe grey suit, with his tie done up punctiliously in spite of the already growing heat of the morning. He was portly and florid-faced, his grey eyes distinctly wary above grey bags and veined cheeks. He shook her hand with much less enthusiasm than his younger colleague.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I’ll help if I can.’

  ‘I thought you might like a coffee or something,’ Minogue said. ‘It’s probably easier to talk out of the office. The newsroom’s very noisy with the first edition coming up and the teleprinters hammering away. Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Kate agreed, realizing that the building was shaking slightly with the vibration of the machinery, and she followed the two men out of the building to a café on the other side of the street.

  ‘This is our home from home until the pubs open,’ he said with a grin. ‘Coffee or tea? And maybe a toasted teacake?’

  ‘Just tea,’ Kate said with a grin. ‘I indulged in the full English breakfast and I’ve been thinking it was a mistake ever since.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’ Jones asked, and raised an eyebrow when she told him.

  ‘Not one of the city’s finest,’ he said drily. ‘You should ask for the Adelphi next time.’ Kate laughed.

  ‘I’m not sure my boss would go for that, la,’ she said. ‘I’m not working for one of those national newspapers where I’m told people can live on their expenses.’

  ‘Fleet Street specializes in fairy tales, and I reckon that’s just one of them,’ Jones said dismissively, although Kate thought he looked pretty prosperous himself.

  ‘I thought you were a Scouser when I spoke to you on the phone,’ Minogue said, changing the subject quickly. ‘How long have you been in London, then?’

  ‘A couple of years. They seem to have got their heads round the fact that women can take pictures, so it looks like it will be permanent.’

  ‘But you never get rid of the accent, they say,’ Jones said, with a slightly supercilious tone in his voice. ‘Or not without a great deal of effort, anyway.’ An effort he must have thought worthwhile himself in view of his own upmarket vowels – more Home Counties than Cheshire, where some of the wealthier Liverpudlians took refuge away from the teeming city. Jones made a show of consulting his watch.

  ‘Perhaps I can help you first,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to be at an important committee meeting at the town hall in half an hour, to meet the chairman of planning, and I’m not entirely sure what I can help you with. I know nothing at all about the Beatles or any of this pop-music hysteria. It’s pictures you’re looking for, I understand. Not really my area either, I’m afraid. I’m more of a words man myself.’

  That’s me put in my place, Kate thought wryly, but she knew she could not afford to antagonize Jones, as she needed his help.

  ‘Well, you’ll probably be relieved to hear that I’m not looking for pictures of the Beatles, or of their film. Those will be all over the papers after the premiere. What my boss wants is a photo feature about how Liverpool has recovered from the war. I’m too young to remember anything about the bombing, although I was born here, but I’m aware of all the rebuilding going on and how everything is still changing. What I’d like is permission to look through your archives and use pictures of what got bombed and what’s been rebuilt. My own family’s house near Scottie Road got badly damaged and we ended up in a brand new Corporation house in Anfield. My mam was delighted – she was quite made up about it.’

  ‘So you want to show the 1940s and the 1960s?’ Jones said. ‘Well, there’s certainly been a transformation. The Corporation has done a fantastic job getting the city back on its feet again. But there’s still a long way to go. It remains to be seen if Mrs Braddock’s Labour lot can keep up the pace.’ So much for her own family’s political allegiances, Kate thought, but she knew better than to get into an argument with Jones when she needed his help. Bessie Braddock, the campaigning city councillor and well-known socialist MP, was well able to look after herself in the rough and tumble of Liverpool and national politics without any help from her.

  ‘Perhaps you could give me a lead on who to talk to, who was involved in the planning and all that, and which of the new buildings have replaced old ones?’ she asked.

  Jones glanced at his watch again, not disguising his impatience.

  ‘The best thing you can do is talk to the picture editor and ask him if you can look at the archives. You’ll find plenty of pictures there. And if you like, I’ll ask what records they have at the town hall. Give Minogue here a phone number and I’ll get the newsroom secretary to ring you. And if you want more information on specific schemes, you can ring me at work. There were some protests, of course, from people who would have liked the place rebuilt just the way it was before the war – Scotland Road’s slums and all, I suppose. Personally, I think in some ways Hitler did us a favour by demolishing so much substandard property. It’s incredible the way some people cling to the past.’

  ‘But we lost more than just the slums, didn’t we?’ Kate said quietly. �
�A lot of people died. I’m old enough to remember the wreckage that was left when the war ended, and I can just remember VE Day and the street party we had. After the war, the demolition seemed to carry on and on as if Hitler hadn’t done enough. I remember a big fuss about the overhead railway coming down. And the trams going. People were very fond of the trams,’ Kate said, recalling clattering journeys through the city when she tried to clamber on to the front upstairs seat beside her brother Tom, feeling as if they were on the prow of one of the ships that still docked within sight of the huddled, insanitary tenements of Vauxhall.

  ‘The overhead railway was bankrupt,’ Jones said flatly, ‘and the trams were outdated. Nobody’s kept trams except Blackpool and they had a special reason to keep them going along the seafront – for the visitors. The big fuss I remember best was over the Customs House, a nice enough building but hardly St Paul’s Cathedral and very badly damaged. Some people – agitators of one sort and another, I suppose – wanted it rebuilt, but the Corporation decided against it. In many cases, rebuilding was going to cost more than new build. The builders did very well out of it all, of course. Even people like Terry Jordan, who came from nowhere and made a lot of money in ways I’ve never fully understood. Anyway, I must go. Give me a call if you need to check anything with me. I have good contacts in the planning department.’ He drained his coffee and hurried out of the café. Kate raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Sorry,’ Liam Minogue said. ‘I thought he’d be more helpful. But he’s been fed up ever since the Labour Party got into power here for the first time. Suddenly all his cosy relationships with the Tories – Unionists to a man, of course – are no use to him anymore and he has had to cosy up to the likes of Bessie Braddock. You’ll know what it’s like, having lived here. It’s getting better, otherwise I wouldn’t have the job I’ve got on the Echo, but it’s all still there under the surface. Unionists and Freemasons have run this city for generations, mainly because the Protestant working class has voted for them. And now they’re suddenly out in the cold. That’s not to say our lot are any more straightforward. They could argue that it’s our turn now, and it’s fair enough if we’re getting the same sort of finagling wearing a green scarf instead of an orange one. But the politics are pretty toxic. I keep out of it myself.’