Meet Me at the Pier Head

by Ruth Hamilton

  Rosie was delighted when she reached the lower flat. She hugged Harry and Martha before showing the red shoes to the latter. ‘Harry seen them this afternoon when we had a picnic at the Pier Head. I had the bestest day in my whole life.’

  When the others had arrived, Harry took his mouth organ from a pocket and played while Rosie sang ‘On the Good Ship Lollipop’. Her pitch was perfect, and she dressed the lyrics in Shirley Temple’s easy-to-understand Americanese.

  Here came the point at which Isadora Bellamy fell in love. This baby was only just five years old. How many like Rosie were buried under sin all over the place, London, Birmingham, Manchester, Liverpool? She watched the grandmother wiping away tears, saw Portia closing her eyes, Theo blinking away emotion. Everyone in this room probably supported what was about to happen. Simon just smiled and nodded at Isadora. He knew.

  Isadora had a contract that needed just her signature. It would keep her in England for the foreseeable future, and the real money was in Hollywood, but she would stay and work in British studios. A series of comedy films was on the cards, all entitled Don’t Look Now, the (whatever) is Coming. Potential whatevers included thus far Vicar, Policeman, Mother-in-Law, Judge and Teacher. She now had plans for her earnings. Her life’s real work began in this moment, in this flat, in Liverpool.

  Bartle Hall and all cottages would be owned by her, and Richard could live on what she paid him for the property, plus a small annuity, plus any earnings he might gain from those prepared to employ him without her. While a beautiful child sang, the Bartle Hall Home and School was founded in Isadora’s head. The cottages might provide shelter for those whose mothers or fathers needed somewhere to live, and there would be enough outdoor space for young ones to enjoy.

  Eighteen bedrooms would be put to good use, as would the large ballroom. Divided, it could make two or three classrooms. My life has meaning. Simon can be the hall’s doctor, Juliet might be matron, while Theo and Portia should provide education for the needy. I think I have finally come of age.

  Eleven

  I am happy, happy, happy. I am so happy, it’s making me tired, nearly as tired as I used to be after long times in that coal shed. New shoes, red ones and black ones, brown sandals, white gym shoes and black wellies. I am with Nana and Mr Quinn and Miss Bellamy and her mam and Joan and Harry and Martha and Dr Heilberg’s here, too. Happy feels so good it nearly makes me cry, which is very silly. I want to sing and shout and laugh and cry all at the same time.

  I think it’s because they all like me. There’s no coal shed and no jumping up and down men and nobody hits me. My mam is in hospital asleep cos she wanted to go to heaven, but it wasn’t her time, Nana said. I am singing now. Miss Bellamy says I have an angel’s voice. Her mam looks a bit sad. Joan, the lady with Miss Bellamy’s mam, has grey hair and twinkly blue eyes. They are kind eyes.

  I’d like to stay here for ever and ever. There’s a shed in the back garden, but I’ve never been in it. It isn’t a coal shed. Mr Quinn says it’s for sawing and hammering and making things. He has a vice in there, but I don’t know what a vice is. And there’s a last. He mends his own shoes on the last because it’s cheaper and he remembers being poor in America, so he’s careful with money.

  Rosie stopped singing and received a hearty round of applause from an appreciative audience. Tia handed her a package wrapped in tissue paper. ‘It will match your red shoes and your black ones,’ she said. ‘I really hope you like it.’ It was a small offering, yet the child reacted as if she’d been given the Star of India. A present! It’s a present for me!

  The little girl inhaled sharply, thanked Tia and tore at the wrapping; it was clear that she was unused to receiving gifts. She pulled out a small clutch bag, scarcely bigger than a woman’s purse, but it was in black patent leather with red trim. Her face lit up. ‘It’s the same red,’ she cried. ‘Look, Nana, look. My very own shiny bag.’

  Maggie smiled. Seeing her granddaughter so lively and happy strengthened her determination to stay firm. If Sadie got well and went back to her old ways, Rosie must be protected no matter what the cost to any adult.

  ‘It’s not new; it was mine,’ Tia told Rosie, ‘and I’ve dropped in a florin for good luck. Now, pass it round, and we’ll all put in a bit of spending money for your holiday. You’ll be able to have a lovely time in the shops when we go to the seaside.’

  Rosie smiled and blushed. She was being treated like a special person.

  The bag did a tour of the room while Theo fetched his guitar. There was no percussion, but he produced a good enough bit of skiffle. All who knew the song delivered words referring to a very tall woman who slept with her feet in one room and her head in another. Those unfamiliar with Lonnie Donegan’s lyrics clapped in an attempt to imitate a rhythm section, and Rosie dashed about in her red shoes while adults put money in the bag.

  Harry the Scoot winked at Theo when the song ended. ‘How much, Rosie?’ he asked. ‘Watch,’ he mouthed silently at the other adults. ‘Add it up, little princess,’ he said.

  The child tipped her spoils on the rug. She separated a ten shilling note from the coins, then silver from copper before lining up denominations and working it out. ‘Two pounds, nineteen shillings and elevenpence halfpenny,’ she said triumphantly. ‘I am very, very rich.’

  Harry threw another halfpenny in her direction. ‘How much now, queen?’ he asked.

  ‘Three pounds,’ Rosie shrieked joyfully. ‘I’ve got three whole pounds.’

  Theo summoned her and made his contribution. ‘And another ten shillings. At this rate, you’ll be able to buy shares on the stock market.’

  ‘And sweets?’ she asked. ‘I hope there’s some left for sweets. Do they sell butterscotch at that market? Oh, thank you, Mr Quinn.’

  Isadora suddenly couldn’t look or listen any longer. The beautiful, clever Rosie was one of the threads that would weave the tapestry of the future, and she had suffered already. That such young shoulders managed to support so old a head was the sobering, terrifying fact that made Isadora’s breathing irregular. Using Bartle Hall was a decision she’d made in her brain, but the reason had wrapped itself round her heart. ‘Excuse me,’ she muttered.

  She dashed off into Theo’s bathroom and sat on the cork lid of a linen basket. This wasn’t a play, wasn’t a scene from some overworked tragedy in which a much maligned king offers his throne in exchange for a horse, or a handkerchief leads a man to insanity. She held no script, and no prompt lingered on a stool in the wings, because the action was real, just one run, no director to call for an extra take on film. ‘We arrive in this world without a map or a book of instructions,’ she whispered. ‘The scene is set, and we just have to learn from those who’ve been here a bit longer. At the final curtain, we are still apprentices, because there’s not enough time, not enough strength, too much cowardice—’

  Someone tapped on the door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Joan.’

  After over two decades together, these two women could almost read each other’s thoughts. ‘Come in.’

  Joan entered and closed the door quietly.

  Isadora raised her head. ‘I should have stayed with my girls when they were growing, but I didn’t, and none of us has the ability to change the past. The future is a different matter. Rosie’s just one among many, Joan. Did you see her joy at being given Portia’s clutch? Her mother’s pimp kept her in a coal shed. She hasn’t even started school yet. There are others like her, so many of them.’

  ‘I know.’ Joan’s reply was carried on a whisper.

  Isadora smiled wanly. ‘I’m also acquainted with a lot of influential people, and that’s the plus side of being famous. I’m staying in England and doing those comedy films. If they fold, I’ll think again.’

  Joan breathed an audible sigh of relief. ‘They won’t fold with you as the star, Izzy. If you lead, other good actors will jump on board.’ She sighed happily. Joan had no desire to move to California and live amon
g the beautiful people in permanent sunshine and compulsory happiness. ‘What are you thinking, Izzy?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I may need to throw Isadora Bellamy’s weight about, dear. We’re going to save some children.’ Her smile reappeared, but it was real this time. ‘What’s the point in having money stashed when it can be doing some good? I must talk to my girls, of course, since they’ll inherit whatever I leave, though I have a feeling that they’ll agree to my plan.’

  ‘Plan?’ Joan raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Still in the formative stages,’ Isadora said. ‘Let’s go back and act as if we’re normal.’

  Joan chuckled. ‘That’s asking a lot of me. I’m just relieved not to be going to America.’

  ‘Theo’s American,’ Isadora said, apropos of next to nothing.

  ‘I’m aware of that. And where does he live? He’s half English and that’s the half he chose. The American Dream is really the American Blind Optimism, invented after the Wall Street crash and now heavily supported by the Republican Party. No, I like being English and miserable. We value sunshine, because we get so little of it. I should hate having to pretend to be happy all the time.’

  Isadora turned and gazed at her companion. ‘Normal Americans aren’t like that, but you’re right about California, and Hollywood in particular. So you wouldn’t have accompanied me?’

  Seconds passed. ‘I might have gone with you, but I fear I wouldn’t have stayed. It’s too big a country for the likes of me. I’d be a weed in a garden of orchids.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t, silly girl. However, it’s just as well I’m not going to California if that’s how you feel.’

  ‘Indeed. Let’s get back to the party.’

  On the whole, it was a happy band of people who sat at Theo’s table and ate Maggie’s scouse. The quietest member of the group was Simon Heilberg, who watched as small signals passed between Theo Quinn and Tia, fleeting glances, smiles, the shaking of his head, a flush along her cheekbones. It was agony for the young doctor, who offered an apology before pudding arrived, making his goodbyes as early as possible, keen to be away from the lovers.

  Harry, on the floor and propped up on cushions, ate apple crumble and custard from a tray on his abbreviated legs. Tyger found himself fascinated by this unusual human, and he sat on an arm of the chair made of cushions, while Mickle wondered if there might be a chance of a spoonful of something for herself at some stage. ‘I’m surrounded,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not so much Custer’s Last Stand as Foster’s last sit. Do you ever feed these animals, Mr Quinn?’

  ‘They’ll get some of the spare stew when I’ve fished out the potatoes. Dogs can’t digest them very well.’

  Across the table from him, Isadora Bellamy, star of stage, screen, radio and her own bedroom in which she’d played drunk for months, watched the silent messages floating between her daughter and Theo Quinn. The pair had known each other for a very short time, yet there it was, love in bloom. She felt a fleeting pang of pity for Simon, who had worshipped Portia for years in spite of her lack of love for him. Portia liked him, but Portia’s real Waterloo sat here eating his crumble after polishing off a large amount of a dish the locals called scouse. My eldest is already lost to this man; I never before saw her like this, shy yet bold, happy but needful. She should be careful; my love for Richard arrived express, two nights out followed by a diamond ring.

  But the more she stared at them, the more she suspected that this was a match made in heaven, not in hell. Portia and Theo were made for each other, so where did time come into that? They would marry, probably sooner rather than later, and the thought pleased Isadora.

  The meal ended, and the cavalry returned in the Liverpool Echo van, which had to be delivered to its legal owners before nightfall. Harry and Martha, both grateful for the rare invitation, thanked their host repeatedly before being whipped away into the gathering dusk. Because Harry had for years sold many copies of the local newspaper, transport had been provided to give him a chance of visiting friends.

  When all eating had finished, Tia and Theo carried the debris into the kitchen and fed two animals who were plainly demanding legal representation from the RSPCA, citing malnourishment, dehydration and neglect as their reasons for seeking retribution.

  ‘You’re definitely an animal person.’

  Theo smiled. ‘Yes, it started in America. My father’s good with them, too. He emigrated twice, you see, once from Ireland to Liverpool, once from Liverpool to the United States, but he was born to a farming family in Mayo. He has a fascinating accent, with the brogue of Western Ireland mixed with a bit of Liverpool and the whole cake iced with inflections from many states. We travelled. I think he had the soul of a tinker until the second wife got him a job as a school janitor.’

  ‘So she planted him?’

  ‘Oh yes, she made him take root. A powerful woman, also Irish.’

  ‘Do you like her?’

  He smiled again. ‘Yes, I do. I learned to love her. She would probably kill me if I didn’t. I like strong women.’

  ‘Good.’ Tia left him in the kitchen. She found Rosie asleep on the floor and Maggie snoring in an armchair, while Ma and Joan nodded in a more-or-less ladylike fashion on the large sofa.

  She picked up the child and woke Maggie. After placing Rosie on the bed she shared with her nana, Tia left Maggie to deal with bedtime details. Ma and Joan were her next victims; they were kissed good night and evicted without ceremony. ‘Go up to my flat,’ she ordered. ‘Theo knows you’ve come a long way today. I’ll say cheerio for you.’ She rubbed her hands together. Right. Dishes, then cocoa for herself and the man she had chosen by accident.

  By accident? It’s a special occurrence, Tia, not an accident. This stuff happens all the time to ordinary, everyday people, to princes, to beggars, to teachers who have festered for years in an academy for young ladies, to gypsies and beggars and presidents. It’s called love at first sight, or perhaps love outside Junior Standard One, Two or Three. You haven’t had an accident, Portia Bellamy. You’ve tumbled into love with a man you don’t know, a man you remember, though you never met him before. Perhaps you don’t know his past, but you sure as hell know his future. You know his present, too. You know he’s washing a mountain of dishes with no help, because you can hear him clattering. Stop daydreaming; go and help him.

  She re-entered the kitchen, took up a tea towel and dried. ‘Hello, you,’ she said. ‘I got rid of the stragglers.’

  He stopped washing and removed his butcher’s apron. ‘Come on,’ he ordered.

  ‘What? Where?’

  Theo chuckled. ‘Why?’ he finished for her.

  ‘Don’t laugh at me, Teddy Bear, or I’ll have your growl removed and replaced by a very rude sound.’

  ‘We have two guests each, no privacy,’ he explained. ‘If we’re going to have a relationship, even a messing-about-only affair, we need to be elsewhere.’

  ‘Where elsewhere?’

  ‘Somewhere elsewhere. Get into my car and shut up.’

  ‘You ordering me about, Mr Quinn?’

  ‘Get used to it. Blackbird is your boss, OK?’

  Tia placed her hands on her hips. ‘At school, yes. Out of school, it’s anyone’s game. You can’t lead me by the nose when we’re in the civilian world.’

  ‘You wanna bet? Are you questioning my authority, Miss Bellamy? Because I own your apartment, too. I can turn you out whenever I feel like it.’ He chuckled. ‘Not while your mother’s here, though. She’s kinda special.’

  ‘So gentlemanly of you, Sir. Lend me a sweater or a cardigan, please. If I go upstairs, Ma might collar me and make me unpack.’

  ‘Is she diva-ish?’

  ‘No, just lazy.’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ he muttered.

  Tia snatched the proffered cream-coloured jersey and led the way out of the house. She climbed into the passenger seat of Theo’s MG and waited while he closed the car’s folding canopy. For some inexplicable reason, she felt
elated, like a child preparing to go somewhere exciting and new. He seemed more relaxed today, as if he might be coming to terms with whatever made him tense and preoccupied for much of the time. She also felt strangely shy and rather like a sixteen-year-old on her first date . . .

  He opened the driver’s door.

  ‘What’s our destination?’ she asked as he sat and started the engine.

  ‘Are you going metaphysical on me?’ he asked, an eyebrow arched in amusement. ‘Is it one of those poetic purpose-of-life questions or a matter of simple geography?’

  Tia shrugged.

  ‘Automatic pilot,’ he replied. ‘God’s supposedly in charge of the dimensional probabilities, and this car will take us where it wants to go. OK?’

  ‘You need treatment,’ was her tart reply.

  ‘Shut up, or Tom Quirke will put you in his next book. You’ll be a double-barrelled spoilt kid with too many toys and an attitude problem. Making you comedic would be no difficult task.’

  A smile tugged at her lips, but she didn’t give in to it. Was feeling flustered a compulsory factor when it came to falling in love? I have no idea, have I? Twenty-six years of age, and I’ve never before suffered from this condition. It seems I’ve been waiting ten years for this strangely sad man with genetic problems, a back like a relief map of West Yorkshire and a doctorate in humour. His books are so funny and . . . ah yes, that’s it. His books are his escape. Where are we going? And yes, I want the long- and short-term answers to that question.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ he said. ‘Are you cogitating?’

  ‘Only in the privacy of my own home,’ was her smart reply.

  It was Theo’s turn to squash a grin. She was a handful. She was several handfuls, tall, energetic, beautiful, naughty, talented, adorable. Very little would faze her. At last, he’d made close contact with a woman who might understand, because she had the intellect and generosity of heart to cope with his past and his future. He parked the car.