Meet Me at the Pier Head

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Are you mad at me?’ she asked.

  ‘Never, Rosie,’ he said. ‘You’re a breath of fresh air in a very hot world.’

  Because of the heat, they spent the rest of the day wandering through villages, eating ice cream, sitting under canopies provided by trees, drinking cold fruit juices, paddling in streams and lying in fallow fields.

  ‘I like Kent,’ Rosie said sleepily.

  ‘So do I,’ the sisters chimed in unison.

  Theo chuckled. ‘I’m just glad the RAF didn’t send any German wreckage down on Leeds Castle or on any of the wonderful Tudor houses we’ve seen today. We could have turned this into a real hellish corner.’

  ‘It’s hot,’ Tia complained.

  He chuckled. ‘Hot? You should try America, my love. Step outside in summer and, in some states, it feels as if someone has thrown a boiling hot blanket over you. Breathing is an effort. We prayed for rain. My dad used to talk at length about Ireland and its many shades of green. He said summer was a time for considering building an ark, but it was too wet to go out and find the wood.’

  ‘Did he get used to the heat?’ Juliet asked.

  ‘No. He’s fair-skinned with sandy hair and very red skin in the sun.’

  They all looked at Rosie, who was snoring softly. ‘Bless her,’ Juliet mumbled. ‘What will become of her?’

  Portia smiled. ‘She’ll be Izzy-ed. You know about the camel and the needle in the Bible? Ma would have got the animal through the hole.’

  Theo drifted towards sleep. He was glad he’d left the dog with Maggie and Mrs Melia, as she would have been panting and weary. Feeling safe and happy, he joined Rosie in the land of Nod.

  ‘No stamina,’ Tia whispered.

  ‘You’ve worn him out,’ Juliet giggled.

  ‘Don’t be vulgar, Jules. He’s amazing and a good cook.’

  ‘You’re happy.’

  ‘Happier than I ever felt I deserved. Let’s sleep.’

  1968

  Seventeen

  Having enjoyed six idyllic weeks away celebrating their tenth anniversary, Tia and Theo Quinn descended the aeroplane steps following a bump-free landing at Manchester’s Ringway Airport. Trident had given them the smoothest, quietest and easiest flight from Paris, and they’d enjoyed a blissful second honeymoon, but they were oh-so-glad to be back.

  Manchester’s cloud cover was dark grey and heavily pregnant with rain, specks of which were leaking out as harbingers of imminent delivery on a grand scale. But this was England, and England was home. Their small country was green because of her unpredictable weather, and she was a truly beautiful old lady with a history that was often mind-blowing. ‘Home, sweet home,’ Theo said on his way down the steps. ‘Oh yes, the rain’s giving us a welcome, baby.’

  They reached the tarmac, both grateful for terra firma. ‘Thank you for a lovely time, Teddy.’ Tia gripped his hand. ‘Thank you for New York, for Georgia, for Washington and Niagara and Pennsylvania and Boston and Chicago and—’

  ‘And you’re breaking my fingers, Portia.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She had stood at his mother’s grave and on the very spot where the poor woman had died. ‘Most of all, thank you for marrying me, for introducing me to your family, for taking me to President Kennedy’s grave, and for France. Just think, we were in Paris a couple of hours ago. Thank you, Teddy Bear.’

  He gazed into her magnificent eyes. ‘You’re welcome, ma’am,’ he drawled. ‘Thank you for tolerating me for a whole decade.’

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered.

  Theo shrugged. ‘What’s not to love? I’m handsome, rich, famous, generous, amusing, and I wilt not wilt – not yet, anyway. Let’s go find your mom and our sproglets. I missed the boys and Rosie. And it’s so much easier to breathe here, isn’t it? Summer across the Atlantic can be very trying.’

  They recovered their luggage, wheeled it through NOTHING TO DECLARE, and almost ran like a pair of smugglers towards the public area. Manchester had begun to do its thing of trying to commit suicide by drowning, but no one noticed the rain battering the windows because Mum and Dad were home. Rosie waved and pushed her foster-brothers forward. ‘Here they come, boys. Don’t they look wonderful?’

  David, aged eight, and Michael, who was five, hurled themselves at their parents. Many hugs and kisses were shared while the two boys expressed their delight. Behind them stood a truly beautiful Rosie, now fifteen, tall and slender, dark-haired, clear-eyed and determined not to allow happiness to spill down her cheeks. ‘Oh, I’m so glad to see you safely home. We watched you coming in to land. That’s the most beautiful plane I ever saw.’

  Theo grinned. ‘Better than a Spitfire – I got to sit down and read.’

  ‘Where’s Ma?’ Tia asked after managing to extricate herself from her older son’s crushing embrace.

  ‘There wouldn’t have been enough room on the way back in the taxi, so I’m in charge.’ Rosie kissed the two people who had been her unofficial foster-parents for years. ‘Nana’s tired; Izzy-gran stayed with her, and Joan will be attached to an upstairs window waiting for you.’

  Theo frowned. ‘Is Maggie still refusing to see doctors?’

  ‘Yes. She says if she’d kept appointments, she would have been dead years ago because she’d have been used as a guinea pig. But she was running out of blood tonic since Mrs Melia died. Anyway, a huge bottle of it arrived last week, left for Nana in Mrs Melia’s will. The recipe came with it. I hid that bit of paper under books in the cabinet in Nana’s room, because we need to talk about it. But just now, this is about welcoming you home. We missed you. And you look very well and sun-tanned – I’m madly jealous, though the weather’s been quite good here.’

  When the suitcases were safely stored in the taxi’s boot, the family of five squashed bodies into seats and headed for Liverpool.

  Portia studied her handsome, sturdy sons. In just six weeks, the boys had changed. Their brown hair owned streaks of summer blond, they were taller and slightly broader, and both were sun-blessed by freckles. They probably needed new shoes again; their feet seemed to grow faster than weeds, and many pairs of good footwear had been sent to the poor via their local church.

  She closed travel-wearied eyes. This is the first time we haven’t spent the summer at the cottage. I still miss Chaddington Green, but we’re not ready to leave Liverpool yet. Rosie and our sons must complete their education here, and Michael won’t be ready until 1980 at the earliest, by which time darling Teddy will be sixty. But with Myrtle Street thriving so well, Teddy and I seem to be firmly entrenched for the time being. Oh, it’s good to be back where we belong, with our children. ‘Is a certain person ready to receive a parcel in our garage, Rosie?’ she managed sleepily.

  ‘All present and correct, Mum,’ was the answer.

  Tia placed her head on her husband’s shoulder. I’m so relieved to know that Bartle Hall is up and running at last after all those long years of struggle. Jules and Simon run the health side of things, and Ma imported good kitchen staff from London. She’s magic. Oh, I suddenly feel so desperately tired. Aeroplanes exhaust me.

  The head of Bartle School’s a wonderful lunatic and, like my Teddy, he doesn’t believe in corporal punishment and deals very well with thirty neglected and surplus-to-requirements children. Why do people have children if they can’t be bothered to love them and care for them?

  She held Theo’s hand and floated towards sleep while her boys and Rosie chattered. Drifting in her dream in the direction of Kent and back through dimension four, she heard her husband speaking into a phone . . . He was talking to his friend Jack Peake, caretaker of Myrtle Street School . . .

  . . . ‘Yes, Jack, we were married on Thursday. Nancy had no knitting, so we were nearly waterlogged.’ He chuckled. ‘Have you any money? Good. We’ll be back soon. What? Oh, yes, I want it published in the Post and Echo. Married in Canterbury last Thursday. Yes. Just our names and the date. Theodore Quinn and Portia Bellamy. No need
to mention parents, just the bare bones will do, and I’ll pay you when we get back.

  ‘Mickle? No, she wasn’t a bridesmaid, but Rosie was. Yes. Yes, we do have photos. Oh, it was great. Morris dancers, people in historic costume, a bit of medieval chicanery, all thou and wilt and cleaving. What? Of course she looked beautiful; my Portia always does.

  ‘Right. Don’t forget to paint the blackboards, Jack. Oh, the petty cash is in the middle drawer. Do you have the key with you? Good. Open the drawer now and take some money for the Echo. I’ll top it up next week. And thanks, matey. When school opens, they’ll all know we’re married.

  ‘Maybe you’re right; maybe it is the coward’s way out, but I’d rather Miss Cosgrove and Miss Garner got used to the idea before term starts. I can’t help being such a catch, can I?’ He laughed. ‘Nail on the head, Jack. If you have the time, visit Miss Reynolds. She’s kitty-sitting while Izzy and her daughters are down here. See you soon, my friend, and look after yourself.’

  He replaced the receiver, turned and saw the eavesdropper. She was wearing a peasant-style blouse and a very full skirt. ‘Get upstairs,’ he commanded. ‘Let’s do a bit of cleaving.’

  Tia woke when the taxi bounced in and out of dips caused by the mining of coal miles beneath the road. ‘Did you know, boys, that roughly twenty per cent of all fresh running water in the world tumbles over Niagara Falls?’

  David and Theo exchanged a glance. ‘Mum, do you always have to be a teacher, even during school holidays?’

  Rosie’s smile broadened. There was clearly no cure for the disease known as teaching. She spoke to him. ‘Teachers are born, not made, David. I may take it up myself.’

  ‘Go back to sleep, Portia,’ Theo advised, poker-faced. ‘She gets tired and emotional, kids – too many drinks on the plane,’ he whispered.

  ‘I heard that,’ Tia said sleepily.

  ‘See?’ Theo shrugged. ‘Even when dozing, she has me shackled.’

  Rosie grinned again. This was a perfect marriage, a perfect family. Yes, they had their differences and arguments, but they were best friends and close companions. I am a truly fortunate girl. I wonder who killed Tunstall? If he’d lived, what would have become of me?

  She thought briefly about her birth mother, Sadie, who had been cared for in a private rest home. She had choked on food regurgitated from an over-full stomach. It had happened in her sleep, and people had muttered about its being ‘for the best’. It probably had been for the best, since Sadie Tunstall’s quality of life had been terribly poor. Even so, Rosie had grieved.

  The fifteen-year-old stared out at houses along the East Lancashire Road. Mam had gained so much weight that she’d needed a reinforced chair and a special bed. I will do something with my life, first of all for my own sake, but also for Theo and Tia, who have been Mum and Dad for me. Isadora and Joan, too, and my lovely Nana and Tom and Nancy who kept me alive during the dark times. Don’t look back, Rosie; be like Theo-dad and march on.

  Joan stood at a window of the flat that had once been Portia’s. This was now her permanent residence; it was also a northern base for Isadora, whose film company was enjoying a meteoric success. Izzy had starred in six of the Ealing comedies, and was now using local-to-Liverpool writers, actors and crew to adapt Tom Quirke’s books for the big screen under the banner Isadora Films.

  Joan’s husband joined her at the window. ‘Still no sign of them, eh?’

  ‘The rain we had earlier will have reached Manchester by now. I think the Pennines burst the clouds and poor old Manchester gets the result. Izzy’s downstairs with Maggie, and we should join them. Let’s all be in the same place when the taxi arrives.’

  He laughed. ‘You know, I’ve never had this much fun since Colin Duckworth brought that dog to school. You’ve changed my life, Joan. It’s like living in a completely different story. And to think I only came to keep you company while you were Tyger-sitting.’

  She smiled fondly at him. ‘And Tyger’s still going strong. Poor Mickle, though. Theo was heartbroken last year, wasn’t he? Still, she’s buried in the woods in Chaddington. She loved the woods.’

  Jack returned the smile. ‘For a large dog, she lived a long life, Joan.’ Now retired from caretaking, he still did his fair share of looking after both flats, sitting with Maggie, who was increasingly frail, helping in the Quinn household just across the road, sorting out the gardens and lending a hand with Isadora’s schedule. ‘Yes, let’s go down and enjoy the welcome-home party. I think we deserve a treat after minding David and Michael for six weeks.’

  Joan didn’t trouble to remind her spouse that the Quinn boys were quite well behaved if somewhat boisterous at times. Boys played. Boys needed to play, and the loss of a few panes in the greenhouse was a small matter, surely? And they’d been replaced. ‘Straighten your tie, dear.’

  Jack wasn’t used to ties, but he did as Joan asked. She was a quiet woman, yet the gentleness was plastered over an intelligent and knowledgeable soul. Like many of her gender, she didn’t know weed from flower, wrench from spanner, screwdriver from bottle opener, but she knew people, and therein lay her strength. The marriage had been a shock to both of them, but they were happy. It was based in the need for companionship rather than in passion. Jack’s health had improved, though he still needed to pace himself, while Joan was simply happy in his presence, because he made her laugh and made her feel safe.

  ‘What did you say I was instead of a caretaker?’ Jack asked.

  ‘A concierge.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Concierge. It’s French for caretaker or janitor.’

  ‘I’m English.’

  ‘I know.

  ‘We call a spade a bloody shovel round here.’

  Joan shrugged. ‘Are your hands clean?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Shoes?’

  ‘Two – one for each foot.’

  ‘Polished?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Are you making fun of me, Mr Peake?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  She chuckled. ‘Walk on, then.’

  When they left the flat, they were laughing, as usual.

  Like just about any other incomer, Isadora had been absorbed into the mix offered by the open arms and hearts of Liverpudlians. Yes, there’d been an influx of autograph hunters in the early days, but after ten years of comings and goings she was finally one of theirs. Sometimes she was here, sometimes she was elsewhere, yet Allerton, Liverpool, was her bolt-hole and the place from which she ran her company.

  She was currently sitting with Maggie Stone, who had lived over nine years longer than predicted by medics. Depending solely on a home brew concocted by Daphne Melia, she had enjoyed a remission which might have happened anyway, although Maggie’s distrust of doctors forced her to say repeatedly, ‘They would have killed me,’ a comment that became her mantra.

  ‘Will Tia and Theo be here soon?’ Maggie asked now.

  ‘They will.’ Izzy paused for a few seconds. ‘How do you feel today?’

  Maggie offered a weak smile. ‘Tired. It’s nearly my time, Izzy. Daphne told me that the blood medicine wouldn’t work forever, but she gave me a good few extra years, bless her. Rosie can please herself now, at fifteen. She’s got her place across the road with her foster-mam, dad and brothers, and she’s got Joan and Jack upstairs here. And you, of course.’

  ‘Shush. Don’t exhaust yourself. Save some energy for the party, and trust us to do our best for your sweet granddaughter when the time comes. I promise you we’ll—’

  The doorbell sounded. Izzy went to admit Joan and Jack. ‘Not well,’ she whispered in the hallway. ‘I think we’re losing her.’

  ‘Shall I get a doctor?’ Joan mouthed.

  Izzy shook her head. ‘Maggie wouldn’t want that. Come in,’ she said, pitching her voice back to normal. ‘The caterers have left food in the kitchen. Help me carry it through, Joan.’

  Jack sat with Maggie. ‘Hello, me other girlfriend. It’s all
right; Joan says we can hold hands, like, but no kissing.’

  ‘Like a dinner with no pudding, eh, lad?’

  ‘She’s a bit jealous, Mags.’

  ‘I don’t blame her. You make her very happy.’

  He jumped up. ‘They’re here,’ he called. ‘The driver and Theo are taking the luggage into their house.’ Izzy and Joan dashed in with platters, placing them on the dining table alongside fruit punch and the welcome-home cake. Izzy ran to the window. ‘Portia’s as brown as a berry, and Theo’s a beautiful colour. The boys are bouncing about like beach balls.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Isn’t Rosie a stunner?’

  ‘She always was,’ Jack replied. ‘Even in the infants department, she stood out like a jewel: beauty, brains and as much cheek as a cow’s backside.’

  Maggie smiled. Her precious girl had won a scholarship to one of Liverpool’s top-of-the-list grammar schools. She was aiming for a degree in English Literature and French and would teach in a school similar to the one she currently attended. I’ll be with our Sadie soon. I hope there’s no gin in the next life – and no food. If there’s food, they’ll have to reinforce the floor joists . . .

  Portia entered the flat that had once been her Teddy’s home. She kissed her mother, Joan and Jack before making a beeline for Maggie. In six weeks, Rosie’s nana seemed to have lost as much weight as David and Michael had gained. ‘Maggie?’ Tia knelt and put her arms round the skeletal frame of a wonderful woman.

  ‘Rosie knows I’m going, babe. We’ve talked about it. She’ll be all right; she has you two and the pair upstairs here, then Izzy comes home when she can. I got nearly ten years, Tia. Thanks to Daphne Melia, I saw my Rosie grow up.’

  Tia gulped audibly. She couldn’t, wouldn’t cry. ‘Oh, Maggie, we love you. You’re one of the wisest people I’ve met.’ She stood and turned to greet her husband, her daughter and her sons. Frowning at the shocked expression on Teddy’s face, she shook her head almost imperceptibly. He had seen Maggie, and he hadn’t liked what he’d seen. But they both needed to stay strong. ‘Food’s here,’ she said, her voice slightly shaky. ‘Don’t worry, Ma didn’t prepare any of it, I’m told, so we should survive.’