The Liverpool Trilogy (54 page)

‘Written.’

‘Eh?’

‘Written all over my face. And it was on paper, actually.’

‘Was it? Actually?’

‘Yes.’ The ironing continued. Today’s was a brilliant one. He’d told her about his childhood down in Bolton, his mam and dad, brothers and sisters, little Annie Metcalfe
from Bromley Cross, dead for over twenty years. And he’d sent a parcel this time. Thank God Mam had been out cleaning the Throstle’s Nest, because she would have made a symphony out of
it rather than a mere song and dance. Mam was a caution. Mam was happy, because her Eileen might have found a good man. Might have. It was early days.

‘Eileen?’

‘What now?’

‘I know we hardly met him, but he’s lovely.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll take it slow, though?’

‘Course I will. He’s got to meet my boys yet. We could have five farms ruined by Christmas with no help at all from Hitler. Our Bertie can start a war in a shoe box.’ She
sniffed. ‘I’ll miss you, though.’

‘Same here, queen. It’ll be like ripping one of me arms off, only this can’t be helped. You have to stay with her. My granddaughter’s special, and I don’t want
nobody wiping their feet on her front doormat.’

‘You being vulgar again, Mam?’

‘I am. Anyway, I’m going next door to see Kitty. Charlie went out for a packet of cigs last Friday, and she’s seen neither hide nor hair since. I know she’s used to it,
but she’s gone worser with her nerves this last month. Ever since Chamberlain come on the wireless, she’s been like a cat on hot bricks.’

Alone, Eileen dug out her parcel from behind the upended mattress on which she and Mam slept. There was the letter, a photograph of Willows, and a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He was
making love to her. From a distance not far short of forty miles, he was caressing her soul. Inside the book, tissue thin enough to be transparent held dried flowers between a dozen or more pages.
All her life, Eileen had waited, however unconsciously, for a relationship like this. It was a fairy tale, and she was Cinderella. There was no carriage, no glass slipper, no midnight deadline, but
the hero had a gentle heart, humour, and a good brain. It was all too quick, too quick because war loomed.

At the age of thirty-three, this mother of four children had been washed ashore on an island named Hope. Her Lazzer had been a wonderful man, and she was not betraying him. Keith had a memory of
a girl he had loved, so they were equal on that score. For the first time, she smiled while thinking of Laz. After baptizing him Lawrence, his family had shortened that to Lawrie, which sounded a
bit like the name of a large vehicle, so Eileen and he had made up Lazzer. They’d been happy. To this day, Eileen missed the weight of a man, the power, the loving and whispering. But
she’d pledged herself to her children, and three of those children were . . . on the wild side. Keith would straighten them out. It was silly, placing faith in a bloke she hardly knew, and
yet . . . He could do it. He would do it. ‘Slow down,’ she muttered.

The scream came at that moment. Eileen shoved her treasures out of sight and ran into the street. Kitty Maguire was lying face down on the pavement, balled fists battering the flags, a
blood-curdling sound escaping from her throat. Over her stood Nellie Kennedy and two policemen. Other neighbours came out of their houses, mostly mothers with children too young for school. Eileen
interpreted word-shapes on her mother’s lips. Charlie Maguire was dead. A constable advised Eileen that the body had been washed up on Ainsdale beach, just another piece of flotsam tossed
about by the Mersey’s unpredictable rips. ‘She’s taken it bad,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘Mind you, he was never sober, so we’re not surprised he’s come to
grief. Poor woman.’ He shook his head sadly.

Days later, Eileen remembered how she had thought of herself coming ashore on an island named Hope. While she had been pondering that, Kitty’s husband had been thrown up by the tide, and a
whole family had been stranded on a shore entitled Despair. Life took, and life gave. Because on that first day, Hilda Pickavance rode in on her white horse and promised Kitty a cottage in Willows
Edge. The true hero of the piece was a quiet woman with a spine of steel, a person who, when blessed with good fortune, insisted on sharing it. Charlie was dead, but his wife and children would be
safe.

For several nights, Eileen and Nellie took turns to sit up with Kitty. Weeping continued till the early hours of every morning, after which whoever was on duty dozed fitfully in an uncomfortable
chair. Poor old Charlie had been doomed anyway. According to the doctor, his life sentence was always going to be commuted to early release, since his liver was fit only for saddlery and
boot-soling, not for cleansing blood. He had been a long way past retrieval, and his illness showed in every corner of the disgusting house he had inhabited. From where she sat, Eileen could hear
wildlife in the kitchen. She recalled one of the babies, now grown, being taken to the hospital after eating ‘currants’ from the kitchen floor. That dried fruit had been produced by
rodents, and the child had suffered the consequences. The smell in here was almost unbearable.

Cockroaches scuttered about. These creatures, along with mice and silverfish, were frequent visitors in Nellie and Eileen’s house, but Nellie kept on top of them and was merciless when it
came to methods of dispatch. Mel had once termed her gran a murderer of mice, but the job had to be done. Poor Kitty had lost hope and energy; perhaps both might be reborn once the funeral was
consigned to the pages of recent history.

Eileen closed her eyes. By now, Mam had discovered the letter, the book, the photo and the dried flowers. It didn’t matter. If Mel should ever be on the receiving end of a man’s
dedicated attention, Eileen would want to know. Age scarcely came into it, because Eileen was Nellie’s child, just as Mel was Eileen’s.

Kitty woke again. ‘Will I like it up there, Eileen? Do you think we’ll be all right out in the wilds?’

‘I hope so, love. There’ll be fresh air and probably no bombs, so it has to be an improvement.’

‘I’m scared.’

‘Yes. So am I.’ Kitty was better off, though she didn’t know it yet. Her husband had been difficult, and occasionally violent, a fact that accounted for several of
Kitty’s absent teeth. He had failed to provide, so his young had scarcely thrived, and he would not have been fit for any kind of war service. By falling into the Mersey when drunk as a lord,
he had done his wife and children a favour, since they could now be rescued. Hilda Pickavance would not have allowed Charlie into one of her cottages, and Kitty would have continued down the
slippery slope for many years to come.

‘I know what you’re thinking. He was no good, and I’m better off.’

Eileen shook her head. ‘He’s better off, Kitty. He suffered. You know he suffered, because you told us about the bleeding. Remember? That was real pain, you see. And when he turned
on you or the kids, it was the booze, not him. Part of him was screaming to get well, while the rest of him knew it was too late. Even so, whatever Charlie was, he was yours and you’ll miss
him. But my mam will be with you over at Willows. My mam will look after you.’

Kitty stared into a feeble fire. ‘Know what I’m looking forward to, Eileen?’

‘No, what?’

‘Teeth. For the funeral. Proper teeth fitted by Mushy Goldberg. He does a good pair, tops and bottoms, for a couple of quid. People have been so kind.’

Eileen smiled to herself. The locals had gone without their pies and their pints so that Kitty’s blackened stumps could be removed. The gums were currently being given a few days to heal
in order to be replaced by some Mushy Goldberg specials in time for Charlie’s big send-off. ‘Try to have a little doze,’ was all she said for the time being.

Morning struggled to be born some time after six. This was going to be the end of Kitty’s first full week as a widow, and Eileen knew from personal experience how hard that would be. She
couldn’t eat or prepare food in here, so she crept next door to make tea and toast. Mam was asleep on the parlour floor mattress, the book of sonnets in one hand. She was struggling a bit in
coming to terms with Shakespeare, but she had brains enough to give the bard a chance. ‘I’ve been lucky,’ Eileen whispered. ‘We’ve made it this far, you and me, Mam.
Yes, I’ve been a lucky girl.’

A sort of polite friendship had developed between Tom and Marie Bingley. She, more relaxed now that she had her own bedroom, threw herself head first into the development from
scratch of a local WVS and, when she wasn’t reading government literature and attending meetings, she was knitting khaki socks and telephoning headquarters about bandage sizes and food
parcels. She continued to nurture and provide for her family, but cooking and shopping had ceased to be the focus of her life. Marie was needed by the community, and her war work became the core of
her existence.

Tom’s spare time was less gainfully employed. He did his duty, helped the sick, tended the dying and the newborn, but he was restless. Then he saw an article in last week’s
newspaper, the story of a washed-up body found on a nearby beach. Next to this item was printed a grainy photograph of the widow standing in a street with her neighbour. Even here, in patchy black
and white, the neighbour shone. Dear God, Eileen Watson was seriously beautiful.

He showed the paper to his daughter. ‘Where exactly do they live, Gloria?’

‘Rachel Street, number two, I think, so that poor lady whose husband drowned must be number four. It’s quite near the Rotunda theatre, round about where Cazneau Street meets Scotland
Road. Why?’

‘It’s just that we know Mel, don’t we? And now that I’ve met her mother, well . . . I thought I might help the bereaved family.’ He watched her smile as it arrived
to illuminate a face that seemed to be improving somewhat.

‘That’s a nice thing to do, Daddy. But Mel never takes anyone home. I can’t say she’s ashamed, because she probably isn’t; she’s too . . . organized for that.
It’s just that she keeps her two worlds apart, because they wouldn’t mix. Even the poor have their rules.’

‘Rules don’t buy a coffin, Gloria.’

‘No, but some things are bigger than money.’

For a few seconds, Tom looked at his daughter. She was a sensitive soul, then. She would probably grow up to be like her mother, dutiful, correct and capable. No beauty had been promised, yet
something was happening. Cheekbones. Yes, they had started to show through disappearing puppy fat. ‘When are they moving to Crosby?’ He attempted to dress the question in casual
clothes.

‘Very soon. Miss Morrison’s having their rooms painted. She has a soft spot for Mel’s mother, so she’s trying to get everything nice for them.’

‘Good, good.’ Tom left his daughter to her homework and went into the study. He had to see Eileen Watson. But he owned the grace to feel some shame, since he was considering using a
dead man as a stepping stone, and such an intention did not sit comfortably on his conscience.

Marie entered the room, a piece of white paper in her hand. ‘I wonder,’ she began, her tone offhand, ‘whether you might do me a favour, Tom.’

‘If I can, of course I shall.’

The paper was a five-pound note, and she passed it to him. ‘I read that the other day,’ she said, pointing to the newspaper. ‘And I thought we might go down and visit Mrs
Watson and her neighbour. But I simply haven’t time today, because there’s a committee meeting early this evening. Please give the poor young widow that money. God knows she’ll
need it.’

There was an unfamiliar expression on Marie’s face, a cross between challenge and a sort of triumph. She was telling him that she’d lost the key to her chastity belt, that he could
look elsewhere, that she had better things to do, wool to wind, women to organize, a war to win. The balance of power had certainly shifted on this bit of St Andrews Road.

He felt strangely hurt. She was married to a successful, respected, handsome man, but all she offered was politeness and a kind of comradeship. ‘A civilized arrangement’ was what she
wanted. After the war, depending on how long it lasted and how old the twins were at the time, she might look for divorce or separation. The disgrace of that would ruin his practice, so he must try
to change her mind. At present, that mind was rather like Stonehenge; any change would arrive as a result of centuries of erosion.

She left the room, smiling to herself as soon as the door was closed in her wake. Taking the upper hand was strangely exhilarating. Having been the first to contact the relevant authorities, she
was, by default, in charge of the WVS. Although no ranks existed within the service, she was the first to receive an official blouse with that badge on the pocket, red and white, a crown at its
top, and W.V.S. embroidered above the words
CIVIL DEFENCE
and
CROSBY
.

In accordance with the dictates of its founder, the Women’s Voluntary Service undertook a duty to familiarize locals with the dos and don’ts in case of bomb attack. Members were
instructed to hammer home the necessity of keeping light from showing, as well as provide comforts for displaced persons at home and for troops employed in battle. She had a reason to live, a
reason all her own. No longer was she just a wife and a mother; she had lists to type, telephone calls to make, women to manage. The war was her saviour.

Then there was home. She had assumed command here, too. By removing herself from the marital bed, Marie had taken charge. This also had been by default in its own way, as she had never fully
understood the power of sex. It was something one did in order to procreate, and it was a nuisance. But when it stopped, the male became very odd. Sometimes, he looked almost crazed, eyes shifting
from side to side, occasionally fixing on her breasts or her legs. She wasn’t a handsome woman, but the breast and leg departments were adequate. Was he going insane? If that were the case,
he could travel the road alone, because she had no intention of losing her own mind.

Anyway, she’d seen all she wanted of the damp patch on the main bedroom ceiling, had wasted more than enough time waiting for him to groan and flail before collapsing on her like a lump of
boiled fish. The whole business was moist and rather unwholesome. He needed it, though, especially when a pretty woman or girl had visited. Well, he could manage without her. Men were designed
literally to please themselves, and she had just given him unspoken permission to turn his attention to some other female.