The Liverpool Trilogy (56 page)

‘Mrs . . . er . . . ?’

‘Kennedy. I’m here about me daughter.’

He blinked a couple of times as if trying to remember where he had seen her before. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Eileen Watson’s mother. You’d best get me in there before the sick start to form a queue, because you’ll be one of them if I get my way, lad.’

‘Oh. Right. Very well.’ He unlocked the door with an unsteady hand before ushering her through the waiting area into the surgery at the rear of the building. He sat down and, with a
sweep of his hand, indicated that she should occupy the patients’ seat.

‘No, ta,’ she said. ‘You never know who comes into places like this. I might catch something.’ She waded in at the deep end, scarcely stopping for breath while she
berated and insulted him in the age-old way of those who had lived the hard life. The air was stained by words that should never have visited the tongue of a woman, and the diatribe was not
delivered quietly.

Then she got to the point of her visit. ‘Now, don’t be getting me mixed up with them who’re all wind and piss, because you’ll be wrong. My girl lost her husband to an
accident five or six years back. Since then, she’s kept herself to herself, because she has four kids. And along you come, a married man, an educated bloke, and you want your way with
her.’

He folded his arms. ‘Are you threatening me?’

‘Yes. Too bloody right I’m threatening you. If you don’t leave our Eileen alone, you’ll be just a little bit dead. All right? And if I and a few good lads have to go to
hell for murder, so be it. Because I’m telling you now, if you get into her knickers, you
will
find yourself starting a new fashion, a six-inch blade worn just about where your heart
would be if you had one. I’m not kidding. Touch her, and you’ll rue the bloody day. You’ll be watched. She’ll be watched. Wait till I tell our Mel about her best pal’s
dad, eh?’

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Wouldn’t I? I am putting the Dockers’ Word out on you, mate. The old lads won’t be called up, and they’re stronger than any mee-mawing quack from Crosby.
Don’t be surprised if you wake up dead with a docker’s hook sticking out of your throat.’

‘That would definitely be a hanging offence.’

Nellie laughed, though the noise she created sounded grim. ‘Are you confusing me with somebody who gives a monkey’s arse what happens to you, your daughter, your fancy flaming life?
Or to me? See, I’m not impressed by them what think they’re better than us common folk, because us common folk know how to fight wars, how to kill, where to stick the bloody knives, and
how to scare seven shades of shite out of Hitler. We’ll be the ones that do that, Dr Bingley. Oh, and in case you’re still not hearing me, I’ll leave you a small deposit just as a
sign of goodwill, eh?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Granted.’ She dropped her bag, balled her right fist and thrust it forward with all her might until it made contact with his left cheek. His head shot back and hit the wall. For
once, she thanked God for all she had learned during a difficult life that had made her keen-eyed and street-smart. ‘That’s just the start. Leave her alone!’ she screamed before
abandoning him to his pain.

He heard the outer door slam, and walked across the surgery to see if anyone had overheard the fracas. The waiting room was empty, and he was grateful that his receptionist was running late yet
again. He placed the
SURGERY CANCELLED
sign in the doorway and shot home a couple of bolts. Anyone who needed urgent treatment would be seen by Dr Clarke, who was just a few yards along the
road. Back in his consulting room, he surveyed the damage. By tomorrow, he would have a very black eye; right now, he might be in need of immediate help. The hag had possibly broken his
cheekbone.

Neil Dyson, who had been more than slightly drunk on what was now named ‘Flight Night’, had been talked out of his Guinness-fuelled decision to become a fighter
pilot. He was too old, too daft, and he returned quickly to the old religion, which was pale ale and darts. He’d served in the last war, he had a good wife who needed a husband in one piece,
and two daughters who adored their dad. Drunkenness didn’t suit him, and he intended to live life in a safer mode in future, because his three girls required a sober head of household.
Furthermore, he would be wanted at home, because he was the main farmer, and he knew every inch of his acreage better than the back of his own hand.

His companion in lunacy, Jay Collins, adhered loyally to the black stuff, as it seemed to make him just a little stronger while he waited to hear whether the rabbit had died. Men didn’t
talk much about pregnancy, as it was the domain of women, but he required an anaesthetic while he sat not talking about it. He’d no idea what a rabbit had to do with any of it, but he seemed
not to be in full control of his life any more, because it was all beyond his reach. Between rabbits and Spitfires there was a very large chasm, and he was doing his level best to decide what was
going to be his next move.

‘Jay?’ Neil said for the third time from the other side of the table. He was clearly flogging a dead horse and a comatose handyman. Oh, at last. Here came an answer.

‘What?’

Not an answer, then. ‘Gill’s talked a few times to my Jeanie, so I know why you’re wearing a miserable face. You just have to get through it; it’s as simple as that. You
look like you’ve lost a quid and found a tanner.’

‘Oh.’

‘No news, then?’

‘No.’

‘Is she being sick of a morning? Is she eating daft stuff like pickles with jam or bacon with treacle?’

‘No.’

‘But the doc said he thought she was probably expecting?’

‘Yes.’

This was yet another thoroughly riveting conversation, thought Neil as he drained his glass. ‘Pint of Guinness, is it?’

‘No.’

‘Are you going to say anything other than yes and no?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Bugger.’ Neil went to the bar for a refill. Jay was about as much fun as a rainy Methodist picnic these days. Over in the opposite corner, Keith Greenhalgh was nursing a pint of
brown. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he wandered into the pub from time to time just for a bit of company and noise. He should have got wed, because he was a good man and would have made a
fine husband. There was a story to him, and rumour had it that he’d never recovered from the death of a fiancée. Damned shame, it was, because the lad needed something to paint a grin
on his face.

But Elsie Openshaw was putting about a new tale concerning a very pretty woman who had visited Willows with Miss Pickavance. This woman was writing to Keith, and he was replying on a regular
basis. ‘Three or four a week,’ Elsie had said. ‘And they’ve only seen each other once. Too fast, them Liverpool floozies are. She’ll have her feet under his table and
her nightie on his pillow before you can say knife.’ Thus had the oracle spoken, though Neil would have preferred to hear the news from the horse’s mouth.

He paid for his pint and carried it to Keith’s table. ‘All right if I sit here?’ he asked. ‘Only Jay’s turned into the strong, silent type and I can’t cope
– it’s like talking to the wall. I swear he’s in a world of his own. He needs a foot up his backside, that’s certain sure. There’s hardly one word of sense coming out
of his gob.’

Keith inclined his head. ‘Yes, park yourself here by all means. The lad’s worried. That mad Dr Stephenson didn’t need to do a test – I reckon she’s near three
months gone, and I’m no doc. It’s as plain as a pikestaff to most of us. All Stephenson needed to do was lay his hands on her abdomen, but no, he had to go for a pee test.’

Neil laughed. ‘My Jeanie says the same. And if Stephenson was sober, Gill’s sample will have gone off for testing in some lab; if he was drunk, it could be anywhere from his back
pocket to the medicine cabinet. Jean says she’d rather get the vet any day, because Stephenson doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. It’s time he stopped practising,
cos he’ll never reach perfect this side of Judgement Day.’

Jay, having finally noticed his solitary status, wandered across and joined them. ‘I wondered where you’d gone,’ he complained. ‘I was sat there all by myself like
somebody with smallpox. You could have said.’

Neil shook his head sadly. ‘We’re right opposite you. You couldn’t miss us if you’d just try to focus; there’s only three tables in here. But you’re hearing
nothing, seeing nothing, and saying next to nowt. You’ve a face like a smacked bum, and it’s getting on my bloody nerves. She’s . . .’ He lowered his voice, as the topic was
not going to be suitable for a men’s bar. ‘She’s having a baby. Jean thinks so, Keith thinks so, and Gill knows so. So. Go home and look after her while you can. Be with her,
Jay.’

Jay stared down into his drink. ‘I’m thirty-two years old. I’m married to a woman who makes me happy, and she wants a baby. It looks like she’s having one, and I
don’t know what to do.’

Keith frowned as if concentrating hard. ‘You’re thirty-three, I think. Boil a lot of water and find piles of towels and clean sheets,’ he said with mock seriousness.
‘Tell her to breathe, pant and push, but not necessarily in that order. Pick the kid up and make sure it’s screaming, slap it if it isn’t, then give it a wash
and—’

Jay banged on the table with a fist. ‘I don’t mean that, you daft pair of lummoxes. The war. It’s my war, this one. You lot have had yours, and it’s my turn. If I wait to
be called up, I could be shoved in the army. It’s an airman’s war. It’s all going to be happening over our heads, and I want to be there with the boys in blue, not stuck in a
ditch with a gun, no ammunition, no cigs and salt beef butties for me tea.’

‘Very deep,’ said Neil. ‘I’ve told you, sit tight and go where you’re sent.’

Keith thought differently. ‘Listen, we’ll look after her. Go and do your pilot training, and we’ll see to Gill. I promise we’ll make sure no harm comes to her or your
baby.’

‘If I go off voluntary, she might lose the kiddy. If I sit, wait, and end up in the Fusiliers, my long face could be enough to cause a miscarriage. I can’t win either way.’

‘Don’t let anybody wearing a swastika hear you say that,’ Neil advised. ‘Now, get home and talk to her properly. You’re neither fish nor bloody fowl till you get
this lot worked out. And we have to get that house ready for Miss Pickavance and—’

‘I’m gone.’ Jay walked out of the pub, almost colliding in the doorway with Mrs Elsie Openshaw. He blundered out into darkness, his head swimming after only two pints of
Ireland’s nectar. He couldn’t carry on like this. That bloody doctor wasn’t worth the bloody ink on his bloody birth certificate, and that was an undeniable bloody fact. Was the
rabbit dead, or was it still faffing about doing what rabbits did, which was getting pregnant themselves? The world seemed to be moving away from him. Sometimes, he felt as if he wasn’t
really here, as if a thick blanket sat between him and everything else. It was weird. There was something he had to do, and he needed to remember.

He was fed up. If he turned right, he’d be on his way home; if he turned left, he’d be . . . he’d be going for Collie. Andy Crawford, better known as Collie because he always
had a sheepdog, knew his onions. Then there was wotsername. Elsie Openshaw. He’d seen her a minute ago, and she’d been completely out of context. That was right, because Elsie had been
in the taproom, and women didn’t go in there, as there weren’t many chairs and tables, since serious drinkers imbibed on their feet at the bar. He shoved his head through the door.
‘Mrs Openshaw?’ he shouted.

‘Yes?’

‘Will you stop here with Keith and Neil? I’ll pick you up on me way back.’

‘Your way back from where?’ Keith asked. He turned to Elsie. ‘Wait a minute while I try to get some sense out of him.’

‘You and whose army?’ Neil asked, his face deliberately grim.

Outside once more, Jay took a few deep breaths. He would get this sorted out if it killed him. That blinking doctor should have the sack. He was neither use nor ornament. The uselessness had
started years back, and residents of several villages suffered as a result. As for ornaments, Jay had never seen one with such a big, red nose. The man was semi-retired, and he should be in a field
with the rest of the worn-out horses who never did any harm.

‘Jay?’

‘Hello again, Keith.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Eh?’

Keith repeated his question.

‘You’re going back in there to look after Mrs Openshaw. I’m going . . . I’m going somewhere.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere else.’

The words blood and stone paid a brief visit to Keith’s mind. Jay had shut up shop and was no longer open for business. ‘All right. See you later, then.’ He went back inside
and bought Elsie a port and lemon.

‘What’s he up to now?’ Neil Dyson wanted to know. ‘I’ve had better conversations with cows and pigs at the farm. In fact, even the wife makes more sense than
Jay.’

‘He’s confused,’ Keith said.

‘Confused?’ Neil took a swig of ale. ‘I’ve seen balls of wool in a straighter state after the cats have been at them. There’s something wrong with yon
fellow.’ He slapped some coins on the scarred table. ‘Here, get Elsie another one of whatever that is while we wait for our fighter pilot to make up his mind where he’ll be
landing next. Let’s hope he’s packed his bloody parachute.’

Elsie, who had come only to give Keith a letter from Miss Pickavance, was enjoying herself. She was sitting in a pub with free drinks, and she was needed. Keith Greenhalgh hadn’t called in
for his mail today, and Elsie, who had recognized the copperplate writing of the new boss, had decided to follow Keith to the pub before going to bed. The message might be important, so she’d
wanted to put it in his hand rather than through his letterbox. It was also a chance to eavesdrop, and she could never resist that temptation. And here she sat, on the cusp of something eventful;
she could feel it in her bones. Against a background of conversations ranging from tupping through turnips all the way up to a war that didn’t seem to be happening, Elsie waited for the main
event.