The Liverpool Trilogy (65 page)

‘Young man?’ The voice came from the next room, and Keith tracked it to its source.

‘Help me up, please. Good. Yes, another pillow. Now.’ She smiled. ‘I’m Frances Morrison, and you are Keith Greenhalgh, so we can put the niceties out of the way. Would
you make me a cup of tea, dear? Eileen’s with her mother. Oh, and a scone, please. Then you can tell me all about yourself. There are some pills marked two o’clock; she keeps them in
the kitchen.’ The smile broadened. ‘This is the first time a man other than a doctor has entered my bedroom. Quite an adventure for me.’

‘Right. Tea and a scone, plus pills. Anything else?’

The old woman stared right through him. ‘She talks about you, enjoys your letters. You’re right for her. For obvious reasons, my doctor isn’t.’ She lowered her voice.
‘I’m not quite as deaf as I pretend to be. And I can walk further than people expect. The lady upstairs who found that poor family today has blacked his eye, I believe. She also set
some of Eileen’s dead husband’s friends on him. He’s lucky to be alive, because we have some tough people on the docks.’ She looked him up and down. ‘I have never been
married, young man, but I know a good match when I see one. And I see one now.’

Keith laughed.

But Miss Morrison had moved on. ‘They’re the first of Hitler’s Liverpool victims,’ she said. ‘The idea of going to live inland was too frightening, I suppose.
Scotland Road has a quality too many of us ignore; it teems with all kinds of life, and humanity prevails. It’s a support system. She couldn’t leave her children, so she took them with
her. Get my pills, there’s a good chap.’

In the kitchen, he found Eileen preparing Miss Morrison’s snack. ‘Is your mam asleep?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘The curtain between life and death’s thin, isn’t it? I should have stayed with Kitty.’ Suddenly, she staggered away from the tray she was about to lift.
‘She was already dead when Mel and I came here. I went in her house. The place was empty.’ She threw herself into Keith’s arms. ‘But it wasn’t empty. It had already
happened, Keith. Thinking back, I never heard a sound from that place after Mam left for Willows.’

He pushed her into a chair before carrying the tray into Miss Morrison’s room. ‘Do you want this in bed, or shall we put you in the chair? Your pills are in the saucer.’

‘I’ll stay where I am. Go back to her at once.’

Keith carried his precious human burden into the front sitting room and closed the door. On a sofa, he held her until she ran out of tears before kissing her hands, her forehead, her eyes.
‘You did nothing wrong, love. It was nobody’s fault.’ He wished he had the ability to take her pain and feel it for her, as he could not bear the sight of her suffering. She was a
giving person, a woman who cared. ‘Kitty can’t suffer any more, Eileen. Her children are no longer poor and deprived. In heaven, they’ll have shining faces.’

‘They were babies. If you caught them and hung on long enough to wash them, they were beautiful. Little Molly was just three. Kitty wasn’t well. There should be more help for people
who get ill in their heads.’ She paused. ‘Kiss me on the mouth and let me know I’m alive.’

He followed her order, and she clung to him as if drowning. ‘You’re alive,’ he told her. ‘And while we’re alive, we should stick together and trust each other when
it comes to your boys. You and I can manage just about anything.’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, I believe you, we’re a good team. But there’s a war to be got through when it starts. And Mel will be home in a while.’ She had to tell her daughter. Mam, who had
discovered the bodies, should not be forced to relive yet again the scenes she had found in Rachel Street.

Eileen continued to cling to him, and Keith had an idea why. Sudden death often pushed people towards rash behaviour. Many a child was conceived in the aftermath of a funeral, because the
bereaved hung on to each other in order to prove that life continued. ‘I’ll tell her if you like.’

‘Why?’

‘Because sometimes news as bad as this comes better from a stranger.’

‘And she’ll remember forever the first time you spoke to her. Meet her, by all means, but don’t be the one who tells her about Kitty and the children.’

Keith knew in that moment that Eileen was considering him as a potential suitor. She had spoken about the war as if she intended to be in his life when the conflict ended; now she was indicating
that Mel should have a positive picture of him. ‘Can I be there when you tell her?’

‘Yes. Yes, I want you there, but let me say the words.’

‘All right.’

Through new tears, she smiled at him. ‘You sent me poems.’ ‘Yes.’

‘And letters full of word-pictures.’ ‘Yes.’

‘That’s friendship.’ ‘And more. Believe me, Eileen. It’s a lot more.’

Hilda Pickavance replaced the receiver and walked into the large kitchen. As ever, Philip, Rob and Bertie were reasonably well behaved in her presence. She should have been a
teacher, as she would have needed no primitive weapons in order to keep control and hold the interest of her charges; Hilda was a born educator, but no one had noticed. And now she was alone once
more with Eileen’s offspring, because their grandmother was being treated for shock.

As gently as possible, Hilda told the boys what had happened in the house next door to theirs.

‘Why?’ Bertie asked. ‘Why has she deaded herself and her kids?’

Mental illness was hard enough to explain to an adult; with children, it was a near-impossible task. ‘She was ill in her head,’ she tried.

‘A headache?’ The youngest boy’s eyes were rounded by astonishment. ‘She deaded her kids—’

‘Killed,’ interrupted Rob.

‘She killed Stephen and Lucy and Molly and herself because of a headache?’

‘Not that sort of ill,’ Philip snapped. ‘She went crackers. The thought of coming to live out here drove her mad.’ It was enough to drive anyone crazy, Philip believed.
This dump was hell on earth, and Kitty Maguire had realized that. Sensibly, she had shuffled off before being landed with grass, cows, more grass, pigs, hens, goats, horses, more grass, walls, and
a post office that sold paper, envelopes, stamps, matches, lamp oil and candles. Apart from all that there were hills with sheep on them. And a lot of grass.

‘She was afraid,’ Hilda said.

‘She was right to be afraid,’ Philip insisted. ‘Because if me and our Rob have to live here much longer, we’ll be out of our minds too.’ He folded his arms
defiantly. ‘It’s horrible here, Miss Pickavance. The only good thing is the food, but we can’t sit eating all day, can we?’

Hilda pursed her lips and thought for a moment. ‘We’ve found you a school. It’s two miles away, and that’s no distance on a bicycle.’

‘Or a horse,’ Bertie cried.

‘It’s a school for older children,’ he was informed. ‘You’ll stay here with me. And when you do go to school, there’ll be no stable for Pedro, so forget that
idea. Now, look at me, all of you.’ She waited until all the scuffling and whispering had ceased. ‘You are silly, ungrateful and petulant boys. Not you, Bertie. You are safe here, all
three of you. Have you any idea of what is about to happen in Liverpool, especially near the waterfront?’

‘No,’ the older pair chorused.

She continued. ‘Since the reign of King John, Liverpool has been the gateway to the Atlantic. It’s the biggest docks in the world. Weapons and ammunition will be brought there for
distribution. Germany will be aware of that, and bombs will be dropped. Do you want to die?’

They shook their heads.

‘I can tell you now, only London will be harder hit than Liverpool. You are here to stay alive. Now, go to your room, because I have things to do.’

When the boys had left, Hilda sat and gazed into the fire. She remembered that thin, almost toothless young woman who had lived across the street, three children clinging to her skirts, two
girls, one boy, all dirty and with tangled, curly hair. The husband had come home from time to time, then his brief appearances stopped when he drowned in drink and the River Mersey. Kitty had
finally got her teeth, and Dr Bingley had paid for them to be made more comfortable. Dead. All three children dead, the mother hanged in a back bedroom. Horrible.

She missed Nellie. There was something so solid and comforting about the woman, as if she knew everything there was to know about life. But poor Nellie was in shock, so she, too, clearly had her
limits. One good thing had come from this dreadful mess. Eileen and Keith were together for a little while. They were well suited. If anything decent were to come from this war, a marriage between
those two would be a clear winner. It was a match made in heaven, though hell had to be visited first.

Mel took it badly. Keith watched two beautiful women trying to comfort each other and, after deciding there was little else he could do, took over the cooking. Eileen picked at
her meal, Mel made no effort, and Nellie slept through it, though Miss Morrison was complimentary. ‘Not just a pretty face, then, young man. How are they?’

Keith gave the best account he could manage.

‘So no one’s eating?’

‘No.’

‘Put it all in the larder. We can’t waste good food while there’s a war on. I need the pills marked five o’clock, and ask Eileen to come in when she’s in a better
state, poor girl.’

While washing dishes, Keith realized how easy it was when a person lived alone: one cup, one plate, a few items of cutlery. Even so, he’d give up his freedom in a flash if Eileen would
have him. Perhaps she would have him. After the war, after her youngest had had a few more birthdays, after Mel had gone to Oxford, Cambridge or wherever. Mel was a gorgeous girl, but he wondered
whether she would ever match her mother for beauty. He didn’t doubt for one minute that no one could be as beautiful as Eileen. Could he possibly be prejudiced?

Mel went upstairs, Eileen sorted out Miss Morrison, and Keith found a book on the history of Crosby, amazed to discover that there was still a manor house in which the descendants of Blondell
the Viking lived, that a person had to be a Catholic to have a cottage in Little Crosby, that any minerals found anywhere on any land reverted to the Blundell family. ‘It’s still
feudal,’ he muttered. ‘The only completely Catholic village in England. All that’s changed is the spelling, from Blondell to Blundell. Well, we live and learn.’

Eileen entered the kitchen. ‘They want toast,’ she said. ‘Miss Morrison’s asleep, but Mam and Mel have ordered toast and tea.’ She passed him the toasting fork.
‘You hold that in front of the fire and I’ll find you some bread to stick on the end of it. I wish . . .’ She started to cut the loaf.

‘Wish what?’

‘That you were staying permanently. I feel safe with you here.’

For now, this had to be enough. She wanted him in her life, and he toasted her bread.

Eileen was a bad woman. She was sitting on the stairs holding a lighted candle and wearing no more than a thin nightie, and she knew he was just feet away. What the scouse with
pickled beetroot was she thinking of? Was she nursing a vague idea that if she gave herself to Keith, Tom the Torment would disappear in a puff of smoke? No. She wasn’t quite that daft.
‘I’m an honest woman,’ she told the banisters. She had kept herself to herself since the death of Laz, and—

His door opened. ‘Eileen?’ he whispered.

‘What?’

‘Are they all right?’

‘Yes.’

He came to sit next to her.

‘Hello, Julius,’ she said. ‘Or are you et tu Brute?’

‘Keith will do, thanks. Are they asleep?’ He hung on to his sheet. ‘No pyjamas,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t wear them anyway, but I would have brought some with
me if I’d known. Are they asleep?’ he repeated.

‘Both doped,’ she told him. ‘Mam had a double dose. It said on the bottle two at night if required.’ He was virtually naked, as was she. ‘And Mel was crying, so I
knocked her out, too.’

‘The Crosby poisoner,’ he breathed. ‘And you’re wide awake.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re the same. Why?’

Keith chuckled quietly. ‘Only the guilty answer a question with a question.’

‘I can’t work out what’s the matter with me,’ she said. ‘But it’s as if I’ve known you all my life. A woman I cared about died today, and all I can
think about is being with you.’

Yes, here she came, the girl he loved. The honesty that always shone in her eyes was pouring softly from lips he wanted to devour, but he continued to hold on to his sheet. Eileen was capable of
naughtiness. This delightful trait, coupled with intelligence and humour, was all he wanted in a wife. ‘I won’t take advantage,’ he declared.

‘No, but I might.’

‘You mustn’t.’

She looked him full in the face. ‘Never tell me what to do or what not to do. I’m contrary. You’ll notice the same stubbornness in my sons, and in my daughter. So.’ She
touched his hand. ‘You don’t want me?’

‘Don’t talk daft.’

‘You do want me?’

‘Stupid question.’

‘You’re as bloody-minded as I am.’

‘Yes. I don’t want to face you tomorrow if you have regrets.’

Eileen stood up, climbed the top few stairs and entered the room she was currently sharing with her mother, who snored. She wondered whether Keith snored. If she spent the night with him, she
might find out. In the interests of research, a person needed to gain as much information as possible in order to compare and tabulate results. Who was she kidding? She had met her Waterloo and her
second husband. The boys would do as they were bloody well told, and that would be an end to their shenanigans. ‘I may be in love,’ she told her sleeping mother. ‘And if you wake,
you’ll know where I am.’

Mam didn’t approve of sex outside marriage, but Eileen nursed the suspicion that an exception might be made in this case. Everyone liked Keith. Even Mel, who’d been terribly upset
about the Maguire family, had voiced her approval. As for Tom Bingley, he could hang himself out to dry, because his luck was running out fast. Hang himself? She shouldn’t have thought those
words, because poor Kitty . . .

In the bathroom, Eileen cleaned her teeth for the second time tonight. She washed her face, combed her hair and walked into his room where she pressed herself ham-actress-fashion across his
door. ‘I must tell you something,’ she said in a voice that wasn’t a bad imitation of some Hollywood queen. ‘I have stretch marks.’ She blew out her candle.