The Liverpool Trilogy (70 page)

Hilda Pickavance, owner and mistress of the Willows estate, was a political animal with an inquisitive mind and a tendency to be inwardly critical of all who walked the
corridors of power. Far from evangelical and allied to no party, she watched and made written comment on the performances of representatives local and national. In quieter moments, which were
relatively few, she looked at her older writings while adding what she could manage about events of the day. Most of her recent essays were on the subject of Eileen’s boys, all three of whom
had improved considerably during their year in the wilds.

Everything had changed, and not just because of the war. Down the road, amid the dark, satanic mills, poverty ruled. But the south had basked in glorious affluence until last year; it had hardly
been fair.

The decade of duality was finally over. The 1930s, ten years during which Britain had prospered in the south and decayed in the north, had survived Wall Street because of one man, and that man
was Neville Chamberlain. Swept aside to make room for Churchill, he was now a creature people remembered as naive. In the minds of the populace, he carried in his hand a crumpled paper signed by a
liar, a monster, a nutcase. ‘There was more to Chamberlain than that,’ Hilda muttered to herself. ‘Perhaps he ignored the north, but he saved the Exchequer.’ He had built a
wall around the islands, had traded carefully and wisely, had kept the country away from the brink of total perdition. ‘The good is oft interred with their bones,’ she quoted.
Shakespeare was usually acutely and painfully correct, even in this day and age.

Jarrow had been horrible, but the fact remained that Victorian factories were already in decline, and manufactured goods were purchasable at lower prices from worldwide sources. A swathe of dire
and infected deprivation had spread itself across northern counties, and life had been hell on earth. So they had marched and shown themselves, down at heel, clothes torn and tattered, heads high.
‘We are the same as you,’ that march had screamed. ‘And you are taking not just the cream, but the whole pie. While you eat, our children perish.’ Had anyone listened? Did
anyone ever listen?

In the south, arterial roads were laid, houses with front and rear gardens were bought via mortgage by members of the middle class and, more recently, by ordinary working men. For less than a
thousand pounds, such a house would have a garage. Factories that looked like exhibition buildings cropped up, and while many northern towns had unemployment of up to 60 per cent of the available
workforce, the south was fully utilized except for 3 or 4 per cent who were too ill for work. Commuter rail systems were installed, and the south was very well, thank you.

And here came war. Ill-nourished and exhausted Jarrow marchers fought alongside healthy southerners, and the divide would still be there when the war ended. ‘We need a women’s party.
We need to occupy the lobbies and the benches to show these silly little boys how to live creatively.’

The produce of another scribe lay alongside Hilda’s in a drawer of the bureau. Mel Watson had the eyes of an eagle and the ears of an alley cat, and she pulled no punches. The list was
enough. Although Mel collected and recorded detail, it was safer to look just at the headings. In July, Altcar searchlight post was eradicated, but they missed Fort Crosby. August saw the battering
of Birkenhead on the Wirral, and the first outright fatality was a female domestic servant. Wallasey came next, followed by Liverpool’s dock road and overhead railway.

West Derby received a shower of incendiaries, one of which hit a nursing home. Towards the end of August, just before the wedding of Eileen and Keith at St Anthony’s on Scotland Road, West
Derby was pounded by high explosives. From early September to its end, there were sixteen raids on the city, eleven on Birkenhead, nine on Wallasey and four on Crosby. Walton Jail was hit,
resulting in the deaths of wardens and prisoners, and, days later, the Argyle Theatre in Birkenhead was demolished and cremated.

There was humour, too. A crazed German fighter pilot fixed his sights on a Liverpool bus. Flying perilously low, he peppered the vehicle with bullets while passengers squeezed under seats. The
driver was not amused. He leaned on his horn and ploughed on like a dodgem at the fair until the German got fed up and beggared off. No one was hurt except for a few bruises resulting from the
driver’s actions, and the only victim of the airborne lunatic was a fireman’s hat, which got blown off and dented during the episode.

Smiling grimly, Hilda put away the writings and sat on her bed. Several good things had happened, and the best was the marriage between Eileen and Keith. Even an old maid could not fail to be
aware of the chemistry between them. Better still, they were the greatest of friends and happy companions, while all four children had begun to respect their stepfather, so the future seemed
bright. Except, that was, for the small matter named war.

Someone tapped on the door. ‘Come in,’ she called.

It was Bertie. He was as black as an old pot, a creased forehead betraying him as a thinker, and there was straw in his hair, but that was all par for the course. ‘Hello,
Bertie.’

He announced that he now knew what a fetlock was before parking his less than clean person next to Miss Pickavance. ‘Miss?’

‘Yes?’

‘You know like a half-brother what we’re getting?’

‘Or sister. Yes.’

Bertie delivered a loud, damp raspberry. ‘We’ve got Mel, and she’s enough. We don’t want no more girls. Now, I’m not daft. I’m eight now, so I’m not a
little ’un any more.’

‘Of course you’re not daft.’

‘I know a half-brother doesn’t mean one arm, one leg, one eye, one ear, one—’

‘Yes, yes. I’m sure you’re aware of all that.’

‘So what does it mean, then?’

Hilda opened her mouth, closed it again. She was a good teacher. She had been offered a place on a twelvemonth course created to bring more educators into the profession during and after
wartime. ‘Well, your father was Lazzer. Lawrence was his real name, though. Splendid man.’

‘Yup.’

‘And Eileen’s your mother.’

‘Yup.’

‘Bertie, say yes.’

‘Yup. All right. I mean yes.’

‘So your half-brother or sister will be from the same mother, but a different father, and that will be Keith, who is now your stepfather.’

Bertie took a deep breath. ‘But dads don’t do nothing about a baby. It’s the mam what screams and swears and pushes the new one out of her bum. I know, cos I’ve heard it
in our street. And what does “tell him to tie a knot in it” mean? That was what Mrs Pilkington yelled after she throwed him out in the street. He had to sit on the doorstep while she
shouted swear words and that. Nearly crying, he was. I sat with him and he said I was a grand lad. Held me hand, he did. I felt sorry for him. Mams can be very fierce people.’

Hilda sighed heavily. Teaching was often a rocky road. ‘Hens lay eggs,’ she said, wondering immediately why she’d said it. What on God’s good earth had she been thinking
of?

‘And mams lay eggs?’ the child asked. ‘Do they? I never seen one.’

‘Er . . . in a way, yes, they do lay eggs.’

‘But you don’t boil ’em or fry ’em.’

She smothered a grin. ‘No. Without a strong microscope, you wouldn’t even see them, because they’re very tiny.’

‘Oh.’

She wished she’d never allowed this to start. She was standing on a slippery roof, no ladder, no rope to tie to a chimney, no idea of what to do to save herself . . . ‘Ask your
grandmother. She should know more than I do, because she’s been a mother.’

‘I did ask her. She sent me to you. She said you’d know all about it, on account of you’re the teacher, like.’

Oh, God. Nellie’s devilment was on the loose again. Biology. Hilda jumped headlong into a chaos of which she had never before been a victim. ‘The cockerel has to cover the hen and
make the other half of the chick. If the hen’s been covered, the egg’s not for boiling, but for hatching.’

‘Cover? What with? A blanket?’

She swallowed. ‘With himself.’

Bertie pulled a piece of straw from his hair and chewed on it thoughtfully. A penny dropped. ‘Is it to do with all that kissing and chasing about and stuff? With people, I mean. Cos I can
tell you now my mam’s fedded up with it. She’s happy about the baby, but she keeps hitting Keith with towels and all sorts. Only it’s a game, see? She’s laughing, and you
can tell she’s happy. Does that end up with him being a cover like the cockerel? And was my dad my cover?’

She wouldn’t laugh. ‘Broadly speaking, yes, that’s the truth of it.’

‘Oh, right.’ Bertie studied his soggy straw. Then, with that seamlessness known only to the young and precious, he moved on. ‘Why doesn’t it hurt when Pedro gets his
shoes nailed on? I wouldn’t want nothing hammered onto my feet.’

Hilda, unaware until this point that she had been holding her breath, allowed her chest to relax. She loved these terrible boys. Bertie was as bright as his sister, though academia was not for
him. Robin read hungrily, pouncing on anything connected to the art of arable farming. As for Philip – oh, what a victory. ‘Bertie, get a bath, please. We’ll talk about horseshoes
and farriers tomorrow. You smell very horsey.’

‘Better than our Rob,’ the child replied. ‘He stinks of ferti . . . ferti . . . of all kinds of muck, says he’s going into Brussels sprouts next year. Can you imagine
anything as daft as that?’ He stalked off, dignity diminished by mud, straw, and a large hole in the seat of his trousers.

A sheepish Nellie put in an appearance. ‘Did you tell him, then?’

‘Of course.’

‘Bloody hell, Hilda.’

‘Quite.’

‘Our Eileen would have told him, but she’s too . . . too head-on. It would have been drawings of willies and women’s personals, and—’

‘Stop it.’ Hilda held up a hand. It occurred to her that she would miss this dear woman, but someone had to stay with Mel and Miss Morrison. ‘Nellie?’

‘What, love?’

‘I want to show you something. And I want you to keep it secret for the time being. I mean that. You mustn’t say a single word.’

‘I promise, I do. I promise on both me bunions.’

‘Oh, I shall miss you, Nellie. And I shall stamp on both your bunions if you let me down. We need to tread softly for a while.’

Nellie bit back a remark about always treading softly near people’s bunions. ‘I’ll be here some weekends and school holidays. There’s somebody with the WVS says
she’ll look after the old lady for us. Don’t be sad about me going. Eileen and Keith will take at least one of the lads.’

Hilda, halfway across the bedroom, stopped in her tracks. ‘Of course they must go to their mother if they wish, but that’s a very small house, and . . .’

‘And you love your boys, eh, Hilda?’ In less than a year, Hilda, Neil, Jay and Keith had tamed even the oldest. Philip, a natural handyman, had proved particularly good at painting
and decorating. He had also developed a strong affection for Jay Collins, who was not always careful with his diabetes. ‘He’s happy, our Phil. Isn’t he?’

‘Oh, yes.’ The mistress of the house pulled something out from beneath her dressing table. ‘More than happy, Nellie. A lot more.’

Nellie took the pad. It boasted page after page of sketches, some in pencil, others in charcoal, one in black ink. Jay Collins, eyes closed, sat on the ground and leaned for support against the
scarred wall of a barn. With his cap worn sideways and his ankles crossed, he slept through his lunch break, an empty butty tin on the cobbles beside him. Nellie could almost hear his snores. Every
flaw on the stone-built barn was recorded; even the frayed edge of Jay’s cap was in its place.

Trees seemed to grow and sway, horses wanted to leap from the pages, people were practically walking off the paper. ‘You’re a clever girl, Hilda.’

‘They’re not mine, Nellie. I didn’t do them.’

‘No? Aw, look at this – Gill and Jay’s Maisie asleep in her pram.’

‘Phil did them.’

‘Eh?’

‘They’re Phil’s.’

Nellie pushed the pad away because she didn’t want to mar perfection with tears. ‘He’s a good drawer,’ Eileen had said frequently, and clever Nellie had agreed, offering
the opinion that Phil was a full chest of drawers, as he often concealed goods, usually stolen, about his person. Mel was the family genius; Phil was a lazy sod who did as little as possible.
‘It’s been waiting to come out, hasn’t it, Hilda?’

‘Yes.’ She went on to explain that Philip, while tidying the attic, had found Uncle Adam’s pads, pens, chalks and paints. ‘He dug out easel, canvases and paints. You
should see what he can do with a palette knife, Nellie. But that’s all under his bed – he doesn’t know I know he took it. He thinks he’s lost this sketch block, so I plan to
“find” it and ask him who owns it.’ She paused. ‘Nellie?’

‘What?’

‘Don’t cry. This lot has to go to Manchester. Phil deserves a place in a good school of art. First, he has to know that I know. It has to be me. I am unbiased, since I’m not
family.’

A stunned Nellie dried disobedient eyes. So. Eileen had produced a lawyer bound for Cambridge, an artist, a farmer and a soon-to-be expert on horses. What was she carrying now? A brain surgeon?
‘I wish I could be here,’ she moaned. ‘But Eileen has to come back with her husband, bless them. She’ll be safer at Willows Edge. And I’ll be there for our Mel.
Doesn’t everything happen at once?’ She scuttered off to her own room where she could weep privately. Her Philip was a Leonardo da Vinnie. Something like that, anyway.

It was a slow and tedious process, and it was clear that Marianne Bingley was occasionally having her patience tested, but she was too stubborn to abandon the project. Coming
to after a session was unnerving, because little shards of deliberately buried memories lingered for a while just beyond reach of her consciousness, so she never got the whole picture. Yet she was,
for the most part, calm and unafraid, so some good was coming out of the treatment.

Sally Barnes of Rodney Street was a pioneer. A psychologist, she employed hypnosis, and was considered by most medics to be a quack, but Tom believed in her, as she had achieved marked success
with those who could afford her fees. She trod softly. Marie needed softly. And it was worth a try, surely? Divorce was messy and expensive. Divorce hurt people, many of whom were children who
might well grow up with no belief in love, in endurance, in effort.