The Liverpool Trilogy (92 page)

Mel returned. ‘Gloria just phoned, Mam. Her dad’s going away because of nervous exhaustion. Apparently, it’s people who don’t seem nervous or exhausted that get nervous
exhaustion. So how does his doctor know he’s got it? I mean if it doesn’t show, how do they know? How does he know?’

Eileen swallowed. ‘You’re sounding like my mother now. It’ll show in his work and in his general behaviour.’
He’s going away because of me.
No, she
couldn’t say that out loud, could she?
He thinks enough of me to stop his life for a while and take himself off.
Or had Dr Ryan put him up to this? Elizabeth Ryan could be fierce if
she set her mind to it.

‘Gloria’s upset.’

‘She will be; he’s her father.’

‘It’s the war,’ Mel declared. ‘He’s been doing too much. A lot of people are doing too much.’ She carried some books to the davenport. ‘I’m in
charge of you while I do homework, so behave: it’s moral philosophy.’

‘Is that religion?’

‘Debatable. Mam?’

‘What?’

‘You know when they sort of got back together again – Dr and Mrs Bingley, I mean.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, it stopped. They’re still in the same bed, but all the giggling’s finished.’

‘Nervous exhaustion.’

Had circumstances been different, Mel might have asked the question, but she didn’t dare. Was Gloria’s dad still carrying a torch for Mel’s mother? Did nervous exhaustion
translate into a broken heart? This was not the time for such research, so she stuck with moral philosophy which was, on the whole, much easier.

Marie was not happy. Her husband’s doctor had declared him unfit for work, and he was to be admitted to a private nursing home in Southport. According to Liz Ryan, Tom
had been overdoing things for some time, and he needed a long rest in order to recuperate before too much damage occurred.

So this was the reason for his neglect of her, was it? After the treatment in Rodney Street, a honeymoon had ensued, and Marie was now the one who missed being loved. Sometimes, she caught him
looking at her with longing in his eyes, though he seldom made an effort in her direction. There was another woman. But no, there couldn’t be. Had he fallen in love with someone, he
wouldn’t have been so . . . happy wasn’t the word; he wouldn’t have been so complacent about going off to stay in Southport. According to Tom, Southport was suitable only for
retirement, death and seagulls. Thus he had been known to dismiss an elegant and much loved seaside town, and he now intended to reside there for the foreseeable future.

The suitcase was half filled and on the bed when he lost his complacency. He turned the case over and emptied its contents on the quilt. Who the hell did Liz Ryan think she was? Eileen’s
threatened miscarriage was nothing to do with him, and he was being forced to enter a low-key psychiatric facility because of it? He sat down. ‘Marie?’

‘What?’

‘I’m not going. She can’t make me go, because I’m not certifiable.’

Marie sat next to him. ‘What’s happening to you . . . to us? We were fine. Do you think more hypnosis would help? We were doing so well, both of us—’

‘No.’ He didn’t want to open up again. He didn’t want to admit to anyone that he was almost completely defeated by love. And how the hell could he love someone attached
to a Liverpool accent? And to another man? ‘It wouldn’t help the exhaustion, Marie, but a few weeks off work might. I don’t need to go to Southport. There’s a beach here I
can exercise on as long as I don’t fall over a dragon’s tooth and land in the barbed wire. Exercise helps with these symptoms. You’re here. My children are here. There’s a
dog I can walk. And have you seen the state of Gloria? She doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going.’

Marie had seen the state of Gloria.

‘I refuse to leave her, so I need to get this sorted out immediately, if not sooner. Back in twenty minutes.’ Tom kissed the top of his wife’s head and walked out.
Straightening his spine, he began the short walk to his doctor’s surgery. He was going to see Liz Ryan. She needed to be put straight, and he was the man to do it.

‘I am not and never have been Eileen Greenhalgh’s doctor. You can’t lose me my job. I shall stay away from my surgery as advised, because I admit to being
very tired. I’ll rest and exercise until I feel better, then it’ll be back to work. No convalescent home for me, Liz.’ He stood tall at the other side of the desk. Liz, seated,
felt small, and she knew that his intention had been to dominate the situation physically, mentally and through sheer dogged determination. He feared no one. She should have remembered that.

She glared at her patient. They both knew she wouldn’t report him; they both knew he was a good doctor who needed respite. ‘Stay away from two things. Liverpool, and Eileen
Greenhalgh. You are putting yourself at risk in Liverpool. And you are putting her at risk here. It isn’t love, Tom. It’s obsession.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Liz sighed heavily. He didn’t know how close he was to emotional collapse. People in such a state were often unaware of their true situation. ‘If you go anywhere near that poor
woman’s house, I shall make it my personal duty to separate you from medicine. I know she’s never been your patient, and she would have managed you and your idiocy had she not been
pregnant. But if her health worsens because of you, I shall report you. So.’ She picked up a pen. ‘A letter witnessed by my lawyer will be delivered to you, and you will sign the
delivery sheet. My copy will be kept safe. Go near her after this written warning from your doctor and hers, go near her while an injunction forbids it, and you’ll be in next
Christmas’s mincemeat.’

‘There’s no need for all that,’ he blustered.

‘Oh, but there is. She went to pieces earlier in this very room. “He won’t leave me alone” and “I’ll never get away from him” were her words. There is
need. Where she is concerned, you are a predator. You are not the Tom Bingley I know. You’re on the verge of emotional collapse and you may lose control of your behaviour.’

‘But I’m not on the verge of anything, Liz.’ Eileen was frightened not of him, but of herself. There was hope.

Liz tapped the table with her pen. Cupid was careless with his arrows. Never in a month of Sundays would she have expected Tom to fall for someone like Eileen Greenhalgh. She was extraordinarily
pretty, but she was not Tom Bingley’s type. There again, that was often how it happened. An intelligent and relatively sane man would come across someone who was nothing like his wife, and
the arrow went into his chest and stayed there. The same applied to women.

‘Eileen was drawn to me. It didn’t happen in one direction only.’

‘I see.’

‘Do you? Look, I don’t want to shock you, but she wasn’t putty in my hands – she was magma, red hot lava. And I did the right thing, stayed where I was, got help for my
frigid wife, carried on working, rescued people and so on. Let no one say I didn’t fight for the status quo.’

The helpless doctor could hear the change in her patient’s tone. Certification was not a possibility, because he wasn’t mad, and other medics wouldn’t support such a drastic
step. Liz and Tom had worked in tandem for years, each helping the other when the workload became too great. Because she knew him, she was acutely aware of the changes in him. Other people might
not see what she saw. He was utterly sane, miserably so. But the emotional seesaw he rode might tip at any time, and another patient of hers could suffer when he finally snapped. ‘Go
away,’ she ordered. ‘And I wasn’t kidding about the law. You will receive a copy soon.’

The look he awarded her might have turned a lesser woman to water, but Liz maintained her solid state. It was going to be just a matter of time; he had better wait until after those babies had
been delivered safely, God willing. But what if the births weakened Eileen? What if he started hanging about on the bombed playing field behind Eileen’s house? What if . . . ? There was no
point in what iffing. The bloody man had gone anyway.

A few weeks later, Elsie Openshaw arrived in Crosby. She was driven across by Mr Marchant, friend of Miss Pickavance, art tutor to Philip Watson. Elsie had seldom travelled in
a car, so she was round-eyed when she reached St Michael’s Road. ‘But . . . I mean . . . there’s all kinds of . . . I saw . . . what the blood and sand have they done to
Liverpool?’

‘Oh, that,’ Nellie replied with all the nonchalance she could muster. ‘They’ll not kill this city, Elsie. The folk down there are tougher than shoe leather.’

‘And they all talk funny. They’re neither for’ards nor back’ards.’ Elsie went through to visit the patient. Nellie looked at Keith, Keith looked at Nellie.
‘Can laughing cause a miscarriage?’ he asked.

‘I doubt it. She’s far enough gone, lad. The twins’d be in with a good chance if they got born now.’

Two eavesdroppers stood in the hall. They knew that Elsie was hilarious, and that she was completely unaware of the fact.

Her strident tones, complete with broad, flat vowels, made its way out of Eileen’s retreat. ‘Your wife’s trapped,’ Nellie mouthed. Keith nodded his agreement.

Elsie was in full flood. ‘You do. Just you think on. You do know who I mean. He was there the day you came with Miss Pickavance. His wife’s got a caliper – one leg shorter than
t’other. He’s a long, lanky thing with a hernia, called Malcolm. His daughter lives in the Edge near us, lost all her teeth in an accident, got a spiral staircase fitted just to be
different. I wouldn’t care – she doesn’t even own the bloody house. Spiral staircase, indeed. She’d have been a sight better cleaning up her doorstep – it’s not
seen donkey stone in years, hasn’t that.’

‘Oh, Elsie,’ moaned Eileen. ‘I’m so glad you came. You cheer me up.’

‘Well, I don’t know how, I’m sure. You’re easy suited if you can laugh at Malcolm Bridge and his hernia. Ooh, I nearly forgot. Are we doing lemon, white or pale
lilac?’

‘Eh?’ This single syllable from Eileen arrived crippled, as if it needed fitting with a surgical support.

‘Your wool. Matinee jackets and bootees.’

‘Any of those colours will do.’

Elsie lowered her tone, though she remained audible. ‘You’ve done very well after losing your pericoolium.’ She had been at the medical books again. ‘That’s the
proper word for it. At least it weren’t play centre previous.’

‘Placenta praevia,’ Nellie mouthed on the other side of the door. ‘She’s worse than me, because most of mine are deliberate.’ They went away for a quick giggle,
then returned to sentry duty.

‘No,’ Elsie was saying, ‘no, that’s her cousin. Mind, there’s a tale to her and all. Monica, she’s called. Very thin, lazy eye, gets a squint if she takes her
specs off. Lived tally with a bloke from Blackburn with a thumb missing and one of them hanglebar moustaches. He came home early one day and found her in bed with the boss from the Co-op down
Halliwell way and a lamplighter. They were playing tries and turns. But no, that’s Monica.’

‘I thought she’d stopped gossiping,’ Nellie whispered.

‘Anything outside the three-mile limit is fair game,’ Keith replied quietly.

‘And doesn’t Elsie know anybody normal and in one piece?’

Keith shrugged and pinned an ear to the door.

‘It were their Vera. Beautiful hair, she had, all waves and curls right down her back.’

‘What about her head?’ the invisible Eileen managed.

Keith and Nellie did another soft-shoe shuffle towards the front door. ‘I can’t take much more,’ Nellie said. They returned.

‘So she leans across the table, all casual, like, sticks a knife in his chest and carries on eating her toast while he bleeds to death. It were her best tablecloth and all, so she whips it
off and sticks it in cold water. It’s a bugger to shift, is blood. Then she has a second cuppa, combs her hair, puts her hat and coat on and goes to the police. “I’ve killed
him,” she says.’

‘God,’ breathed the patient. ‘Did she hang?’

‘Did she hell as like. When the police doctor stripped her off, Vera were one big bruise. She had twenty-seven broken ribs, cos some were broke twice or three times. Poor girl came a
flea’s whisker away from having a punctuated lung. Then there were the burn damage from ropes and fag ends – he used her as an ashtray. Happen he were practising his boy scout knots and
all. He were very big in the scouts at one time.’

Keith and Nellie fled to the kitchen. Now they had a war, a pregnancy, a teenage girl and an Elsie to deal with. Oh, and a bigger puppy. Eventually, they ran out of laughter. ‘I suppose
it’s only fair.’ Keith set the kettle to boil. ‘They’re overrun with Scousers at Willows, so why shouldn’t Liverpool be blessed with an Elsie?’

Nellie thought about that before answering. ‘She’ll not be used to it. Bangs, thuds, explosions and sirens – all part of our lives now. Nearest she’s come was when they
exploded a stray bomb over Affetside way. It was all controlled by the UXB squad. That German lad still writes to Hilda, you know. She reckons he’ll never go home.’

Elsie stood in the doorway. It might have been fairer to say that the doorway framed her, because she filled it. ‘That daughter of yours has a very strange sense of humour, Nellie. She
laughs in all the wrong places. But I’ll give her this, she’s saved them babies, God love her. And that dog won’t leave her side, will he? Eeh, it’s a smashing house, is
this. I bet it’ll look lovely when it’s done up and painted proper after the war.’ She went on and on, even when the others had stopped listening. ‘It’s nice round
here,’ was the last line in her monologue.

Nellie smiled to herself. This was the Elsie she had missed; this was the friend whose eccentricities would see everyone through the war. Elsie wasn’t everybody’s cup of
Horniman’s, but she was interesting, and free entertainment was one of the few unrationed items available these days. ‘How long are you staying, Elsie?’

‘Till I’ve counted them babies’ fingers, toes, ear ’oles and eyes.’ She cast a glance over Keith. ‘Aye, they’ll be grand as long as they get their
mother’s looks and brains. If they take after you, they’ll just have to do their best, won’t they? Can I have a butty? Or a bit of toast?’