Read Meet Me at the Pier Head Online
Authors: Ruth Hamilton
Meet Me at the Pier Head (55 page)
‘Indeed they are. One has an IQ at genius level. They need some help; they also need a future. Their families abandoned them.’
Theo nodded. ‘Go ahead. There will be no discrimination in Isadora’s school. And remember, we must all remain colour blind. By the way, the basket Rosie is carrying contains a very
young and totally incontinent puppy.’
Pete took it all in his stride. ‘Our boys and girls will help clean up after it.’ He smiled broadly, causing his eyes to disappear in his round, plump face. ‘Very little fazes
pupils here, since they’ve been through so much before they came to us. Go and sort out your accommodation while I find a couple of dozen children. They’re out walking with Miss
Stephenson; botany’s her speciality.’
And so Christmas at Bartle Hall was about to begin.
By Christmas Eve, when all the children were in bed, though not necessarily asleep, the ballroom looked like fairyland. The vast ceiling was covered in floating strings of
silver, some long, some short, and a few that stretched for yards. A huge table that was really several pushed together was dressed in red cloth with silver runners down the centre. There were
crackers and napkins and place names; a bran tub sat next to each tree, while balloons filled with fairy dust hovered in the air. Tomorrow, after the meal, Theo would burst them all with a long
stick, and the children would be covered in fairy dust.
A few of the older pupils joined in with preparations. Too mature to believe in Santa, they were happy to create the illusion for younger residents. Among these helpers, Rosie found her niche.
Because she was of their peer group, they talked to her after she spoke about her life as a small child. She was one of them, and this was where she would work. ‘I’ll stick with my
chosen subjects,’ she told her mother, ‘but I’d like to be a homer here.’
Tia said nothing; Rosie was at the age where ambitions changed as often as the British weather. Instead, she begged a favour. ‘Rosie, we’ve put you next to a girl called Eileen. She
hasn’t said much yet, but her infancy reads like a horror story. Eileen’s very thin, and she often refuses food. She was poisoned after scavenging from dustbins. Look after her,
darling.’
‘Of course.’
A baby Alsatian tumbled past them; she was covered in shreds of silver known as lametta, to which she’d accidentally become attached while investigating Christmas decoration boxes. Rosie
grinned. ‘Don’t say it, Mum. I’ll take her outside.’
The boys had joined in the search for holly – bushes at Holly Cottage would be denuded by now. Tia sat down suddenly. Cottages. What about deprived children who still had one loving
parent? What about a mother trying to protect her children from an abusive father? There would be fathers whose wives had died, good dads who could no longer work because of their children. She
wrote a note in her head. Prefabricated cottages? There was enough land, for heaven’s sake. Like Topsy, this place would grow and grow . . . But would the rejected be upset by some day pupils
having a home and a parent?
Ma was up to something. She’d been buzzing about all day, and a piano had been moved into the ballroom. Hmm. What was Isadora planning? Music hall, probably. She’d do the one about a
boy in the gallery, then the woman chasing through London with a caged bird as she tried to catch up with the removals van, Tipperary, knees up, plus a few she’d invented herself. Pete Wray
would play the piano, Rosie would probably sing, too . . .
Tom, Nancy and Martha were happily busy with place settings. Martha looked years younger, slimmer, fitter and almost confident. Nancy was without her knitting bag – things were looking
up.
This evening, Jules and Simon would arrive with Abigail and Stephen, their delightful offspring. Delia and Elaine, too, were on their way. Family. It was about family. And now, all these extra
children were members of the clan.
A hand touched her shoulder. ‘Portia?’
‘Yes, Theodore?’ She noticed that he was carrying the pup’s basket.
‘Get upstairs,’ he ordered. ‘There’s cleaving to be done.’
They’re drifting past, coming, going,
Hurrying, thinking, talking, walking,
Frowning, blinking, finding, seeking
The start of their Liverpool day.
Perhaps one will see me, free me.
My city, where’s Pity? Is she here?
So pretty, so knowing, cheeks glowing
With anger boiling, soiling the air.
She stood tall in the hall for me, just for me,
While I hid in the back, concealed but not free
Cos they’re coming for the Brat, little cat.
(Marks on his face from brawling before crawling
Home, where I waited, agitated. The man who can
Beat me, defeat me, destroy me, annoy me
By being alive).
Just a girl. Curl into myself on a shelf in my head
Waiting. Will she buy me, untie me, put me to bed
In a new place? Shelter. Helter-skelter, I return to the rails
Might she come? The hum of traffic behind me. Please find me.
Portia. Her name, a game played by her father, who would rather
Pick heroes from Shakespeare, a writer long dead. She said,
‘I’ll be there half past eight, you must wait and bring nothing.’
So I’ve No Thing from then, though now hasn’t started.
Are we parted already? Liver’s time, tick tock, ten o’clock.
‘Pier Head,’ she said. Led me back to my chair, touched my hair
‘Sit there.’ I sat and was proud, my heart in my ears
The fears will go. That’s what she told me.
Last thing she said? ‘Go to the Pier Head.’
‘A fighter, little blighter, an urchin, needs birching,’
He said, waving his jerry can. The American
Didn’t speak, stared at the freak, then at me
Grabbed my hand, made me stand near his door
Where I lingered, light-fingered. ‘She steals!’
Yes, I did, needed meals.
Then the man from New York brought a fork
And his dinner. ‘You’re thinner,’ he said.
Sad eyes, deep frown, black gown, Headmaster
Striding faster
Crossed the floor, closed his door and swore.
He swore, and the word rhymes with luck.
Please don’t tell. I’m eating his tuck.
I await my fate, half past eight
Long gone. Will she come?
Angry river makes me shiver
Dread and tears mingle
Fingers tingle.
Is this a cruel game?
Did somebody shout my name?
Ruth Hamilton is the bestselling author of numerous novels, including
Mulligan’s Yard, The Reading Room, Mersey View, That Liverpool Girl
,
Lights of
Liverpool, A Liverpool Song
and
A Mersey Mile
. She has become one of the north-west of England’s most popular writers. She was born in Bolton, which is the setting for many of
her novels, and has spent most of her life in Lancashire. She now lives in Liverpool.
By Ruth Hamilton
A Whisper to the Living
With Love From Ma Maguire
Nest of Sorrows
Billy London’s Girls
Spinning Jenny
The September Starlings
A Crooked Mile
Paradise Lane
The Bells of Scotland Road
The Dream Sellers
The Corner House
Miss Honoria West
Mulligan’s Yard
Saturday’s Child
Matthew & Son
Chandler’s Green
The Bell House
Dorothy’s War
A Parallel Life
Sugar and Spice
The Judge’s Daughter
The Reading Room
Mersey View
That Liverpool Girl
Lights of Liverpool
A Liverpool Song
A Mersey Mile
Meet Me at the Pier Head
A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The usual suspects – my family and friends, my care-givers and my animals.
PC Greenwood, probably no longer with us, thank you for ending the nightmare.
First published 2015 by Macmillan
This electronic edition published 2015 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-0-230-76907-6
Copyright © Ruth Hamilton 2015
Cover design ©
www.blacksheep-uk.com
Photographs of pier and woman © Alamy
Photograph of small girl © DPA/Corbis
Photograph of cruise liner © SuperStock
The right of Ruth Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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