The Liverpool Trilogy (152 page)

And she didn’t want to leave.

Paddy, drying her eyes after the sight of her old home, said she didn’t know about the state of things and how to get proof, but this was Riley land, and she would see what could be done
to mend things, make a holiday home where the family could come and stay in turns.

And Tess still didn’t want to leave. She found the field from which she’d dug potatoes and turnips to eat raw, stared at the spot where her caravan had stood, remembered the older
ones stealing her food. But none of that mattered any more, because this was her place . . . well, one of her places. Calm, so calm. She even went to find the grave of the little stillborn, and it
was there, marked by a cross on the trunk of a tree whose canopy shaded one who had never breathed. ‘Sleep well,’ she told her brother or sister.

‘Tess?’

She opened her eyes. ‘Yes, Paddy?’

‘Don’s being sick over the side somewhere.’

Tess smiled. ‘Then he’ll know how we felt coming over the first time. I wanted to die.’

‘You’re talking in your sleep, but.’

‘I’m not sleeping, I’m thinking. Look after Don.’ Tess closed her eyes again, and was immediately back in Mayo.

They walked back to the hotel and rested on their beds for several hours. Well, they were supposed to rest, though Don was kept awake by his wife’s ceaseless chatter. But Tess knew that
her man was happy because she’d finally faced her demons.

After lunch, they had another little walk, but not in the direction of the white house. It was then that Tess realized that there was something going on. Paddy and Don kept looking at each
other, then at their watches. ‘What are you two cooking?’ she asked.

‘Soda bread,’ came the terse reply from Paddy.

A small man rode towards them on a donkey. He stopped. ‘A Riley,’ he said, pointing at Tess. ‘Sure, they threw up these pretty little fillies for generations.’ He
grinned, baring a total absence of teeth apart from a lone ranger at the front. ‘Would ye have a drop of petrol on ye?’

It was the party of three’s turn to grin.

‘Because I’ve tried everything else on this lazy article.’ The animal resumed walking. ‘Did I tell you to go?’ the man yelled. ‘I never even put you into
first gear . . .’ His voice faded as the animal picked up a bit of speed.

‘Old Ireland alongside the new.’ Don pointed towards their hotel. ‘You know, girls, I have a sneaking hope that the old won’t die out altogether.’

‘Ah, it won’t,’ Paddy promised.

They rested on their beds before dinner, and during wakeful moments Tess thought about the changes in their lives since that first gathering. Everyone met once a month at Lights. A family tree
of sorts had been constructed, and she was reconciled with her siblings. The Three Musketeers, Don, Tom and Roy, enjoyed nights out together, as did their musketeeresses. There were family dinners,
outings, birthday parties, weddings. She belonged. She belonged with Don and the children; she belonged with the Rileys, too.

No more nightmares. No longer were the bottoms of wardrobes filled with tinned food. She almost missed the fear of poverty and hunger, which was silly. It appeared that even the worst parts of
life were woven into a person’s background, and that was stupid. She turned to the bright side. Reen was pregnant at last. For Paddy’s sake, and for Reen, Tess was glad, though the
father-to-be didn’t look up to much.

They woke, made themselves ready for supper, then went downstairs for a drink before their meal. They were accosted by their hostess, a bustling, busy little woman with the broadest smile on
earth, which this evening was just one expression of many mixed emotions. ‘You see. I said to Vinnie – didn’t I, Vin—’ She turned, but her husband had done a
disappearing act. ‘Would you ever look at that, now? There he is – gone. Don’t you find, ladies, that whenever they’re needed, they’re never in the place where they
should be?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Paddy said gravely. ‘It’s the disappearing act of the lesser-spotted human male.’

The landlady shook her head. ‘Well, yours back in Liverpool might be lesser spotted, but mine’s covered in freckles even in places the sun should never have visited. It’s the
O’Malleys, you see.’

Paddy didn’t see, and she said so.

‘Well, here’s the thing. There I go, rattling on, and you with no idea of any of it. The O’Malley clan booked tables in the dining room, special occasion, and Vinnie, God mind
his soul, forgot to mention it, so I’ll kill him later. Don’t want blood on good Irish linen, so. You’re in the annexe. I think it’s called an orangery, though I don’t
know why, for I never managed to grow as much as a hyacinth in there.’

They followed her through to the annexe, a huge glass room with blinds at all the windows. The sun had gone on its westward journey, so the blinds were not closed, and the beauty of the
countryside was all around them. A long table groaned under the weight of food, and a poster hung from the ceiling.
Eat your fill, Tess. From your brothers and sisters.

‘There,’ smiled the landlady. ‘All paid for by your family over to Liverpool. God bless, and I hope you enjoy.’ She surveyed the table. ‘I expect you’ll never
shift it all, but.’

Tess laughed. She laughed then, in that glorious country, and she laughed now, on her way home.

‘Tess?’ Paddy touched her shoulder. ‘Your man’s stopped heaving for the while, but I want you to come and look. Come away with you now.’

The ferry busied itself over the bar where sea became river. ‘Look at that now,’ Paddy commanded. ‘Sure, it’s a different beauty, but it remains a lovely, welcoming
sight, does it not?’

Tess agreed. That famous waterfront hove into view, its huge buildings made smaller by distance. They were home. The ferry chugged its way towards dock, bringing them nearer to their goal with
every passing minute.

‘And here we have it,’ Paddy said. ‘The lights of Liverpool. We’re home.’

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I thank above all Wayne Brookes who gave me my wings, who appreciates my poetry and makes me laugh.

Camilla Elworthy for bearing with my Franglais.

Louise Buckley who is getting used to me; I’m not easy to digest.

Avril Cain for research into local industries and their placement.

Liverpool just for being here with a rich, fascinating history.

Fudge, one, two, three, four, tail at the back makes five, good boy. It was time to go, sweetheart.

Hello, Blazer – God help me. He’s half French mastiff (Hooch) half Lab and completely confused. He understands neither English nor French, so I use German. He
doesn’t understand that, either.

Readers – you’re the main reason for what I do. Thank you. Ruthie.

Ruth Hamilton is the bestselling author of numerous novels, including
Mulligan’s Yard
,
The Judge’s Daughter
,
The Reading Room
,
Mersey View
,
That Liverpool Girl
and
Lights of Liverpool
. 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.

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 Judges Daughter

The Reading Room

Mersey View

That Liverpool Girl

Lights of Liverpool

A Liverpool Song

Mersey View
first published 2010 by Macmillan

That Liverpool Girl
first published 2011 by Macmillan

Lights of Liverpool
first published 2012 by Macmillan

This electronic omnibus published 2013 by Pan Books

an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

Basingstoke and Oxford

Associated companies throughout the world

www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-0-230-77281-6

Copyright © Ruth Hamilton 2010, 2011, 2012

The right of Ruth Hamilton to be identified as the author of these works has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Visit
www.panmacmillan.com
to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.