The Liverpool Trilogy (59 page)

Eileen inhaled deeply. ‘I will, Mam. Because when I went to see him, I said sorry for what you’d done, and I told him he’d get nowhere with me. What I object to is you trying
to be in charge of a thirty-three-year-old woman. I shouldn’t have told you I had any sort of feelings for him. We’ve always been able to talk, you and me. It seems as if I can’t
ever tell you anything again.’

Nellie’s lip quivered. ‘Don’t say that, girl. You’re my world. You’re everything to me, Eileen. I just want to keep you safe.’

‘I know. But I promise you here and now that I’ll do nothing to hurt our Mel.’ She paused. ‘And I know well enough that I could come to love a man . . . perhaps a
sensible one like Keith Greenhalgh. I’m not a fool, you know. I just have a lonely body. And Keith is very, very special. I had a dream about him last night. It was . . . lively.’ But
she mustn’t make the hurry-up mistake, mustn’t develop war fever . . .

When Mel returned from her unscheduled visit, she heard them both weeping. As prearranged, she bounded up the stairs, went into the front room, removed the blackout screen and held a lighted
candle near the window. That was the signal for which Miss Pickavance would be waiting. The storm had passed and the air was clearer. It was Germany’s turn now.

The swelling had subsided somewhat, but Tom still looked as if he had gone several rounds with a champion boxer. Mrs Kennedy packed a fair punch, and she was hefty in the
verbal department, too. How she had managed to produce a daughter as elegant and dainty as Eileen beggared belief. Even Eileen’s accent had improved, and her tendency to abuse English grammar
seemed to be disappearing fast. But she was backing off, was becoming determined to concentrate on Mel, who was her sole reason for remaining in Liverpool. He wanted her more than ever. The war had
enlivened her sexuality, and he was prepared to serve her in any way she might require.

He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. A black eye did not sit well on the face of a doctor, whose prime concern was supposed to be the physical integrity of his patients. The official
explanation was that he had argued with a door and had come off second best, but he’d seen a few glances that spoke of disbelief.

The door opened. ‘Will you be long?’ Marie asked.

He continued to look in the mirror, though his gaze now travelled past his own image and settled on her. She looked different. There was tousled, carefree and newly styled hair, and a rosy glow
on her cheeks. ‘You look well,’ he remarked. The war seemed to be suiting women, then.

Marie nodded, backed out, and closed the door. She crept into the spare bedroom and perched on the edge of a narrow, single bed. He must not be encouraged to find her attractive. She was having
a wonderful time, and he was not going to be allowed to spoil it. The business she chose to name rape was now a thing of the past, and she intended to keep it that way. Tom and his pot of petroleum
jelly could stay in the master bedroom, thanks very much, because she neither needed nor wanted more children, as she had done her duty by delivering two for the price of one. He wouldn’t
come in here. He was too proud a man to chase her in order to have his way.

But . . . Norman had arrived in her life. Norman carried the keys to the church hall in which Marie’s WVS people met several days a week. He was a good Christian man, a widower whose
offspring had flown the nest, and he treated Marie with a deference to which she was becoming happily accustomed. Norman had beautiful hands, and he played the piano. He was over fifty, wealthy
enough after selling a string of chemist shops, and he was clearly attracted to Marie. For the first time in her life, she felt something that was no stranger to desire. When he touched her arm,
she shivered, and her nice, middle-class core prayed that no one noticed.

Marie Bingley now knew that she had never completely loved her husband. The marriage had been a sensible liaison encouraged by both families, since the Bingleys had a clever son but little
money, while Marie’s family had given her a dowry sufficient to house their daughter, her gifted husband and the children when they arrived. Tom had been paid to marry a girl who was moneyed,
but not pretty. However, she was prettier these days, and the man in the bathroom had noticed that.

Marie had no idea what was happening to her. All she knew was that a day without Norman was cold and empty, that his smile fed her, that his quiet playing on the piano while ‘his’
ladies knitted, chatted and drank tea was soothing and pleasurable. He was of the old school, had been raised by elders who taught him to treat females with near-reverence, and to run the family
business sensibly and with the welfare of customers at the forefront of his mind. Norman liked her, enjoyed talking to her about his time in the army, his war, the shops he had supervised.

She heard Tom going downstairs. After claiming the bathroom, Marie soaked in water perfumed by crumbled bath cubes, washed her hair and prepared to deliver a lecture on first aid. Her ladies
would be involved in battle once the bombs came and, as the wife of a doctor, Marie was deferred to when medical matters surfaced. She was in charge, and Norman had kindly helped her in the
preparation of the lecture.

It wasn’t love, she reassured herself. It was a decent man treating a woman properly. Nevertheless, before leaving the house, she applied to her mouth a discreet shade of lipstick. There
was nothing wrong with trying to look her best, was there?

The two rooms were beautiful. Eileen touched an eiderdown, pleased beyond measure when she felt its smooth, silky cover. Her room was mainly green, while Mel’s was in
several shades of pink. They each had a wardrobe, a tallboy and a chest of drawers. Eileen’s electric reading lamp had a tasselled shade, as did Mel’s in the other room. Mel also had a
real desk with a roll-back top and sections for all her work. There was a bookcase, too, and a good chair on which she would sit to do her homework. After Rachel Street, this was a palace.

Eileen checked the blackout screens, making sure that she understood the mechanisms that held them in place behind the pretty curtains. When both screens were back under the beds, Eileen began
to clean the bathroom. Miss Morrison was downstairs enjoying a bowl of home-made soup. The old lady seemed content and a great deal less worried now that she knew she would not be alone throughout
the war. Then, just as she was rinsing the washbasin, Eileen heard his voice. ‘How are you today, Miss Morrison?’

She shuddered. There was nowhere to run, and there would never be anywhere to run while she lived in this house. The owner had a heart condition, and was his patient. Mel and Eileen would both
be here, and the man downstairs was a bold, needful creature. His idea of courtship was roaming hands and battling tongues. She wanted him, couldn’t lie to herself about that, but all the
same he was a creature to be avoided, and avoidance was not an option now. The thought of hiding in a wardrobe allowed her a humorous moment, yet she didn’t even smile. He was here, and he
had come for her rather than for Miss Morrison.

When he entered the bathroom, Eileen continued to polish taps. He closed the door, and within seconds his hands were round her waist and travelling north. ‘I told the old dear I’d
take you home in the car,’ he whispered.

She turned in his arms. ‘Do you want a matching pair?’ she asked. ‘And I mean black eyes, not my breasts. I nearly lost the love of my mother because of you.’ Desire and
anger were a difficult combination. She wanted to kill him, needed to kiss him, and was as confused as a blind man in a maze. But she had known this before, had battled with and beaten several
desirable men who had tried to wear her Lazzer’s shoes since his death. Tom Bingley was just another toy she didn’t need.

‘Then learn not to confide in her,’ he suggested.

‘I may confide in the woman downstairs,’ she threatened. ‘And she’s one of the few who can afford to pay your medical bills. She likes Dr Ryan. Dr Ryan’s been here
when you’ve been unavailable, and women prefer a female doctor. Miss Morrison wouldn’t approve of your behaviour.’

Tom stepped back. ‘I like a feisty female,’ he said. ‘Though I could take or leave Ryan, I have to say. But you smell of tomorrow, my darling. A magic urchin, you are. So I
can’t give you a lift home?’

‘No.’

He stood near the door. ‘This Dockers’ Word,’ he began.

‘Stands indefinitely,’ Eileen snapped. ‘They’ve had to stick together, because the ones who got work had to help the poor buggers that didn’t get chosen.
They’re close-knit, welded and bolted together like steel girders. You make a move on me, and they’ll have you.’

‘Bollocks,’ he answered through a smile.

‘They have those, too,’ Eileen advised him. ‘They’re not likely to be afraid of a doctor with a black eye and a toothbrush sticking out of his ear.’

‘Toothbrush?’

She held the weapon aloft. ‘It’s all right, this is an old one, so I won’t be wasting much. I use it to clean round taps. Which ear would you like me to choose? I noticed you
have two of them.’

‘The one with a perforated tympanic membrane. That’s spelt with a Y or an I, by the way.’

‘Thanks for improving my education. Now, bugger off.’

He chuckled softly. ‘She made it up, didn’t she? That Dockers’ Word business is a figment of your ma’s fevered imagination. Though I have to say she probably picked up
her colourful language on the waterfront. Your mother has a mouth like a sewer.’

Eileen crossed her fingers behind her back. ‘She may be a lot of things, but Nellie Kennedy’s no liar. I’ve known her all my life, and she never lies, never steals. My mother
is an honest woman. You’re going to need eyes in the back of your head. Oh, and if you want to mend your ear drum, you can borrow our Mel’s puncture kit.’

His eyes narrowed. This one was a bright little bugger, and she wanted taming. ‘You enjoyed what I did to you, what we did together,’ he said.

‘Like everybody else, I have animal instincts,’ she replied. ‘The difference between you and me is that I can control mine.’

He nodded very slowly. ‘Can you? Can you really?’ He left the room.

Eileen sank slowly onto the lavatory seat. She couldn’t control her limbs, let alone the sensations that rippled through her body whenever he was near. There was a sixth sense, and she was
its victim. That extra faculty was nothing to do with looking into the future or talking to spirits. It was a two-way traveller, and very difficult to ignore. He was suffering, too, because his
extra sense had met hers halfway across the space that separated them. There were better men than him; there was Keith, for a start. She hadn’t spent enough time with him yet, but he was
definitely interesting, because even his letters made her innards melt. ‘Why do I suddenly need a blasted bloke anyway?’ she asked the door.

Tom was telling Miss Morrison that Eileen hadn’t quite finished her work, and that he had more patients to see. For the sick and elderly, he used a different tone, but it was genuine. Tom
Bingley was perhaps oversexed, but he actually cared about his patients. Miss Morrison thought the world of him, and he came and went as he chose in this house.

‘He’s not a completely bad man,’ Eileen whispered to herself. ‘But Mel matters a damned sight more than he does.’ There was no turning back now; she and Mel had to
move from Rachel Street. Rumours of dogfights over Hastings and other southern towns were rife. She couldn’t give back word to the lady downstairs, couldn’t stay in her own house, was
going to be living within reach of Tom for as long as the war lasted. He had in his possession a potion that could guarantee her freedom from pregnancy. It had come from abroad, and very few knew
of its existence. Oh, God. She should not be thinking like this.

Having regained the ability to walk properly, she finished her work and went downstairs. A neighbour would come in later to heat thoroughly the meal she had prepared for her precious old lady.
Frances Morrison was sweet, partially deaf, and as bright as a new button. She was looking forward to having Mel in her house, as she approved strongly of the public school system. She was a member
of the Conservative Party, an ex-headmistress of a small and very exclusive primary school, and she had objected strongly when advised to lower the union flag from its post in her garden.

‘Are you going, dear?’

‘Yes. We’ll move in at the weekend if that’s all right with you.’

‘Good, good. I shall get the chance to converse in French.’

Eileen laughed. In her day, Frances Morrison must have been the subject of gossip, as her bible held a commandment stating that all children should begin a second language by the age of nine.
The pupils of Abbeyfield School had entered secondary education with a smattering of French, and they usually outstripped all others in that subject, a fact that was much mentioned in this
house.

Eileen bent and left a kiss on a soft, papery cheek. ‘The minute this war’s over, I’ll run your flag up myself. God bless.’

‘And may He bless you, my dear.’

Tom was outside, car parked at the pavement’s edge, his person propped casually against a garden wall. He couldn’t have done a better job had he actually set out to advertise his
intentions. ‘Get in,’ he ordered.

‘No.’ Her heart was doing about ninety miles an hour in a built-up area, and there was a war on. Fuel, she told herself irrelevantly, should be saved.

‘Get in, or I shall kiss you now in full view of the inhabitants of St Michael’s Road. My wife will be told, and you will be co-respondent in the ensuing divorce. Come along, hurry
before a docker spots me.’

Fuming, yet hungry for him, she placed herself in the passenger seat. He closed her door, walked round the vehicle, then sat next to her. The engine roared as he turned and drove towards the
river.

‘You’re wasting petrol and your time,’ she said. ‘You’re also attracting attention with all that noise.’

He slammed on the brakes, and a shard of fear entered her chest, because they were still in a residential area.

‘Damn you.’ The words were forced between clenched teeth. ‘It’s not just about sex any more, is it? I have fallen in love with you, my little urchin. And you are a mere
inch from returning the compliment. If I were free, I’d marry you tomorrow.’