The Liverpool Trilogy (74 page)

Those words would haunt her for years.

A very rigid version of Philip Watson perched on the end of his bed. Glowing cheeks were the only reaction to Hilda’s opening remarks, because he didn’t know how to
feel or what to say. He’d never been any good at anything, had he? Reports from school declared him to be a bold, stubborn boy with no desire to learn, while the cops in the Scotland Road
area were seldom surprised by his attempts to pervert the course of justice. ‘They’re just scribbles,’ he murmured eventually. ‘I’m not one of them soft girls who go
in for art and stuff.’

Hilda was prepared for that one. ‘All the greats are men, Philip. Michelangelo, da Vinci, Botticelli—’

‘And Watson?’ At last, he grinned. ‘Naw. It’s just something I do when I’m not helping out with Mr Collins. I’ve no bike, I don’t ride horses, so I have
to do something.’ He was glad that the school was full. Like many evacuees, the Watson boys were not in full-time education, since Miss Pickavance had been judged good enough to fill the gap.
She had their work sent down from the school, and sent it back to be checked from time to time by the head teacher. ‘See, Miss Pickavance, our Bertie’s got Pedro, and our Rob’s up
to his eyes in the rotation of crops, so I had to find something to do.’ He stared hard at his hostess. ‘You took it, didn’t you? You took the pad and pretended you
hadn’t.’

Hilda nodded.

‘Why?’ he asked.

She took a deep breath. ‘I showed your work to a lecturer from Manchester College of Art. He lives in Bolton, he wants to see more, and he wants to see you.’

Phil concentrated on his breathing for a few seconds. ‘And the ink drawing?’

Hilda laughed. ‘Everyone’s favourite. It’s framed for your mother. Young man, you are incredibly talented. You can make your living through your art. Not yet, not while the war
is on, but later. Your eye for detail is amazing.’

‘Why didn’t you say something before?’ he asked after another lengthy pause.

So Hilda explained about waiting until he was ready, about her fear of embarrassing him. There was a new quiet in him, a need for privacy. ‘I felt I had to leave you to it, but now I am
absolutely convinced that you are gifted beyond the norm. And you can’t own a gift, Philip. It’s lent to you for your lifetime, but you have to pass on the results to the rest of us.
Writers, composers of music, actors and painters – these people share what they have, what they know. Many artists died young and in poverty, because they worked full time on their talent and
others reaped the benefit.’

‘So it’s a curse as well as a gift.’

This was another Watson moment. Hilda should have become used to such events, because each of Eileen’s boys had hidden depths. Mel’s were on display, but she was female and unafraid.
Boys were so vulnerable and terrified of criticism that they hid their light under any passing bushel.
It’s a curse as well as a gift.
That a street urchin should have such perception
was amazing. ‘I am so proud to know you, Phil, to have been a witness and a friend to you and your brothers. Robin loves the land and knows more than many grown men when it comes to arable
farming. Little Bertie’s a natural horseman, while you, dear boy, are an artist.’

Phil blushed. ‘Have you any ink? I used it all.’

‘You have ink. I bought it as one of your Christmas gifts. Do you need it now?’

‘Not really. I can do the Mr Collins asleep sketch any time.’

‘Shall I get it for you to copy? It’s upstairs.’

He shook his head. ‘I’ll just do it from memory.’ Tapping his forehead, he grinned broadly. ‘I keep them all in here,’ he explained. ‘Let’s face it,
there’s plenty of room. And I can do it better this time. Thanks.’

‘For what?’

‘For pretending not to notice when I pinched all your uncle’s stuff out of the roof. If that hadn’t been there, I might never have found out how much I like drawing and
painting.’ He would be a man; he would do what needed doing this very moment. After jumping to his feet, he crossed the room and kissed Miss Pickavance clumsily on the cheek.
‘Thanks,’ he mumbled again. ‘Without you and this place, I might never have found out about myself.’ He left the room at speed.

‘And Hitler,’ she whispered. Had the war not happened, Phil Watson might well have followed his peers to the docks. Even the illest of winds carried some good news. Well, she had
done her duty, and it had been a pleasure. The wildest and naughtiest Rachel Street boy had turned out to be the best. ‘Never judge a book by its cover, Hilda,’ she told herself.
‘And never judge a boy by his sins. I wish those two policemen could see his work. As Nellie might say, that would wipe their eyes good and proper.’

With the exception of rickshaws and bicycles, Nellie and her two older grandsons had used almost every form of land transport known to man. They travelled by horse and cart, a
train, two buses, one tram and a filthy delivery van. They were now staring at part of their beloved city. Smoke and dust filled the air. Steam struggled through heaps of brick and slate that had,
until now, been family homes. Underneath all this, there would be bodies.

‘Bloody hell,’ Nellie breathed. Distance and countryside quiet had made the war almost unreal, because the fortunate residents on the Willows estate heard and saw nothing at all.
‘We don’t know we’re born,’ she whispered. In an effort to keep the boys cheerful, she chivvied them along. ‘Come on, lads. I can’t wait to see your mam’s
face when you give her that drawing, Phil.’

Phil stood as if frozen.

‘What are you doing?’ Nellie asked.

‘Remembering.’ His tone was sombre. When he got home – yes, it was home – he would commit to paper what he saw today. Slates slipping and shunting to the edge of a roof;
behind them, a hole through which a feeble flame struggled in its search for oxygen. On the pavement, two ragged little boys chewing on bread, their movements automatic, expressions fixed, souls
depleted. Everywhere, bricks and roof tiles and shattered glass. Two shocked children breaking bread in a scarred city. What had they lost? Were they brothers? Where was their mother? Somebody
would come for them soon, surely? Phil committed their faces to memory. The sky was dirty. Perhaps the sun shone behind layers of bitter smoke. ‘Gran?’

‘What, love?’

‘I’m glad Bertie didn’t come. This would have given him nightmares for weeks. Is Rob all right?’

‘He will be.’ She shouldn’t have come. She was a stupid woman—

‘Mrs Kennedy?’

It was him. It was the doc, the one she had clobbered, the bloke whose arm had been wrenched from its socket by a couple of old dockers. He was offering them a lift to Crosby. Rob was looking a
bit green round the gills, while Phil was simply staring, taking it all in. This wasn’t right.

‘It’s a long walk,’ Tom told her. ‘Get in. My wife will have my lunch waiting.’

‘Thanks,’ Rob yelled. He had seen enough. ‘Come on, Gran. I don’t fancy walking seven miles.’

The boys sat in the rear seat, Eileen’s Christmas gift clutched to the artist’s chest. This meant that Nellie had to place herself next to the driver, the very man who had awakened
Eileen’s lonely body, who had probably pushed the girl into the arms of Keith Greenhalgh. Mind, the marriage was a good one, so Dr Tom Bingley had merely hastened the inevitable. She studied
him. He was as black as a chimney back, and something akin to the colour of blood stained his hands. ‘Where’ve you been?’

‘To hell,’ was his quiet reply. ‘I couldn’t just sit there in Crosby when I could hear what was going on. I’ve been among the dead, the barely alive, the young and
the old. You shouldn’t have come back here.’

‘But it’s Christmas.’

‘Yes. The Germans know it’s Christmas, too, Mrs Kennedy. They imagine us sitting round our hearths with the children’s stockings hung and waiting, so they bomb us. The young
among us look to the sky for reindeer and a sleigh. Instead, they get Heinkels and tons of shrapnel. I did what I could. We all did what we could. But the people, including the walking wounded, are so unbelievably brave. I dressed the hands of a man who had prised off two fingernails in order to dig out his family, and he felt no pain.’

‘Did he get the family out?’

‘Oh, yes. Except for his wife.’ He swallowed. ‘If that happened to Marie, I don’t know what I’d do, Mrs Kennedy.’

So the rumour was true, then. It had come from Gloria, had been filtered through Mel, then via Eileen. But this was no game of Chinese whispers. He was back with his wife. ‘Good
lad,’ she said softly.

‘Is she . . . all right? Eileen, I mean. Is she happy?’ he asked.

‘She is. And expecting.’

‘Good.’ He stopped at a level crossing. ‘Sometimes, we don’t know what we have until we throw it away. Marie needed help, as did I. Tell Eileen I was asking after
her.’ He pulled away when the crossing barriers were lifted, drove up Liverpool Road, then stopped suddenly outside his surgery. ‘Stay here for a minute or two, boys. Mrs Kennedy, come
and give me a hand.’

She waited while he unlocked the door, then followed him into his surgery. ‘What?’ she demanded. ‘Are we here for a repeat performance? I can hit your jaw for a change if you
like.’ She smiled at him. ‘Pulling your leg,’ she said.

He told her about the town hall, municipal offices, a food warehouse, shops, an hotel, houses, the docks. ‘There are five railway arches down. People were sheltering, and it could take
days to get the bodies out. Fires are being dealt with by people who work all day, only to come out again to man trucks and hoses at night. You shouldn’t be here. Last night was the worst so
far, and I suspect we’ll be getting repeat performances. I think they got West Derby again, and Waterloo Grain House was fire-bombed and destroyed.’

‘I didn’t know,’ she whispered.

‘You’re supposed not to know, because what the populace knows, the enemy knows. They are among us, Nellie. And that’s not paranoia; it’s a fact.’

She dropped into a chair. ‘If we’d stayed at Willows—’

‘Stop it,’ he ordered. ‘I won’t have you making yourself ill because of this one mistake. What I am saying is that you must take the boys back. Stay here tonight. Keith
Greenhalgh and I will put our heads together with regard to petrol. I have an allowance, and I use a bicycle when I can, so I should be able to spare a gallon. And I have patients who might donate
some.’ He looked her up and down. ‘But God help you when she opens that door. She has a feisty side, as I’m sure you know.’

Nellie smiled ruefully. ‘Her dad was a quiet man, so she got her temper from me. Keith manages her.’ Keith loved Eileen, and Keith was capable of loving only one hundred per cent,
but the doctor didn’t need to know that. Between Eileen and Keith there was a chemistry so powerful that it seemed to colour the air around them. Those long, long kisses they stole when they
thought no one was looking, soundless word-shapes mouthed across a room, his hand in her hair, her head on his chest while they listened to the wireless. Tom Bingley had wanted Eileen; Keith
Greenhalgh adored her.

‘I promise I’ll take you back tomorrow,’ Tom said.

‘Thanks. And . . .’

‘And what?’

‘Sorry I hit you and put the Word out on you.’

This woman had done the right thing. Eileen had been his for the taking, and it would all have been so wrong. ‘Come on, madam. Those boys probably need feeding, and you’ve a virago
to face.’ He wished he had to face . . . No, he couldn’t wish, mustn’t start that all over again!

They stepped outside. While he locked the outer door, Nellie had a quick look round. Everything was standing, no gaps between houses, no dying flames. The Crosby bombs had fallen nearer to the
river, and just two houses had been wiped out. She would be living here soon, but she would rather be here now and know that Eileen was safe at Willows. Mel needed looking after, as did Frances
Morrison. ‘My daughter won’t let me come back till the house is all right,’ she complained.

Tom laughed. ‘It won’t fall down, believe me. It’ll be months or years before it’s finished properly. Stick to your guns. I’ll take you back to Willows, because all
your things are there and the boys need a lift, too. But choose a date and tell her you’re coming back. She and her baby need to be away from here. The house is stable enough, I promise you.
While it looks odd, it’s been passed as habitable by the corporation and the fire chief.’

‘All right.’ Nellie sat in the car and turned to her grandsons. ‘Your mam will kick off,’ she advised them.

‘We know,’ said Phil. ‘And we’re not bothered.’

The back door flew inward and Elsie Openshaw stepped in. ‘I’ve fetched you two bottles of Guinness,’ she cried. ‘Good for you and for the babby. How is
our Maisie?’ She entered the living room. It was a tip, and Nellie, who sometimes helped Gill, had buggered off to Liverpool with two of her grandsons. The third boy was helping Collie
Crawford, because Collie looked after Pedro, and Bertie liked to show his gratitude. When she got back from Crosby or wherever, Nellie would clean up Gill’s mess. Elsie, who was averse to
housework anyway, had to open up the shop in half an hour, but she had promised to call in here while Nellie was absent.

Gill Collins wasn’t coping. Like many who wait endless years for an imagined child, Gill found the reality of motherhood disturbing. Several days each month saw her hurtling to Willows
Edge or to the main house in search of advice when the baby vomited, when she seemed too hot, too cold, too fretful. And Jay got on his wife’s nerves.

Elsie placed the bottles of stout in a small space on the cluttered table. She hadn’t been a good mother, and she didn’t want to watch Gill failing at this very important job. Oh,
well. At least the nappies had been washed, because a dozen or so were hanging as stiff as boards in the freezing cold outside. ‘Shall I fetch your washing in, love?’

‘What?’

‘While you’re feeding her, shall I get the nappies in and put them to dry in here? There’s no breeze. They’ll be frozen solid by teatime.’

‘Oh.’

Elsie waited. ‘Right. I’ll fetch them in and they can thaw out near the fire. Then I’ll make you a bit of tea and toast, eh?’