The Liverpool Trilogy (81 page)

By the time Tom had driven just a few hundred yards, both boys were fast asleep in the back seat.

Nellie glanced sideways at the handsome, well-dressed driver. He still had strong feelings for Eileen, but the girl shouldn’t be around for much longer, which was just as well, because
this chap was a selfish and decided creature who was capable of just about anything to achieve his own way. Nellie needed to persuade her daughter to do the swap no matter what Mel was up to.
Nellie could deal with Mel. And this fellow would deal with his son, or the dockers would be back. But she wouldn’t talk about that now, since the boys might wake, and it wasn’t their
business.

‘What did the Germans get last night?’ she asked. ‘Apart from the street we lived in. I know they hit that, because my friend’s house is gone, and our Mel and your Peter
were up to no good inside it.’ She lowered her tone at the end of the sentence.

‘Quite.’ He told her what he knew. The docks had been thoroughly battered yet again, while people in shelters had inhaled the scent of their Christmas dinners being cremated in a
nearby covered meat market. A chemical factory in Hanover Street had provided a giant firework display, and an electric power station had been disabled. ‘The fire service saved St
George’s Hall, thank goodness. It was heavily fire-bombed. When places like that disappear, people lose heart.’

Nellie delivered her firmly held belief that nothing at all would quench the wrath of Liverpudlians. ‘We don’t need nothing,’ she told him. ‘As long as we have a bite to
eat and a cup of tea, we’ll fight. That’s nothing to do with buildings.’ She looked at him again. It was plain that this fellow was no proper Scouser. ‘You’ve no idea,
have you? We’re different down there. The Liver Birds would be missed, like, but we can put up with most things. Strong, you see. Not all fur coats and no knickers. My Eileen’s as tough
as old boots. She may look like one of Cinderella’s glass slippers, but she’s tanned leather underneath. Keith can manage her, but he’s just about the only man who can.
She’s difficult when she wants to be, so he puts her in her place.’

‘On the draining board?’

‘Sometimes, yes. Or in a cage under the table. She’ll never best him, you know. But if anything happened to her, he’d kill.’

He heard the warning, and took heart from it, because it possibly meant that he was in with a chance. Not yet, of course; not while she was carrying a child. Almost seamlessly, he picked up
where he had left off. The best-loved Catholic church in Liverpool, Our Lady and St Nicholas, had been gutted. In Anfield, seventy-four had perished in a direct hit on a shelter, while two
infirmaries and a school had been bombed. ‘Countless houses. Relentless,’ he concluded. ‘They are bloody determined, because they know we have weaponry on the docks.’

‘How do they know?’ she asked. ‘It’s not the only city with docks.’

‘Spies. English people who support the Nazis.’

Nellie wasn’t having that. ‘Load of rubbish,’ she said. ‘There’s no spies down in real Liverpool. Though in my experience, all men will do anything to get what they
want, even if they don’t have a use for it and don’t deserve it. Germans who fly planes and drop bombs are men. They don’t need spies, because they can see everything from up
there in the sky once they’ve set fire to a few things. Well, I say men should all be locked up, let women take over for a while. We make things like babies, homes and dinners. Men destroy
our work.’

Tom changed the subject, asked how she liked the countryside and would she stay there after the war.

‘I well might. You get used to the quiet after a few months; you even get used to cows, pigs and all that. The air’s so fresh it cuts into your chest, and the people are much the
same as anywhere, really. Once you get used to them talking funny, it’s all right. I tell you what, though. I said we’d make Liverpool and back in a day, and I’ll never forget my
stupid stubbornness. We might not have got home at all except for you.’

He choked on a chuckle, turned it into a cough. Nellie had a true Scouse accent. If something wasn’t fair, it wasn’t
fur
. If a woman got a new fur coat, it was a
fair
coat. Words that ended in ck came out so guttural that they sounded German, vowels were broadened to destruction, and an interpreter would have been useful at times. And here she sat complaining
about inner Lancashire’s flattened tones. He wondered how the people of Willows fared when trying to make out what she was saying. She was a character. She had thumped him, but he
couldn’t help admiring her.

‘I was needed,’ she continued. ‘The odd job man’s gone odder than ever, in hospital with diabetes and hypo-thermals.’

‘Hypothermia.’

‘Yes, that’s what I said. So poor Elsie’s been stuck with his wife what’s had a baby and gone all peculiar. Started talking to herself, you know.’

‘Whose wife?’

‘Jay. The one in Phil’s drawing. Odd job man. See, he starts smelling of acid tone and—’

‘Acetone.’

Nellie grinned. This one hadn’t yet picked up on the fact that she twisted words deliberately. ‘Yeah, that as well. So our Phil shoves a barley sugar in his mouth and tells him to
sit down while his level climbs up again. But our Phil wasn’t there. And I promised, said I’d be back last night, because we’ve no idea up at Willows, you see. I mean, we’ve
got Land Army, and you can’t slaughter a pig without a papal blessing and three forms filled in – oh, and you have to grow loads of vegetables – but war? We see nothing up there.
So I said I’d be back, but I wasn’t, because we don’t think. I mean we know it’s happening, but it’s not real when you’re as safe as we are. I let them down. I
kept Phil away, too.’

‘Not your fault.’

She sniffed. ‘Well, if I’d never come, our Phil would never have come. And if our Phil had never come, Jay wouldn’t have ended up face down in a horse trough with icy water in
it. He’s got delicate constitutionals with all this sugar and everything. I mean, he was daft to start with, but he’s gone worse.’

Life was always more complicated once Nellie Kennedy entered the arena. She had a quick mind, an explosive temper, and an advanced sense of humour, but she was not particularly well organized in
the verbal department. Yet he sensed that had she been on the receiving end of an education, she might have been dangerous, especially in the field of politics or unions. ‘So he’s in
hospital?’

‘Yes. So that meant the post office was closed.’

He was losing the thread again. ‘Oh, I see.’ He didn’t see at all.

‘Because Elsie stayed at the gatehouse and waited to see if Gill got back from hospital last night. She’s not been herself. Gill, I mean, not Elsie. She had to mind the baby, did
Elsie, and she’s not fond of kids. And the lamp oil man was coming to make a delivery to the post office. So Freda Pilkington what lived in Rachel Street had to accept the lamp oil for Elsie
and put it in the shed. She took Kitty’s place, you see. Kitty what killed her kiddies and hanged herself upstairs. You remember her? All teeth, she was, God rest her.’

‘Yes.’ He had never forgotten poor Kitty with her smelly house, empty eyes, dead husband and no hope. ‘So the house meant for Kitty and her children went to Freda.’

‘Pilkington, yes. Her man’s in the army, and she’s a decent soul, so we brought her here. Right, stop now and have a look.’

He stopped.

‘That’s our Eileen’s house. Well, it’s Keith’s, but this is where they’ll be living. There’s Freda’s, then the one with the post box is
Elsie’s. She’s my friend. These cottages are all Home Farm tied. People what live in them work at Home Farm or Willows – that’s the house. Then there’s Four Oaks,
Cedars, Pear Tree and Holly farms. They pay rent to Miss Pickavance, cos they’re what’s called tenanted holdings. It was her house down Scottie Road what my granddaughter and your son
was messing about in. She lived at number one, then she inherited all this lot.’

‘Fascinating.’ Tom felt as if he had entered some parallel universe where things were nearly the same, but not quite. Apart from his companion’s disjointed meanderings, these
rolling hills were beautiful, while people who lived on the Mersey plain led the flatter life, no movement in the land, no dry stone walls, no dales. But he could not countenance a life without the
river, so he probably was a true Liverpudlian. ‘So what do you do all day?’ he asked.

‘Every-bloody-thing. See, Miss Pickavance has to be Miss Millichamp.’

‘Yes?’ It was happening again.

‘Miss Millichamp had a hacadamy in Liverpool what Hilda went to when she was a kiddy. Now, this here Miss Millichamp never caned nobody. She just got so saddened over bad behaviour that
the kiddies were upset. So Hilda – Miss Pickavance – pretends to be Miss Millichamp and she teaches school for the ones from Liverpool that wouldn’t fit into real school. She does
that in the morning in the afternoon room. I help. Because them hard-faced little buggers from Scottie need a thump sometimes, and she won’t give ’em one, so I do it.’

He turned into Willows Lane. ‘You’re a professional thumper, then.’

‘Yeah. And I supervise cleaners in the house, help Elsie in the post office, do a bit for her because she’s too fat to clean right. I bake, do washing, light fires, clean windows
– you name it, I do it.’

He asked whether Eileen would be expected to do the same after the change-about, and Nellie answered in the affirmative. Her Eileen didn’t go to bits when pregnant. In fact, she could
probably scrub a floor half an hour after giving birth, because she came from good stock. ‘Strong bones, you see. It’s the Irish in us.’

So this was where Eileen would be living with her much-loved husband. There would be no electricity, no gas, no decent plumbing. Lamplight would suit her, as would the shimmering flames from
logs on an open fire. There was, no doubt, a thriving black market in meat, there were fresh vegetables, plenty of eggs and an abundance of untainted air. She would thrive here. Yet he hoped she
would not become ruddy-cheeked, because her porcelain skin and delicate features were perfect as they were. This was supposed to have stopped. Hypnotherapy was helpful, but not a complete answer.
Anyway, the fellow she had married was strong, so was it worth dying just for one chance with Eileen? Did he know the answer to that question?

At the house named Willows, he was introduced to Miss Hilda Pickavance, whom he recognized from Kitty’s funeral, a Jean from Home Farm, a Gill from the gatehouse, a babe in arms called
Maisie, also from the gatehouse, several evacuees, and Elsie Openshaw from the post office. She looked far too large for one of those diminutive houses, and she had a great deal to say for herself.
The cacophony was deafening. Nellie threw out the evacuees, told Elsie to shut up, sat down and asked for a cup of tea for herself and her chauffeur. ‘The lads are still asleep in the
car,’ she said. ‘Right, doc. You tell ’em what’s happening to Liverpool.’

So he was forced to repeat all that he had related to Nellie at the start of their journey. Apart from little Maisie, everyone in the room was quiet. Unimpressed by tales of arson and
bombardment, she continued to coo. Her belly was full, so all was well with the world.

‘And you’re going back to all that, Nellie?’ Elsie asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Nellie replied. ‘I mean Crosby’s safe enough. But there’s a bit of family business going on, and Eileen might want to tackle it herself. Only
there’s Keith’s job and his house, you know—’

‘Safe,’ pronounced Miss Pickavance. ‘If they have to remain in Crosby, so be it.’

Nellie glared at Tom. None of this would have mattered had he been able to keep his son in order. But she had to admit, however grudgingly, that Mel had probably taken after her mother, who
liked and desired close male company. Peter Bingley wasn’t the only spoilt brat in the mix. Nellie had spoilt Eileen, and Eileen had been too easy with Mel. Tom Bingley might be a weak man,
but the Kennedy/ Watson clan was far from perfect.

‘I were looking for’ard to that,’ Elsie complained. ‘Goin’ t’ Crosby, seein’ ’ow t’ other ’alf lives.’

Nellie straightened her spine. ‘For’ard? For’ard? Ah mun tell thee now, Elsie, tha were terrified when I asked thee.’

Elsie started to laugh. Nellie’s attempt at Boltonese wasn’t half bad. In fact, she was picking up a gradely way of talking if she’d shape a bit better and concentrate.
‘Tha’s passed th’ exam,’ she roared. Her body shook like a giant jelly. It was clear that she had no ongoing relationship with corsetry. Perhaps she wore it on special
occasions, and this occasion was far from special, since rolls of blubber collided all over her very ample body.

Tom thought of Marie and smiled. She had her corsets made by a lady named Mrs Wray,
the
corsetière extraordinaire of Crosby, Liverpool. Now that Marie was more relaxed, she had made her
husband laugh about corsets. ‘No woman can taste true happiness unless she experiences the intense joy of those few moments after her release from whalebone. Freed flesh itches, and
scratching is ecstasy.’ Yes, Marie was coming along nicely, and he wished with all his heart that he had never met Eileen Watson.

A young boy entered through the back door. Behind him, a polite, blond-headed pony put his head into the house. ‘Stay,’ ordered the boy. ‘Good boy. I’ll get you a
carrot.’

Tom grinned. At least Eileen’s youngest hadn’t placed the animal on a draining board. ‘Are you Bertie?’

‘Yes, I am. Did you bring Gran back?’

‘I did. She has your presents, but you can’t open them before Christmas Day. So you’re the horseman.’

Bertie fed his best friend. ‘Or a vet if I’m clever enough.’ He turned and looked at Tom. ‘Are the Germans knocking Liverpool down?’

‘Some of it, yes. We will rebuild it, son. Nothing will ever make our city lie down completely. Just you remember to say your prayers. That’s all we can do for now.’

Bertie nodded thoughtfully. ‘Gran said on the phone you go down sometimes and rescue people. She says you’re a very brave man who couldn’t go to war because of two left feet
and a duff ear.’

Tom found himself laughing. ‘I’m a bit old for war, Bertie. So I do what I can.’ He felt strangely pleased because Nellie had praised him; like a schoolboy who had been given a
star for getting his homework right. Hell’s bells, he was a doctor, a diagnostician, a saver of human life. Yet he blushed because a loudmouth with a punch like a heavyweight boxer had
expressed approval of him. ‘I’d better go,’ he said. ‘Patients to see, things to do.’ He accepted gratefully gifts of four chickens, two dozen eggs, two pounds of
butter, some cream and an assortment of vegetables. These items were to be split between his household and Frances Morrison’s for Christmas. When the sleepy boys had been evicted from his
car, he waved to the gathered crowd. It was a crowd because Elsie was there, he supposed. He liked her; she was a good laugh.