The Liverpool Trilogy (95 page)

‘And you’re crying, soft lad. You know, I took you on trust, because I hadn’t known you for long, but I wanted you. It was a bit like remembering tomorrow, and that’s
silly. “He’s the one,” I kept saying internally. I’m glad I took that chance. Are you?’

‘I’m glad you took the chance, yes. But I was absolutely certain. I don’t take chances. You were my future; you still are. And they’re going to cut you
open—’

‘Oh, shut up, Keith.’ She didn’t want him to know her terror. ‘These two are so near the surface – you could cut them out with a butter knife. But the docs
won’t let you watch the procedure, as they call it. You leave them to their knives and forks, keep your mouth shut and your mask on.’

Keith the kisser was alive and well. His embrace reminded her that she continued a woman, that her body still belonged to her in spite of a couple of temporary non-paying guests who seemed to
have claimed rights of residency. ‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered when he released her. ‘It will be fine. In fact, once these two are freed from jail, there’ll be no
peace. It’s all nappies and bottles. They don’t encourage breastfeeding after a section, and there will be two of them. There will. Both move, I promise you. And we’ll be
exhausted. Kids are a mixed blessing.’ But she was better placed now. There’d be no running wild in an overcrowded community, no police, no bookies.

‘Mrs Bingley’s given you a lovely present. It’s a very posh twin pram.’

‘Oh.’

‘It looks new. I think she’s cleaned it to within an inch of its life, and she’s put sheets and blankets in it, too. Sweetheart, be gracious.’ He waited for a response.
‘You and Marie are good friends, aren’t you? She visits you, and you get on.’

‘Yes.’

‘So what’s the matter?’

It was stupid, and she knew it was stupid, but she didn’t want anything of Tom’s, didn’t like the idea of placing her twins in the pram that had contained his children.
‘Nothing’s the matter. We can afford our own pram.’ It was hard enough having to listen to Elsie and Mam talking in the next room about Tom Bingley, often singing his praises. Mam
was two-faced.

‘Eileen?’

‘I know, I know. My motto is accept anything but blows. Raggy little Rose, someone else’s clothes, begging on the corner for anything but blows.’ She smiled. ‘I’m
not that person any more. I’m Queen Eileen. And it’s nothing to do with money or owning a house. I married a king. Get your guards to keep him away from me.’

‘There’s an injunction, love.’

‘For the duration of the pregnancy, yes.’ She would be at her most vulnerable in Parkside. The injunction would be useless the minute the twins left the womb. He was a doctor. He
might have patients in the little Catholic hospital. Her family could not be by her side all the time, and a medic had the right to enter Parkside in the middle of the night if he so chose. There
was no danger of his hurting her physically, but he might well upset her.

Why? Why could she be upset? Because she felt sorry for him, and pity was closely related to love. Behind the predator was a man, an ordinary, well-educated man. She knew he could have made her
laugh; she knew that had he not been married, she would have been forced into a quandary. The two men, so far apart on the surface, had a great deal in common. In spite of all that, the certainty
that she had married the right one remained firm. But she needed to stay away from Mr Might-have-been. The imbalance of hormones didn’t help, and a woman recently delivered of a child was
extra emotional.

Keith seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be living in the car.’

‘You have to eat.’

He tutted. ‘We’ve a cupboard full of National Dried. I’ll make myself some bottles.’

‘Bathroom?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got nappies.’

It was in moments like this that Eileen realized the depth of her love for her husband. A sensible, organized man, he still managed to retain a lunacy that was essential as far as she was
concerned. ‘Getting a wash?’

‘I’ll stand naked in the rain.’

‘The penguins will die of shock.’

‘Naw. They’ll hang on to their rosaries and pray for a repeat performance.’

‘I love a confident man.’

‘And I love you.’ He proceeded to deteriorate into the gibbering idiot who spouted lovey-dovey nonsense mixed with lewd terms concerning what he would do to her once she got back to
normal.

‘But we haven’t got a trampoline, Keith.’

‘I’ll make one. And a hammock. You just have to approach these matters scientifically.’

‘Right,’ she said.

He awarded her one of the more dazzling of his smiles. ‘And after that, if we’re still breathing, we’ll have chips.’

‘Not ribbon spuds?’

‘God, no.’ Because of Mel’s research into ten different ways to cook potatoes, they had been plied with heaps of ribbons. The offerings would have been acceptable if the girl
had heated the fat to a reasonable temperature. ‘We’ll stick to the chippy,’ he said. ‘By the way, who’s Bootle Betty and why did she wear a wig?’

‘You don’t want to know . . .’

Marie was in a mood. Marie didn’t have many moods, so Tom was perturbed. When the children had left for school, he remained at the breakfast table, arms folded while he
watched her. She was scurrying. She never scurried unless something had gone wrong at the WVS. And she wouldn’t look at him.

He untangled his arms and pretended to read a very slim newspaper until she left the morning room. From the kitchen, the sound of dishes being murdered floated on air heavier than lead. He was
in no hurry unless the phone rang, because he was on call this morning, with just an afternoon surgery today.

Marie washed everything so cruelly that she thought glaze and silver plate might peel off. Men? Bloody men? She had taken enough, she was leaving him, she wanted to kill him. All that messing
about for nothing in Rodney Street, all that soul-baring, had been a waste of time.

‘What’s the matter?’ he called.

‘Shut up!’

Shut up? Three words, he had spoken. Just three. She was the one making all the noise. ‘Marie?’

She entered the arena, hands soapy, a tea towel worn casually over the left shoulder, curls tumbling into her eyes. ‘Not Marie,’ she announced before blowing upwards in an attempt to
achieve clearer sight. But disobedient tendrils returned to their encampment of choice. ‘Eileen,’ she screamed.

‘What?’

‘It’s not a what, it’s a who.’

‘And?’

‘And we made love, you fell asleep, I went to the bathroom.’

‘I am with you so far.’

‘No, you’re not!’ She hit him with the tea towel. ‘I’m lying there after visiting the bathroom, feeling glad that your depression’s getting better and
we’re together, then thinking about what I need to do today, and you’re talking to her in your sleep.’

‘Oh.’

‘You love her,’ Marie accused, white-hot fire behind the words.

Tom stared hard at her. ‘There’s a difference between love and sexual attraction. It’s window shopping. Men do it all the time.’

‘In bed? Talking to your urchin in your sleep? “It will never be over”? What the hell is the matter with you? She’s going into Parkside tomorrow, and I’m visiting
her at home before she leaves, so—’

‘Don’t say anything to the poor woman, please.’

She swiped him again with the damp towel. ‘I’m not the stupid one here. She’s pregnant, and I won’t hurt her. But you set one foot inside that hospital or in her house,
and you’ll find all your belongings on the pavement outside my gate. Because it is my gate, my garden, my house. I bloody paid for it in more ways than one, you cheating bastard.’ She
was proud of herself; her vocabulary was growing daily.

‘Be reasonable.’

‘I’m not the unreasonable one, either. Not stupid, not unreasonable. You’re using me and seeing her. I’m moving back into the spare room. Why are you smiling?’

‘Because you’re beautiful. A mess, but beautiful.’

She didn’t know what to say. Furthermore, she wasn’t given the chance to organize her thoughts, because he swept her up and threw her over his shoulder. She beat him with both fists,
but he carried on up the stairs and threw her onto the bed, ripping at her clothes until she was naked apart from her tea towel.

Tom was kinder to his own garments. Every time she tried to escape, he pushed her back where she belonged. If Keith Greenhalgh could manage this, so could he. ‘Stay exactly where you
are,’ he ordered. When he joined her on the bed, the fighting continued. Between blows, he managed to whisper in her ear.

‘Filthy words,’ she answered, slapping his face.

‘Have a few more.’ He started to whisper again.

It happened. While he tortured her tiring body, Marie lost all her anger, only to replace it with impatience. ‘Please,’ she moaned.

‘Please what? According to you, I please only myself.’

‘Stop tormenting me.’

‘Ah. I see. Which is the greater torment? This, or this?’

She grabbed his wandering hand. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Say the word, the one you didn’t like when I used it.’

She whimpered. ‘I can’t.’

‘Then I’m going downstairs.’

So she said it. Loudly.

‘Hang on,’ he said gravely. ‘The neighbours will hear, and they’ll start forming a queue.’ At last, he had defeated the lady in her. He was sorry, desperately
sorry, that he couldn’t control his dreams. The depression was lifting, and he would soon be back at the surgery full time, so everything was in order, except for Eileen bloody Greenhalgh.
Tom immediately devoted himself to making life happier for his wife, and perhaps made rather too good a job of it, because she was saying the forbidden word. Repeatedly.

He collapsed on her and regained the ability to breathe sensibly. ‘That was good,’ came his understatement.

‘We must fight more often, Tom.’

‘Marie?’

‘What?’

‘Will you clean the blood off my back?’

‘But I didn’t scratch you . . . did I?’

He nodded. ‘We finally found the tigress in you. Once or twice in your life, you have an experience so intense that you fight back. The divide between pleasure and pain is very fine,
isn’t it?’

‘I thought I was going to die,’ she admitted.

While she went to the first aid box, he turned and stared at the wall. Loving two women wasn’t easy. Loving Eileen was impossible, because he hadn’t seen her for weeks, wasn’t
allowed to see her. Loving Marie was a gentler business altogether, though the past half-hour had been lively.

She returned, still naked, lint, cotton wool and ointment wrapped in her now notorious tea towel. ‘Perhaps I should thank Eileen,’ she said wryly.

‘Don’t bother. She’ll be gone soon, and she’s only in my subconscious. You’re my wife.’

‘God help me.’ She cleaned his back.

The news travelled up-country to the very few, those top brasses unacquainted with anyone working in the media, anyone with a second cousin twice removed who had a friend in
the media, anyone descended from a long-dead ancestor who had ever written for a newspaper. It was top secret, though the news leaked here and there. Hitler, whose camp housed a few spies for
England, was to change his prime target. Poor old London might get a bit of a rest, since the city of Liverpool was now top of the list on der Führer’s agenda.

The common people got no warning, because little could be done at such short notice, and it was possibly only another rumour anyway. A few more big guns arrived at the docks, barrage balloons
were made secure, and members of the Home Guard marched up and down the beaches for an hour or so every morning.

Elsie and Nellie were not best pleased, since Spoodle and Pandora had a marked tendency to become involved with feet, and they were kicked aside more than once. Nellie wasn’t having that.
She dressed down the whole parade, praying loudly that England would never need to depend for survival on fools, geriatrics, and people who kick puppies. ‘You’ll have to stop now,
anyway,’ she roared. ‘You’ve two at the back what need crutches, and that one on his own a mile behind wants a wheelchair.’

Elsie dug her friend in her ribs. ‘Give over, Nell. It’s not their fault.’

Nellie was uneasy. Something was changing, and she couldn’t work it out. It was a bit like the night when Heinrich had dropped out of the heavens at Willows. ‘The sky was the wrong
colour,’ she whispered to herself.

‘You what?’

‘Nothing.’ This day was the wrong shade of grey. Under a flawless blue sky, Nellie Kennedy saw only the dull monotony of gun metal. She shivered.

‘Are you getting a chill, Nell?’

‘No.’ She wasn’t cold at all. But somebody somewhere had just walked over a million graves.

THURSDAY

‘So this is it, then.’ A terrified Keith held on to his wife’s hand while Sister Mary Dominic hung on to him. This was definitely it. Eileen was going to
disappear behind a screen with Mr Barr, an anaesthetist, and several Augustinian penguins. ‘Are you feeling all right? Are you ready for it, sweetheart?’ he asked, panic trimming the
words. She was on a trolley. She was wearing a stupid gown that was open all down her back. And apart from the enormous bump, his Eileen looked like a frightened little girl about to have her
tonsils out.

‘Let me go now, sweetheart,’ Eileen begged quietly. ‘This is the theatre door.’ He was going to start. In her very bones, she knew he was going to kick off and score an
own goal. ‘Don’t you be making a show of me,’ she warned. ‘Make a show of me, and I’ll suspend your membership. And no, I’m not talking about a hammock. So think
on and pull yourself together. Sister? Tell him. Tell him I’ve got no choice, because he sure as eggs won’t listen to me.’

Mary Dominic, all four feet and ten Irish inches of her, tore Keith’s hand from Eileen’s. She glared at him while pinning a small, silver-coloured medal to his shirt. ‘That is
the Immaculate Conception,’ she advised him sternly, ‘to whom I shall be praying. However, my prayers to Our Lady will be delivered via St Jude, as I shall pray also to him. He’s
the patron saint of hopeless cases. And I have never, in all my born days, seen a case more hopeless than you.’