Read The Liverpool Trilogy Online
Authors: Ruth Hamilton
The Liverpool Trilogy (61 page)
‘Yes.’
They picked him up and pushed him down again. In that moment, his left shoulder dislocated, and he groaned. Unfazed, one held him down while the other snapped the ball back into its socket.
‘If we have to do this again, you’ll have a broken back. See, when you work on the docks, you learn all about dislocated shoulders and snapped spines. Oh, yes. We’re clever
enough, doc. All right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stay down there and count to fifty. One shout, one scream, and you’ll be wishing you’d never been born.’
Tom heard them as they ran round the corner. His shoulder hurt like hell, but he didn’t count to fifty. Instead, he climbed into the car and wondered how the dickens he was going to get
home. He managed to shift the gear stick into second, and he drove at snail’s pace through Crosby. A black eye, now an injured shoulder; was she worth it? Was she?
The terrible truth was yes. She was worth it, and he was a fool.
Jay Collins came home to the gatehouse after five days. He was rested, lively, and a nuisance. Gill put about the legend that Ward D2 had been approaching the brink of
collapse, since her dearly beloved had caused enough trouble to instigate disputes between visitors and staff, cleaners and orderlies, and patients and nurses. The food, he maintained, had been
hogwash. Pigs at Neil and Jean’s home farm were better fed, while he’d never had a decent cup of tea during the whole of his time in what he chose to term the torture chamber. He was
not going back. If he had to become a pincushion, he would manage on his own, thanks. Oh, and he didn’t like saccharine, so he’d stick to sugarless tea, very strong and with a drop of
milk. No porridge. If he saw another dish of this-is-very-good-for-you-but-use-mostly-water, it would be out of the door quicker than dry sand off a shiny shovel.
Gill did her best to keep him in the house for a while until he got used to his insulin and the new diet, but he wasn’t prepared to listen. He knew he couldn’t drink beer, but that
wouldn’t stop him getting out and about. He was the estate handyman, for goodness’ sake, and invasion was imminent. The fact that he could not serve in the armed forces had finally been
accepted, but he remained determined to do his bit on the estate. ‘I’m going out,’ he called while Gill was upstairs. There were things to do.
Willows was holding its breath not against the Germans’ coming, but against Liverpool’s. The Scousers were on their way, and he had to make sure all hatches were battened down, all
doors closed and locked, all windows in good working order with strong catches in place. Liverpool people were tough, so he needed to be several steps ahead.
Keith helped. He was there to assess his employee’s health and to make sure that he fell off no ladders, but he pretended to be assisting rather than acting as monitor. It was not an easy
task. Jay, a natural clown, carried on much as before. He was funny, enthusiastic, friendly and difficult to judge when it came to health. When he started tripping over his own feet by accident,
Keith was at the ready with barley sugar. ‘Eat it.’
‘I can’t. I’m diabetic.’
‘That’s why you need it. You’ve run out of sugar. The reason you’re not walking properly and not listening to me is that you’re hypoglycaemic.’
‘Big word, that.’
‘It is. So eat it.’
‘Can’t eat a word I don’t know how to say. Hypo who?’
‘Glycaemic. Eat the bloody barley sugar, or it’s back to the bacon factory you’ve complained about for the last three hours.’
‘D2?’ Oh, he remembered that dump, all right. ‘Give us that thing here, because I’ll do just about anything to stay out of that . . . what was it?’
‘Hospital.’ Jay was losing his words. When the sweet had been consumed, Keith delivered yet another lecture. ‘In a minute, you’ll feel great. Remember that, because I
won’t be with you all the time. When you start losing words and legs, eat sugar. Right?’
‘Yes. I feel fine now. So the thing that can kill me, which is sugar, is the thing that saves my life?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Mad.’
Jay spent the rest of the day telling everyone he met that sugar could finish him one way or another, though he seemed to be cheerful enough about the whole thing.
Keith went off to report to Gill. Any awkwardness had to be overcome, because he had probably imagined her fondness for him, and life needed to continue as normally as possible in spite of the
expected influx of evacuees. His pulse quickened. Eileen would not be here this time, but she’d visit soon. He still wrote and she still replied, though a small degree of reserve lingered in
her letters. He would find a way to see her soon. He had the Crosby address and phone number.
Gill was her usual self, bright, sensible and trying to feed up her visitor. Something happened to Lancashire women the moment that band of gold was on their third finger. They fed anything that
moved, particularly creatures on two legs. The refusal of an offering could cause great offence, so he made his way through three slices of buttered fruit cake and two cups of tea. There was no
particular affection in her face when their eyes met. Yes, he had clearly mistaken her behaviour the other day.
‘So he’s up ladders?’ she asked. ‘You’ve let a loony climb ladders?’
‘Part of the job. I’ve left him with more barley sugars and instructions to eat one if he starts feeling weak or forgetful.’
‘And he’ll forget what you said when he gets a bit hypo. You finish your cake while I walk down to the Edge and make sure he’s all right. No, stay there, Keith. We’ve all
got to get used to this.’
Alone, he drained his cup and took the latest missive from Liverpool out of his pocket. She, too, was funny sometimes. And there was no mention of Dr Tom.
So I am going to live in the beautiful house of a headmistress, while my boys are now with Miss Pickavance, who has turned out to be quite a good teacher-cum-jailer.
Bertie makes the odd dash for freedom, but he’s always dragged back by the other two, who enjoy Hilda’s cooking and listening to her wireless and gramophone.
Meanwhile, Kitty-next-door, who is supposed to be having the empty house in Willows Edge, keeps throwing all kinds of fits. In spite of lovely new teeth that actually fit after
adjustment, plus a second-hand bargain dress and jacket from Paddy’s Market, she doesn’t want to leave the house at all.
She’s never been further down town than the Liver Buildings, hasn’t even been over the water on the ferry. She thinks Birkenhead is a foreign country, while London probably
exists on the moon or Mars. She’s also frightened of empty fields and quietness, I think, and she’ll be scared to death of cows and the like. We’re used to horses, because
they’re part of our life round here, but I don’t think Kitty’s ever wondered where milk and butter and cheese come from. The Co-op, I suppose.
Mam says Kitty won’t come to Willows, but I hope she does because since her husband fell in the river and died she’s been weird, and a new start might shock her out of her
depression. Charlie Maguire was an alcoholic, and she’s better off without him, but she doesn’t know that yet. Her children will thrive well in the fresh air, too, so we’re
trying to knock a bit of sense into her – not easy! Aren’t people daft?
That last sentence was from the previous Eileen, the one who wrote from the soles of her feet, no holds barred, a smile or a wry comment in every paragraph. Some decision had been made, and a
problem she’d encountered had either reduced in size or been eliminated. She was, he suspected, a complex character, highly intelligent and probably self-educated. He couldn’t wait to
see her again, yet he had to wait.
I seem to have inherited a sewing machine, which happy accident means I can cobble together some bits and pieces for Mel. She keeps up well at the school, and she seldom
complains, but I know she feels the difference between herself and some of the other girls. They have ponies, new bikes and nice houses, but they don’t have my girl’s looks and
brains. Mel’s old-fashioned, and she comes out with some stuff when I ask does she mind being poor. One of her answers was that a Rolls-Royce might drive a girl to Oxbridge, but only exam
results could open the doors to a college. I don’t mean she’s cocky, but she does have a clever answer for everything.
It sounds as if my mother and Mrs Openshaw might clash. Mam has been one of the unofficial midwives and layers-out in Scottie Road for twenty-odd years, and she doesn’t care whose
business she jumps into. She gets all the gossip from the bag-wash when she goes down with our washing, then I think she adds bits on while she walks home. So if somebody’s had a big
baby, like a ten-pounder, it’ll be twelve pounds by the time Mam comes through our door.
He smiled to himself as he pictured Nellie Kennedy pushing an old pram filled with washing through the side streets of Liverpool. She was a character, all right, and she had birthed another
character, who had produced yet another. These were his kind of women, because they never gave up. ‘Neither do I, Eileen,’ he said to the three pages. She cared. No one would write all
this without holding some kind of interest in the recipient.
Jay came in, face split from ear to ear with an east-to-west grin. ‘I’m the one with diabetes, and she’s the one who stood in a cowpat.’ He looked over his shoulder as a
shoeless Gill entered. ‘See? So busy keeping an eye on me, she ends up covered in sh— in shame.’
Keith looked at the pair and wished, hoped, that Gill loved the father of her long-awaited baby. Jay was a jester, but he was a good man who deserved the best. Then Keith caught Gill staring
again, damped-down longing in her eyes. Immediately, he jumped to his feet, uttered a quick goodbye and left the house. There was something in Gill’s head, and it was not appropriate. Bugger.
He ate quite frequently at the gatehouse, and he enjoyed greatly the company of the couple who lived there.
‘She looks at me the way I look at Eileen,’ he told one of the six willow trees. Had he explained to Miss Pickavance that these weepers liked people, that they thrived on
conversation? If the willows did well, stock thrived, crops burgeoned and the orchards bore enormous fruits. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Pregnant at last, she should be
celebrating with her man. Fronds rustled and brushed against him, caressing his face and neck. Eileen’s children would play here. Their noise would feed the willows and, because her blood was
in the boys’ veins, she, too, would be providing nourishment.
If Gill felt for Keith what he felt for Eileen, she would be in pain. What could he do? He’d never been married, but estate management involved interaction with many people, and pregnant
women were odd. They developed strange likes and dislikes, had mood swings, ate coal and orange peel and, sometimes, went a bit wild.
Was Gill off her rocker? If she was crackers, would she mend straight away after the child’s birth? What if she started with that decline some women went into after confinement? Should he
talk to her? He left the trees on which everyone’s welfare supposedly depended, and entered the main house. Tomorrow, he would pick up from Trinity Street station two women, three boys, and
assorted small pieces of luggage. The main items had already arrived, but the car would be packed. With Miss Pickavance in the passenger seat, he would need to squeeze into the rear of the car
three boys in assorted sizes, and a well-built though not overweight grandmother.
The house looked cosy. Gill and Jean had brought in some of summer’s lingering blooms to brighten and freshen the rooms. Beds had been made, furniture waxed, oil lamps filled, wicks
trimmed. He lit fires in every room, opened windows slightly to encourage airing. Tonight, he would sleep here on a camp bed in the kitchen. Willows was too precious to be left while wood and coal
burned in grates.
He led the horses from the paddock into their stables, stood in the yard and looked at the stars. There could be frost tonight, because the sky was clear and inky. Tomorrow, the rebirth of
Willows would begin under the guidance of a new mistress, one who might take an interest in the welfare of this vast estate and its many inhabitants. She was a good woman. Old Mr Pickavance had not
been bad, but his connection to the land of his forebears had been minimal. Yes, there was a war on, yet the ill wind had delivered the promise of a new beginning in which Willows might find itself
again.
All Keith needed now was for Gill to settle down with her excellent, well-meaning if chronically sick husband, and for Eileen to visit. He closed the stable doors and went into the kitchen. With
a fire in the large grate, it looked homely and welcoming. For many years, this house had been lonely, neglected and unloved. ‘As have I,’ he said just before noticing the PTO at the
bottom of Eileen’s third page.
Mam and I have been talking. If we can get transport, she and I will change places from time to time so that I might keep in closer touch with my sons. Mam is very fond
of Mel, and they will miss each other if the war lasts. Perhaps you might help by giving some thought to how we can travel the thirty-odd miles to and fro.
Another thought. I beg you to bring Mam next week. Between the two of you, you might manage to get Kitty Maguire out of number four. She is promised a job in the main house with
Jay’s wife. She will clean while her kids are having lessons in what my mother calls the afternoon room. Kitty needs my mother. A fresh start would do no harm, either. With her husband
dead and her small children running wild, she could easily lose her mind completely here.
Love and best wishes, Eileen.
Hope attacked his heart from two fronts, a pincer movement seeming to squeeze all air from his body. She would be here, and not just for the odd weekend or half-term. And she had written a word
that was taken too lightly these days.
Love.
‘Don’t love me like a brother or a friend,’ he begged. He had never expected to meet again eyes like Annie’s: honest,
beautiful and unafraid.