The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  Hilda Pickavance came into the street to break the habit of a lifetime. ‘Mrs Kennedy,’ she said. ‘Would you come into my house, please? I think the siren’s just for practice. Would you kindly come in too, Mrs Maguire?’

  Kitty shook her head and walked away. Much as she would have loved to get a glimpse of the matching furniture, she had to go back home and see what her children were up to. Did they have their gas masks? Was this really just a practice on the sirens?

  But Nellie allowed herself to be led away. For the first time ever, she would be able to report properly on the state of Hilda Pickavance’s home. The fear and sadness remained, but she would shortly find distractions.

  Nellie Kennedy closed her mouth with an audible snap. The trouble with porcelain dentures was that they were noisy in the event of shock. Blood and stomach pills, this was a lot to take in. First, there was a war on, a fight Britain might never win, because rumour had it that Hitler was more than ready to conquer the whole of Europe. Second, she was drinking tea from a china cup in the presence of a neighbour who was landed bloody gentry. ‘Are you sure?’ she managed at last. ‘Is it not a mistake, like?’ She had a saucer. A real saucer that matched the cup. But she didn’t extend her little finger, because that would have been taking the whole thing too far.

  Miss Pickavance inclined her head. ‘My father was cut off without a penny before I was born. My mother didn’t pass muster, you see, because she was a mere cleaner. My uncle felt sorry for my father and sent money. That paid for our little shop – remember the shop?’

  ‘I do. They were very polite, your mam and dad. And sometimes they let us have stuff on tick when we ran out of bread or something we really needed. We called it the just-about-everything corner, because your dad sold just about everything, didn’t he?’

  Hilda Pickavance smiled tentatively. ‘The same uncle died intestate – without a will – and I am his only surviving relative. I found out properly just last week, so I’ve been on to the authorities and they said yes. I can use it for evacuees and farming.’

  Nellie, a town girl to the core, shifted in her chair. ‘A farm, though?’

  ‘Yes, part of the estate is a farm. Livestock and arable, so quite a lot of land. Land is going to be vital, because this country will need to become as self-sufficient as possible.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘The merchant ships that import food and so forth will come under attack. We shall have to grow our own supplies. Mrs Kennedy, this is a serious business – we need to take children with us. And I shall require someone like you, because I’m unused to children.’

  Nellie had been so engrossed that she’d forgotten to study the furniture. Today had been a bit like an old silent movie – well, apart from the sirens. It had walked at a strange pace, jerking about and changing direction without warning. Bright sunlight had birthed hope, then hope had been shattered by the broadcast, now it threatened to bud once again. Would it be shot down in flames? Would this become yet another false promise? ‘What about my Eileen and her brood?’

  ‘They will come with us. She can clean and cook.’

  Nellie blinked rapidly. She would wake up in a minute, surely? Somebody would start shouting that somebody else had pinched his boots and gone out in them, Eileen would be scraping together some sort of breakfast, and the dream would be over. ‘So you are posh, then? We always knew you were different, what with not being Catholic and all that, but are you proper gentry, like?’

  Hilda Pickavance laughed, and the sound was rusty. ‘I was born in a room above a shop in town. Until Uncle found us, we lived hand to mouth, so I never considered myself gentry. When he sent the money, we took the shop and bought this little house, and we settled here, because the business was close by. My father was a proud man, and Uncle didn’t find us again. Perhaps he didn’t try, but that’s not important now. We have to deal with what’s going on at the moment. I have land, you have children. We need each other.’

  ‘And you worked in the laundry?’

  ‘I loved my job. I was always good at ironing, so I went to work with those lovely Chinese people after our shop closed. Then I had to leave to look after my parents, and when they died I went back. A few weeks ago, I saw a notice in the newspaper, and found out that I’m a woman of substance. Yes, it’s a lot to take in.’

  Nellie didn’t know what to say. Hilda Pickavance was not a bit stuck-up, and she was offering safety, yet the part of Nellie that belonged here, in Liverpool, was aching already. ‘I don’t know,’ she managed at last. ‘I’ll have to talk to Eileen and the kids – they’re not babies.’

  ‘I know what you mean. I have envied you for such a long time.’

  ‘Envied?’ Nellie paused for a few seconds, incredulity distorting her features. ‘What’s to envy? I clean in the Throstle’s Nest. Me husband’s long dead, our Eileen cleans big houses for peanuts because her fellow died on the docks, and you envy us that? She’s up Blundellsands scrubbing, I’m cleaning sick off the floor in filthy lavatories …’ Her voice died of exhaustion.

  ‘My mother was a cleaner,’ said the woman from number one. ‘What I envy is the fact that you have each other. I am brotherless, sisterless, parentless. I had one uncle, whom I never met, and now I am completely alone in the world. That’s why I want some of you to come. I don’t know you well, but I recognize you. I’m afraid, Mrs Kennedy. To be honest, I’m absolutely terrified of all this – the war, the property, everything.’

  This was the morning on which Britain had gone to war, when Hilda Pickavance had shared her wireless with the neighbours, when Nellie Kennedy learned that ‘her from number one’ wasn’t so stuck-up and different after all. ‘Right. What happens next?’ she asked. The woman was shy, that was all. She just wasn’t used to folk.

  Hilda’s face was white. ‘Well, I have to go and look at the place. It’s been described to me, of course, and I’ve seen a few photographs, but nothing’s real till you see it properly. Mrs Kennedy, the bombs aren’t real until the body of a child is dug out. I’m sorry to speak so plainly, but—’

  ‘No, no, you do right. There’s no harm in calling a spade a shovel, no matter what it’s used for. I’m Nellie, by the way, so you can call a Kennedy a Nellie while you’re at it with the spade.’

  ‘Hilda.’

  ‘Hello, Hilda. When are you going?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Come with me.’

  ‘You what?’

  The poor woman’s hands picked at a beautifully laundered handkerchief. ‘I can’t do all this by myself. Had the war not happened, I’d probably have sold all the land and property and bought myself a house somewhere in Liverpool. Liverpool’s all I know. Like you, Nellie, I’ve never lived anywhere else. I have to go and look at my new life.’

  Nellie pondered for a while. ‘Where is this place?’

  ‘North of Bolton.’

  Nellie’s mouth made a perfect O before she spoke again. ‘Bolton’s a big town full of factories. It’ll get pancaked, same as here.’

  Hilda explained that her legacy was out in the wilds among small villages and hamlets, that Liverpool was in more danger as it was coastal, and gave her opinion that women might well be forced to work. ‘Better to be on a farm than in a munitions factory, Nellie. Put your grandchildren first, and grow potatoes. Well?’

  ‘Can I go and fetch our Eileen? I can’t make a decision this big on my own. And our Mel’s old enough and clever enough to make up her own mind.’ Nellie sighed. ‘I’ll never work out where she got her brains. Top marks in that test, so she got what they call a scholarship.’ She looked through the window. ‘What the bloody hell’s that soft lot up to? Have you seen this?’

  ‘I have.’ Hilda smiled, though her eyes remained grim. ‘They’re waiting for the planes, Nellie. God alone knows what they’ve done to Poland since they walked in. I suppose Warsaw will soon be - as you say - pancaked. Probably more like crepes suzette. Flambe, or even cremated. There will be no mercy.’

  The visitor gulped
audibly. ‘So it won’t be just bridges and railways?’

  Hilda shook her head. ‘It will be babies, Nellie. And that’s how it will be here, too. We aren’t ready. If those in government had listened to Winston Churchill, we might have had more weapons and planes. The men who would have built those things will be called up to fight. Women will assemble guns, tanks and planes. Shall we stick to cabbages and onions? Shall we save some children?’

  ‘God!’

  ‘Is on our side. Go on. Fetch Eileen.’

  Nellie stepped into the street. Eileen was one of those who stood and stared at the sky. The all-clear had sounded, yet half of Rachel Street crowded on the cobbles, every neck tilted back, each pair of eyes scanning the blue for signs of an incoming formation. Nellie whistled. Her whistles, like her ‘hmmphs’, were legendary in the area. Attention was suddenly diverted from heaven to earth. ‘They won’t come today,’ she told them all. ‘It’s Sunday. They’ll be in church praying for Hitler, their new pope.’ She beckoned to her daughter, and led her into the house opposite theirs.

  Forced to sit through the tale for a second time, Nellie examined the parlour. It was spotless. Cream-painted walls carried framed prints, and a grandmother clock ticked happily in the corner. Folk had been right about the suite, right about the carpet.

  The wireless, now atop a well-polished desk, was still turned on, though at a lower volume. The people of Dublin were burning effigies of Chamberlain in the streets. Churchill had been summoned to the cabinet room. Survivors in Warsaw were reported to be ecstatic – they clearly expected a lot from Britain. British men aged between eighteen and forty-one would be called up in stages, while immediate volunteers would be accepted if medically fit.

  When Eileen left to talk to her children, Nellie stayed, because Hilda wanted not to be alone. So she was there when Churchill was made First Lord of the Admiralty, there when reports came of ships signalling, in great joy, ‘Winston is back’. She was there for lunch and for tea, was an ear-witness when King George broadcast to his empire, when the Athenia, with many Americans on board, was torpedoed and sunk by a German submarine. Russia was to remain neutral as part of a pact with Hitler, while Roosevelt insisted that America was not to be involved.

  Australia announced its intention to fight, as did New Zealand, the West Indies and Canada. At half past eight, France declared war on Germany.

  ‘France is in a terrible position, geographically speaking,’ said Hilda.

  Nellie agreed. ‘Yes. They’ll be in Hitler’s way, won’t they?’

  Hilda nodded. ‘The Germans will just walk in, and then there’ll be nothing more than a thin ribbon of water separating Adolf and us. Imagine how the people of Dover feel, Nellie. It’s only about twenty miles from Calais.’

  That was the moment when it all hit home for Nellie. France would no doubt do her best, but she was probably as ill-equipped as England. Twenty miles? Some folk could swim that. That fellow Captain Webb had swum it, for a start. He was on most of the boxes of matches she bought. ‘I think I’d best come with you tomorrow, Hilda. Our Eileen, too, if that’s all right, because it has to be her decision – they’re her kids.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nellie attempted a smile. ‘Mind you, if there’s horses, Bertie’ll be there in a shot. He pinched one last week from the carters’ yard and brought it home. He’d have tried taking it up to bed with him if we hadn’t noticed it.’ She looked down at work-worn hands. ‘It’s all changed today, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m not a country girl.’

  ‘Neither am I.’

  ‘And we’re just looking, aren’t we?’

  Hilda nodded her agreement. ‘Looking costs nothing. We’ll leave at one. You’ll have finished work by then?’

  ‘Yes, and Eileen doesn’t do Mondays, so she’ll be ready.’

  Hilda stood up and held out her hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure to meet you at last, Nellie. Tomorrow we’ll see a completely different world, one where the harvest has just come in, children run in free, fresh air, cows wait to be milked, and eggs will be plentiful.’

  Nellie shook her neighbour’s hand. ‘You make it sound like a holiday.’

  ‘I wish. Oh, how I wish.’

  Hilda watched while her new-found friend walked across the narrow street and disappeared into a house she shared with five people. Nellie and her daughter slept in the parlour, while the three boys shared the front and larger bedroom, leaving the small rear room for Mel, the brains of the family. The mattress on which Nellie and Eileen slept was probably parked in an upright position behind other furniture during the day. Cleaner than most others, the Kennedy/Watson clan still suffered the effects of overcrowding, but they didn’t smell as badly as some. They managed to get to the public bath house on a fairly regular basis, while Mel bathed when she stayed at a friend’s house in Crosby. Yes, there was Mel. What would she decide to do?

  Mel Watson, baptized Amelia Anne after her dead father’s dead mother, was doing her Latin homework. She had fought hard for her place at Merchant Taylors’, because the priest hadn’t liked the idea of her going to a non-Catholic school, and tram fares were hard to come by, but she’d hung on in there. A friend at school had given her a secondhand bike, and that was a great help. It was a long way from Rachel Street to Crosby – a long way in more senses than one – but Mel was a determined girl.

  The war had landed downstairs. There was no need for Hitler, since Bertie, Rob and Philip were making enough noise to wake the dead. She put down her pen, walked to the door of her tiny room and opened it. The word ‘farm’ was being repeated, as was ‘Miss Pickavance’ and ‘when do we go?’ It was clear that Mam had decided to evacuate the boys. Sitting on the stairs, she wrapped the skirt of her uniform round her knees. Gran was talking now, was making the boys shut up, so some sense was promised.

  ‘We’re all going,’ Gran said. ‘The whole of our family, and Miss Pickavance. We’ll be safe, and there’ll be plenty to eat, and—’

  ‘And horses,’ shrieked Bertie, who was the youngest of the three.

  Mel crept back into her room. She stretched out on the bed, hands clasped behind her head. A beautiful child was promising to become a beautiful young woman, and she would get her way. There was a spare room in Gloria Bingley’s house. Gloria Bingley’s father and brother were fond of Mel. Mrs Bingley, too, was fond, but in a very different way. They had given her the bike. They had bought her two dresses and had fed her many times. This might be the very opportunity for which she had waited.

  But Mel would miss her family. Pragmatic by nature, she tried to go along with the flow of life, picking up whatever was wanted and available, refusing to worry about her poverty-stricken household, the vagaries of her brothers, the loudness of her grandmother. This was the situation into which she had been born, and she had made the best she could of it.

  Her undeniable beauty was a tool she used from time to time. She had inherited her looks from her mother, who had stoically refused to remarry, though she had not been without potential suitors. But, as Eileen repeated with monotonous regularity, she would not wish her three boys on the worst of men, while the best had the sense to stay away. As for Mel’s brain, it was just a fluke. Many clever people came from lowly beginnings, so she wouldn’t be the first urchin to strut the stage with the Cambridge Footlights.

  How far were they going? There were no farms round here, though a few of Lord Derby’s existed over towards Rainford and Maghull. It would be further away, in a place where no housing estates had sprung up since the Great War. ‘I don’t want to lose my mother,’ she told a statue of Our Lady. ‘And what if Gloria’s dad and brother want to do more than look at me?’

  At thirteen, she knew almost all there was to know about sex. Gender issues were another problem, since her brothers had, from the very start, considered her bike to be fair game because they were boys, while she was a mere female. The matter had been settled by Gran: two beatings with a belt t
hat had belonged to Dad, followed by the acquisition of a chain and padlock. Mel’s bike now lived in the front room, attached to a hook in the wall that had been installed by a docker. It was the only way for a girl to survive in a house that contained members of the so-called superior sex.

  Sex itself had similar rules, she supposed. In order for the species to survive, males had been furnished with the urge to invade the female body. Women and girls needed to be clever, because these masculine requirements could be utilized. A pretty face, good legs, a small waist and developing breasts were assets not to be underestimated. When manufactured innocence invaded a sweet smile, dresses, bikes and food became available. Could a bed be attained by the same means? It would be safer, she decided, if she shared a room with Gloria. She didn’t want babies from Gloria’s brother; she wanted Cambridge. School holidays could be spent with the family she didn’t really want to lose, while term time would be a sight easier if she lived in Crosby.

  The door opened. ‘Mel?’

  ‘Come in, Mam.’

  Eileen sat on the edge of the lumpy bed. She told her beautiful daughter about Miss Pickavance and the inheritance, about Gran’s intention to shift everyone inland, about the boys’ excitement.

  ‘I heard it,’ said Mel.

  ‘Miss Pickavance said that Bolton School might take you because of special circumstances. But it’s about ten miles from where we’re going—’

  ‘Mam, I’m staying here. Somebody will put me up. Bolton School might be doing the same courses, but differently. And I don’t want to pedal twenty miles a day, do I? There may be some public transport, but petrol’s going to be scarce.’

  ‘Is it?’

  Mel nodded. ‘It’s imported, and the seas won’t be safe with all those U-boats lurking.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Submarines. We won’t want to risk them blowing up the oil tankers, so petrol will be rationed, as will all imported stuff. Mam, it’s going to be a nightmare. Please let me find someone who’ll take me in, then I’ll do my best to get to you during the holidays.’