The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  He threw down the pen. Elsie Openshaw was being her usual pig-headed self. No, pigs were OK people; crocodile-headed was nearer the mark. Unprepared to accept the undeniable fact that ‘her’ cottage was not her actual property, she was standing firm and refusing to cooperate when it came to the placement of children.

  The sight of Elsie Openshaw standing firm was not a pleasant one, as she was a woman of considerable size and, with her arms folded and her face set, looked about as inviting as a midwinter funeral tea. The cheerful flowered apron wrapped round her uncomely form lost any appeal it might have had as soon as it made contact with her body. The metal from which her curlers were made echoed the state of her mind. She was fixed, unbendable, and she intended to ensure that all her neighbours took a similar stance.

  Your four tenanted farms are Cedars, Four Oaks, Pear Tree and Holly. So in reality you have five farms rather than four as mentioned in your letter. It occurred to me that I hadn’t told you the names of those places, but your solicitors may well have. All are occupied by decent folk, and you will find them extremely

  Yet again, he discarded his pen. The cottages on the Edge were also the property of the woman to whom he was attempting to write. Elsie Openshaw, a widow whose husband had died to escape her, Keith suspected, was allowed to stay on rent-free because of the years of labour her man had put in at Willows Home Farm. Did she not realize that she could be out on her ear if she remained intransigent? ‘I am not afraid of you, you old witch,’ he mumbled. The letter could wait; a more pressing piece of business required his attention. ‘Why is it always me?’ he asked no one at all, since he was alone. It was always him because he was agent and steward, so he had better shape up, buck up and prepare to put her back up.

  He pulled on cap and coat, left the house, and began the walk down the lane towards Willows Edge, his own cottage, and the abode of Mrs Elsie Openshaw. She wanted sorting out. Her kids were long fled, yet all three of them sent money for her food and other necessities. If they didn’t send money, she visited them, and they avoided that like the plague. She wasn’t a woman; she was a bloody government.

  Elsie had been a tartar all her life, and it was time somebody stood up to her. Keith, a mature, strong man, was not in fear of her. The sudden quickening of his pulse was connected to the business of being slightly older, wasn’t it? No, it wasn’t. He was scared to bloody death, and he had to have a showdown. Showdowns were not in his nature, but they were required occasionally.

  For many years, Keith had lived near the harridan. No one ever answered her when she ranted, but everyone in the terrace talked behind her back. Some said it was a pity she’d not died instead of poor Bill, who had been eroded by hard work and nagging to a point where he could take no more. All said she was a nasty old witch, but who would dare to tackle her? He grinned. Something about the group he termed the Liverpool girls promised that life might change. He wished he could speak directly to Nellie Kennedy, ask her to bring a large, loud family to live in the empty cottage. He wished he might speak directly to her daughter, but the reason for that was a mile away from Elsie and her lashing tongue. He paused for a fraction of a second before passing Elsie’s house. He would deal with her in a minute. Yes, he definitely would.

  Keith entered his own house first and laid a fire to be lit later if needed. Evening came earlier now, and there was sometimes a chill in the air. Why did he keep seeing her face? Not since the death of his darling Annie Metcalfe of Bromley Cross had he looked with real desire at any woman. Annie’s death, some twenty years earlier, had left a hole in him. She had been stricken with a kind of blood poisoning after suffering a burst appendix, and she had been his soulmate. Her photograph, in faded sepia, still took centre stage on the mantelpiece. They had never married …

  Her name was Eileen, and she had three sons and one incredibly talented daughter. When alone with Eileen for a few precious seconds during the visit, he had fallen hook, line and sinker for a woman who spoke what was tantamount to a foreign language, who had difficult boys, the eyes of an angel and hair like gossamer silk. She was bloody gorgeous. He did not trust his feelings. This kind of stuff happened in daft books written by daft women for daft women. Yet he was persecuted by visions of her in his bed, his house, his life. He pictured her at the sink, saw himself creeping up behind her to fold her in his arms, pull back her hair, kiss her neck. He was daft. Love at first sight? Not again!

  Keith Greenhalgh almost laughed out loud. Women found him handsome; he found women silly or nasty, like the old bat he would be visiting shortly. For sex and companionship, he had enjoyed a ten-year relationship with a childless woman whose husband did not quite satisfy her hunger. It was a good friendship, and there would be little acrimony should a parting of their ways occur. So he wasn’t looking for anything shallow, was not looking for anything at all. It was the same with most aspects of life. ‘Search for a lump hammer, a great huge article you’ve owned for years, and it’s disappeared off the face of the earth. When you don’t want it, you fall over it in the shed doorway,’ he told Annie’s photo.

  But Eileen wasn’t a lump hammer; Eileen had heart and soul in her eyes, a delicate, beautiful face, and a body that should be on cinema screens. He was glad she wasn’t on cinema screens … What if she already had somebody? No. He’d overheard Nellie saying to Jay that Eileen steered clear because of her boys. Did he have a chance? Did he? He hadn’t ached like this for years. ‘I want her,’ he said aloud. ‘I want a bloody woman I don’t even know. She talks funny, she’s got terrible sons, and I bet she knows as much about estate management and farming as I know about delicate embroidery. I need my head examining.’

  However, none of this was useful. He should take a short walk and impose himself on Elsie Openshaw, hag of this parish, self-appointed queen of all she surveyed, miserable old woman with a black heart, a face like a giant plate of stewed tripe, and her husband’s teeth. She didn’t like to waste anything, so she’d taken them from the mouth of a corpse, and had spent several years trying with a marked lack of success to break them in. She was horrible.

  She opened her door before he had time to knock. As usual, she had been at the window keeping an eye on her territory. ‘I’m coming in,’ he said, trying not to recoil too obviously when brushing past her hugeness. That was a good name for her. Her Royal Hugeness. It should be patented and hung round her neck with a bit of rope. Or a garrotte. He walked through the small shop, once a parlour, into the kitchen-cum-living room. The house smelled unclean, like rancid butter, dirty cloth and old paper. He turned and faced her. ‘I’m writing to the new owner of the estate,’ he began. ‘I have to give an account of everybody who lives round here.’

  ‘Oh, aye? The Liverpool woman what’s dad ran off with a cleaner?’

  ‘Yes.’ He bit back the words ‘at least she cleaned’.

  ‘And?’ The upper teeth dropped again. For a split second, she looked like something that lived under a bridge to frighten billy goats. She was quick, though. The set was clicked back into position in a fraction of a trice. He’d seen better-looking gargoyles acting as rainwater goods outside mansions and the like.

  ‘And people want you out. They daren’t say it to your face, and they’ll deny it if you ask, because they fear you. You’re a bully, and your brain’s smaller than your gob. Oh, and if anyone else complains about mail being interfered with, it’ll be the police that provide the transport to shift you. Stop steaming things open. Stop poking about in parcels and putting new string round them. We’re all on to you. Folk aren’t as daft as you want them to be.’

  She dropped into a chair, which complained loudly at the sudden assault. ‘Who do you think you’re talking to, Keith Greenhalgh?’

  ‘You. I’m talking to you. You’re in a rent-free cottage, and we need space for evacuees.’

  She almost managed to fold her arms across an upper body the size of Brazil. ‘So to keep me house, I have to take a bloody Scouser in?’

  He shook his h
ead. ‘Not likely. I wouldn’t put any child within a mile of you, Elsie Openshaw. Your own couldn’t get away quickly enough. Young Daisy threw herself at that farmhand until he impregnated her. Everyone along here knows that. They know how you treated Bill and the kids, and they know first-hand how you treat your neighbours. If I told them you were leaving, they’d have a bonfire, but the guy would be large and female. Even the blackout wouldn’t stop them celebrating seeing the back of you.’ There, he had done it. A peaceable creature by nature, this was hardly his forte. He wasn’t shaking. There was a chill in the air, that was all.

  Her mouth opened and closed, Bill’s teeth shifting nervously in a cavern that threatened to inhale them, but no words emerged. A terrible fear visited her chest. Widows of long-serving farmhands were always housed. Sometimes, they had to share accommodation, but they were never thrown out. ‘Can she change things, just like that?’ she finally managed.

  ‘She can. So can I. It’s part of my job, Elsie. If any tenant, whether tied or rent-paying, makes life difficult for another or others, he or she will be given notice to leave. It’s in every agreement signed by a resident.’

  The woman gulped.

  ‘Careful. You’ll be having Bill’s dentures for dinner.’ Keith sat down. ‘Two conditions. One, you clean this place up – it stinks. Two, you stop yapping about everything and everybody. Don’t put people off when they think about taking a Liverpool child. Those kiddies live in a huge port, and there’ll be ships, explosives and God alone knows what docked nearby. Sorry. Number three is the one I almost forgot. Leave the post alone, or I’ll have you out of here so fast your curlers’ll catch fire before you reach Willows Lane.’

  Elsie struggled to her feet. ‘I’ve just remembered, there’s a letter for you.’ She went off towards the front room, which was now her precious shop.

  ‘Did you hear all I said?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  She returned. ‘Woman’s writing,’ she wheezed. ‘From Liverpool.’

  ‘Right.’ He stared at her. Was she the full quid, or was she a bent farthing? ‘Elsie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you hear my conditions if you’re going to stay here?’

  She nodded, and her several chins wobbled, though not in harmony. It was as if they were fighting for space above a tight collar, and no one was winning. After a few seconds, the layers of blubber reached some sort of agreement and settled down, presumably to negotiate terms of peace. ‘Clean up, shut up, put up, and leave the bloody mail alone,’ she barked.

  She was the full quid, then. ‘And stop being nasty to people and about people. Some teeth of your own might be a good idea, and all. Those you took from poor Bill are fit to frighten horses.’

  Outside once more, Keith tried to contain his excitement. The writing wasn’t Hilda Pickavance’s. Miss Pickavance used as near as damn it to copperplate. He couldn’t imagine Nellie sitting down to write a shopping list, let alone a letter. It had to be from her. But he left it on the dresser while he brewed tea and lit the fire. Sometimes, a treat tasted sweeter if you had to wait for it. Her lettering on the envelope was clear, though this was not the hand of a formally educated person. Well, he wasn’t educated. Anything he knew had been picked up long after his escape from the confines of school.

  He opened the envelope carefully with the help of some obscure item attached to a penknife of many parts, including a tool that had never in its life managed to remove a stone from an equine hoof.

  Dear Mr Greenhalgh,

  I am writing to let you know that I shall be staying in Liverpool with my daughter, as she is too young to be left for any length of time. It must seem terrible, because my mother will be forced to cope with Philip (11), Robin (9) and Bertie, really Albert (7 if I let him live till Friday).

  Please try to put these boys of mine to some sort of work. They are quick learners, but easily led astray, and they were in trouble with the police again very recently. The farms should be ideal, because work in the fields will use up their energy. I hope you aren’t annoyed at my boldness in assuming too much in view of our brief acquaintance …

  He put down the page and smiled. She might talk oddly, but she was well-read, by gum. That paragraph might have been penned by Austen herself. He hadn’t been wrong; there was something special about Eileen Watson. But she wasn’t coming. Sighing, he picked up the letter again.

  our brief acquaintance, but will you please keep an eye on them, on my mother and on Hilda? Goodness, how many eyes does one man have? Also, I beg you to come or send someone whenever possible to bring me and my daughter over to Willows at weekends. I know that cannot happen every Friday, but I should like to spend time with my family. We hope to visit at half-term and at Christmas as long as we can overcome travelling difficulties and find someone to care for Miss Morrison, the lady with whom we shall be lodging.

  Travelling difficulties? If he had to steal an armoured vehicle from an army base, he would do it and be damned. And she had written ‘should’ like to spend time with family. So this was the source of Mel’s good brain, then. Like many born in the early years of the twentieth century, Eileen had experienced only a brief and unedifying brush with scholarship, but she had remedied that.

  I walked down to the river earlier on. It is very busy. There is urgency in the movement of every man, and no one stops for a crafty smoke like they do when life is normal. Beyond trains and cranes and ships, I saw the sun and wondered why God was allowing it to shine at such a time.

  The warehouses are said to be bulging with imports, though we cannot know exactly what, and they are under heavy guard. As well as police, soldiers and sailors are standing watch and many are armed.

  As the sun went down, the river was bright red and that made me shiver. I am sure you can guess the reason for my discomfort.

  I enclose on another sheet the address of Miss Frances Morrison. She has a telephone and I have included the number in case you need to reach me in a hurry after we have all finished playing musical chairs. Thank you for your kindness. Please keep in touch if you have time, because I shall enjoy reading about my fine, healthy, country bumpkin boys.

  Yours sincerely,

  Eileen Watson.

  Oh, God. He was almost in love. The paper was thin and cheap, so he reused the envelope as protective custodian. ‘She wrote to me, not to Jay. She knew him better, because he did the driving, but she chose me.’ There had been a connection, a mutual attraction. More important, her humour was on show in the letter, and where there was humour, there was intellect. ‘Eileen.’ He tried the name for size and shape, rolled it from his tongue into the empty room. It seemed lonely out there by itself, so he paired it off with his own forename. ‘They’ll have me locked up,’ he advised the crackling fire. ‘I’ll get put away for talking to the fireback. But there’s no cure for this one.’

  He stepped out of the kitchen into his back garden, fed his half-dozen friendly and inquisitive hens, picked some rhubarb for a crumble to be shared with the Dysons, and deadheaded a few flowers. A good enough housewife, Keith always helped his neighbours, since cooking for one was uneconomical and no fun. Jean baked his bread, so this tit-for-tat arrangement had been born long before Hitler decided to take over the world.

  There was no treatment for this. It had been the same with little Annie Metcalfe of Bromley Cross. Little Annie had retained her full title, even after death, as there had been several Annes born that year, and the need to differentiate between them had birthed extended names. Even now, he could smell the sweet breath of an angel who had died in the sort of agony from which an animal would have been released within hours.

  There was no mercy for gentle human souls, was there? He had never been unfaithful to his Annie. What happened between him and Cora Appleyard was mechanical, automatic, almost akin to breathing. He was grateful to her, as was she to him, but there was little or no pillow talk, because their joinings imitated the behaviour of animal
s. They had a need, and they indulged it. Until now, his heart had been the property of a dead girl.

  The letter to Miss Pickavance could wait until morning, but the scribe in him itched to reply to one Mrs Eileen Watson. She had word-painted a picture of blood on the Mersey; he would return the favour by describing the gentle beauty of rural Lancashire, though he would not go over the top. What had she said? Something about not assuming too much after so brief an acquaintance. ‘And I’m sitting here with a daft grin on my face,’ he said. ‘But by heck, I’ll drag that one up the Willows, even if she has to come kicking and screaming.’ God, he was stupid.

  Still laughing about the child who would be seven if Eileen allowed him to live until Friday, he toasted bread and scrambled a couple of eggs. A man who lived the country life had to keep his strength up. A cup of tea and a bit of music on the wireless, and he was set for the night. Keith Greenhalgh might be as mad as a frog in a box, but that was normal, since real love made a man crazy. He knew that. Because he’d been here before.

  A flabbergasted Jean Dyson closed her mouth with a snap. She didn’t believe what she had just heard, yet she must believe it. Neil had a chance. There was a possibility – even a probability – that his occupation might be judged essential and reserved, because somebody had to show the Land Army what was what, so many of England’s farmers would be kept at home. ‘Why?’ she asked softly. ‘Why volunteer? If you sit it out, you’ll be too old to get called up.’ There was no point in screaming at him. If she shouted, he would go and sit with his cows in the shippon.

  ‘We got talking, me and Jay, and we decided it’s what we want. There’s no saying we’ll be picked anyway, so don’t start worrying yet. There’s every chance we’ll be psychologically unsuitable, or we won’t get through training for one reason or another. Then, as you said, there’s my age. If I volunteer, I’ll be considered.’