The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  Alone, Eileen dug out her parcel from behind the upended mattress on which she and Mam slept. There was the letter, a photograph of Willows, and a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He was making love to her. From a distance not far short of forty miles, he was caressing her soul. Inside the book, tissue thin enough to be transparent held dried flowers between a dozen or more pages. All her life, Eileen had waited, however unconsciously, for a relationship like this. It was a fairy tale, and she was Cinderella. There was no carriage, no glass slipper, no midnight deadline, but the hero had a gentle heart, humour, and a good brain. It was all too quick, too quick because war loomed.

  At the age of thirty-three, this mother of four children had been washed ashore on an island named Hope. Her Lazzer had been a wonderful man, and she was not betraying him. Keith had a memory of a girl he had loved, so they were equal on that score. For the first time, she smiled while thinking of Laz. After baptizing him Lawrence, his family had shortened that to Lawrie, which sounded a bit like the name of a large vehicle, so Eileen and he had made up Lazzer. They’d been happy. To this day, Eileen missed the weight of a man, the power, the loving and whispering. But she’d pledged herself to her children, and three of those children were … on the wild side. Keith would straighten them out. It was silly, placing faith in a bloke she hardly knew, and yet … He could do it. He would do it. ‘Slow down,’ she muttered.

  The scream came at that moment. Eileen shoved her treasures out of sight and ran into the street. Kitty Maguire was lying face down on the pavement, balled fists battering the flags, a blood-curdling sound escaping from her throat. Over her stood Nellie Kennedy and two policemen. Other neighbours came out of their houses, mostly mothers with children too young for school. Eileen interpreted word-shapes on her mother’s lips. Charlie Maguire was dead. A constable advised Eileen that the body had been washed up on Ainsdale beach, just another piece of flotsam tossed about by the Mersey’s unpredictable rips. ‘She’s taken it bad,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘Mind you, he was never sober, so we’re not surprised he’s come to grief. Poor woman.’ He shook his head sadly.

  Days later, Eileen remembered how she had thought of herself coming ashore on an island named Hope. While she had been pondering that, Kitty’s husband had been thrown up by the tide, and a whole family had been stranded on a shore entitled Despair. Life took, and life gave. Because on that first day, Hilda Pickavance rode in on her white horse and promised Kitty a cottage in Willows Edge. The true hero of the piece was a quiet woman with a spine of steel, a person who, when blessed with good fortune, insisted on sharing it. Charlie was dead, but his wife and children would be safe.

  For several nights, Eileen and Nellie took turns to sit up with Kitty. Weeping continued till the early hours of every morning, after which whoever was on duty dozed fitfully in an uncomfortable chair. Poor old Charlie had been doomed anyway. According to the doctor, his life sentence was always going to be commuted to early release, since his liver was fit only for saddlery and boot-soling, not for cleansing blood. He had been a long way past retrieval, and his illness showed in every corner of the disgusting house he had inhabited. From where she sat, Eileen could hear wildlife in the kitchen. She recalled one of the babies, now grown, being taken to the hospital after eating ‘currants’ from the kitchen floor. That dried fruit had been produced by rodents, and the child had suffered the consequences. The smell in here was almost unbearable.

  Cockroaches scuttered about. These creatures, along with mice and silverfish, were frequent visitors in Nellie and Eileen’s house, but Nellie kept on top of them and was merciless when it came to methods of dispatch. Mel had once termed her gran a murderer of mice, but the job had to be done. Poor Kitty had lost hope and energy; perhaps both might be reborn once the funeral was consigned to the pages of recent history.

  Eileen closed her eyes. By now, Mam had discovered the letter, the book, the photo and the dried flowers. It didn’t matter. If Mel should ever be on the receiving end of a man’s dedicated attention, Eileen would want to know. Age scarcely came into it, because Eileen was Nellie’s child, just as Mel was Eileen’s.

  Kitty woke again. ‘Will I like it up there, Eileen? Do you think we’ll be all right out in the wilds?’

  ‘I hope so, love. There’ll be fresh air and probably no bombs, so it has to be an improvement.’

  ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘Yes. So am I.’ Kitty was better off, though she didn’t know it yet. Her husband had been difficult, and occasionally violent, a fact that accounted for several of Kitty’s absent teeth. He had failed to provide, so his young had scarcely thrived, and he would not have been fit for any kind of war service. By falling into the Mersey when drunk as a lord, he had done his wife and children a favour, since they could now be rescued. Hilda Pickavance would not have allowed Charlie into one of her cottages, and Kitty would have continued down the slippery slope for many years to come.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. He was no good, and I’m better off.’

  Eileen shook her head. ‘He’s better off, Kitty. He suffered. You know he suffered, because you told us about the bleeding. Remember? That was real pain, you see. And when he turned on you or the kids, it was the booze, not him. Part of him was screaming to get well, while the rest of him knew it was too late. Even so, whatever Charlie was, he was yours and you’ll miss him. But my mam will be with you over at Willows. My mam will look after you.’

  Kitty stared into a feeble fire. ‘Know what I’m looking forward to, Eileen?’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘Teeth. For the funeral. Proper teeth fitted by Mushy Goldberg. He does a good pair, tops and bottoms, for a couple of quid. People have been so kind.’

  Eileen smiled to herself. The locals had gone without their pies and their pints so that Kitty’s blackened stumps could be removed. The gums were currently being given a few days to heal in order to be replaced by some Mushy Goldberg specials in time for Charlie’s big send-off. ‘Try to have a little doze,’ was all she said for the time being.

  Morning struggled to be born some time after six. This was going to be the end of Kitty’s first full week as a widow, and Eileen knew from personal experience how hard that would be. She couldn’t eat or prepare food in here, so she crept next door to make tea and toast. Mam was asleep on the parlour floor mattress, the book of sonnets in one hand. She was struggling a bit in coming to terms with Shakespeare, but she had brains enough to give the bard a chance. ‘I’ve been lucky,’ Eileen whispered. ‘We’ve made it this far, you and me, Mam. Yes, I’ve been a lucky girl.’

  A sort of polite friendship had developed between Tom and Marie Bingley. She, more relaxed now that she had her own bedroom, threw herself head first into the development from scratch of a local WVS and, when she wasn’t reading government literature and attending meetings, she was knitting khaki socks and telephoning headquarters about bandage sizes and food parcels. She continued to nurture and provide for her family, but cooking and shopping had ceased to be the focus of her life. Marie was needed by the community, and her war work became the core of her existence.

  Tom’s spare time was less gainfully employed. He did his duty, helped the sick, tended the dying and the newborn, but he was restless. Then he saw an article in last week’s newspaper, the story of a washed-up body found on a nearby beach. Next to this item was printed a grainy photograph of the widow standing in a street with her neighbour. Even here, in patchy black and white, the neighbour shone. Dear God, Eileen Watson was seriously beautiful.

  He showed the paper to his daughter. ‘Where exactly do they live, Gloria?’

  ‘Rachel Street, number two, I think, so that poor lady whose husband drowned must be number four. It’s quite near the Rotunda theatre, round about where Cazneau Street meets Scotland Road. Why?’

  ‘It’s just that we know Mel, don’t we? And now that I’ve met her mother, well … I thought I might help the bereaved family.’ He watched her smile as it arrived to illumina
te a face that seemed to be improving somewhat.

  ‘That’s a nice thing to do, Daddy. But Mel never takes anyone home. I can’t say she’s ashamed, because she probably isn’t; she’s too … organized for that. It’s just that she keeps her two worlds apart, because they wouldn’t mix. Even the poor have their rules.’

  ‘Rules don’t buy a coffin, Gloria.’

  ‘No, but some things are bigger than money.’

  For a few seconds, Tom looked at his daughter. She was a sensitive soul, then. She would probably grow up to be like her mother, dutiful, correct and capable. No beauty had been promised, yet something was happening. Cheekbones. Yes, they had started to show through disappearing puppy fat. ‘When are they moving to Crosby?’ He attempted to dress the question in casual clothes.

  ‘Very soon. Miss Morrison’s having their rooms painted. She has a soft spot for Mel’s mother, so she’s trying to get everything nice for them.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Tom left his daughter to her homework and went into the study. He had to see Eileen Watson. But he owned the grace to feel some shame, since he was considering using a dead man as a stepping stone, and such an intention did not sit comfortably on his conscience.

  Marie entered the room, a piece of white paper in her hand. ‘I wonder,’ she began, her tone offhand, ‘whether you might do me a favour, Tom.’

  ‘If I can, of course I shall.’

  The paper was a five-pound note, and she passed it to him. ‘I read that the other day,’ she said, pointing to the newspaper. ‘And I thought we might go down and visit Mrs Watson and her neighbour. But I simply haven’t time today, because there’s a committee meeting early this evening. Please give the poor young widow that money. God knows she’ll need it.’

  There was an unfamiliar expression on Marie’s face, a cross between challenge and a sort of triumph. She was telling him that she’d lost the key to her chastity belt, that he could look elsewhere, that she had better things to do, wool to wind, women to organize, a war to win. The balance of power had certainly shifted on this bit of St Andrews Road.

  He felt strangely hurt. She was married to a successful, respected, handsome man, but all she offered was politeness and a kind of comradeship. ‘A civilized arrangement’ was what she wanted. After the war, depending on how long it lasted and how old the twins were at the time, she might look for divorce or separation. The disgrace of that would ruin his practice, so he must try to change her mind. At present, that mind was rather like Stonehenge; any change would arrive as a result of centuries of erosion.

  She left the room, smiling to herself as soon as the door was closed in her wake. Taking the upper hand was strangely exhilarating. Having been the first to contact the relevant authorities, she was, by default, in charge of the WVS. Although no ranks existed within the service, she was the first to receive an official blouse with that badge on the pocket, red and white, a crown at its top, and W.V.S. embroidered above the words CIVIL DEFENCE and CROSBY.

  In accordance with the dictates of its founder, the Women’s Voluntary Service undertook a duty to familiarize locals with the dos and don’ts in case of bomb attack. Members were instructed to hammer home the necessity of keeping light from showing, as well as provide comforts for displaced persons at home and for troops employed in battle. She had a reason to live, a reason all her own. No longer was she just a wife and a mother; she had lists to type, telephone calls to make, women to manage. The war was her saviour.

  Then there was home. She had assumed command here, too. By removing herself from the marital bed, Marie had taken charge. This also had been by default in its own way, as she had never fully understood the power of sex. It was something one did in order to procreate, and it was a nuisance. But when it stopped, the male became very odd. Sometimes, he looked almost crazed, eyes shifting from side to side, occasionally fixing on her breasts or her legs. She wasn’t a handsome woman, but the breast and leg departments were adequate. Was he going insane? If that were the case, he could travel the road alone, because she had no intention of losing her own mind.

  Anyway, she’d seen all she wanted of the damp patch on the main bedroom ceiling, had wasted more than enough time waiting for him to groan and flail before collapsing on her like a lump of boiled fish. The whole business was moist and rather unwholesome. He needed it, though, especially when a pretty woman or girl had visited. Well, he could manage without her. Men were designed literally to please themselves, and she had just given him unspoken permission to turn his attention to some other female.

  So that was that. Now, where had she put the instructions about how best to pack a shoebox with goodies for a soldier? And should Muriel Crabtree be in charge of bandages? Muriel kept horses, and there was usually a whiff of manure about her person …

  The edge was keener in Liverpool than in Crosby and Blundellsands. People scuttered to and from the docks, humour less audible, faces set in lines that spoke volumes about what was dreaded. Barrage balloons, pretty and silver, bobbed about in the cool evening air. Older men wore the garb of wardens and fire-watchers, while younger males went about their business in a hurry, as most would soon be gone into the hungry maw of Europe. The invisible, silent wind of change howled behind expressionless eyes. Afraid yet determined, this tough, valiant breed prepared to bomb and to be bombed. Grey ships moored in shallow water were being edged out by tugs, as they were sitting too low and in danger of becoming silt-bound. What was their cargo? Why were there so many Royal Navy uniforms about?

  They were no doubt loading missiles, and it was all suddenly very real. Tom drove past guns whose huge nostrils pointed skyward as if in immediate readiness to spit rounds of flak at German fighters and bombers. Thousands of sandbags were piled on pavements waiting to be taken to their final resting places. Windows bore criss-crossed tape applied so that glass would not fly too freely once the show began in earnest. Little trains chugged across the road, and a smell akin to cordite danced skittishly on the breeze.

  He stopped the car and watched a different world, one that was a mere seven miles from his home. Used to houses with garden gates, a stranger to organized and heavy industry, Tom was cushioned, and he knew it. And he suddenly understood Marie’s obsession with socks and bandages. While the contribution of one small arm of civil defence might seem paltry, it could be vital to a man who bled in a ditch, to another whose extremities were unbearably cold and wet. Little shoeboxes crammed with sweets, biscuits, cigarettes, socks, a scarf and a greeting would mean the world to an injured man in some damp and undermanned field hospital.

  He left the docks and drove a short distance inland. No longer wishing to see Eileen, he knocked at the door of number four. But Eileen opened it. He followed her into the kind of hell he had read about, though this was his first real sight of it. The need to stop breathing had to be overcome, though there was very little oxygen in the place. Eileen Watson looked like a diamond set in tin, though Mrs Maguire fitted her surroundings well enough. ‘I’m Dr Bingley,’ he said to the new widow. ‘My wife’s at a civil defence meeting, but she asked me to bring you this. We saw the article in the paper.’ He handed over the five-pound note. ‘We know Mrs Watkins and her daughter, so …’ He ran out of words.

  Kitty Maguire’s hand shook as she accepted the note. ‘Me teeth,’ she said through tears. ‘God bless you, doc. I’ve never had hold of a fiver before. I can pay for me new teeth so I won’t show me kiddies up.’

  He didn’t know what to say, because mind and throat were suddenly dry.

  Eileen led him out. ‘She’s not herself,’ she said quietly. ‘All she goes on about is her teeth. Mushy Goldberg took out the bits that were left a few days back, and he’s making her a set of falsies. They’ll be ready in the morning, just before the funeral. We had a collection to pay for them, but she can use that for other essentials. I’m afraid she’s coming out with some odd things.’

  ‘Shock,’ he managed.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

 
; They stood on the pavement. He fiddled with his trilby while she stared at her shoes. ‘It’s a bloody mad world,’ he said eventually. ‘And I think it’ll get worse before it gets better.’

  ‘No doubt. Thanks, anyway.’ She went back to Kitty.

  Tom drove home. He knew he couldn’t offer his services as fireman, warden or driver, because he was going to be essential. If a baby was coming, it wouldn’t hang on while he manned a phone in town. Perhaps he might be allowed to roll a few bandages. Perhaps he could learn to knit socks. Whatever he could or couldn’t do, he felt seriously inadequate.

  Fortunately, Kitty Maguire had managed by the skin of her few remaining teeth to keep up her insurance payments, so Charlie could have a decent enough send-off. He was in a closed coffin, as the Mersey had done its usual thorough job, but he came home and spent his last night in his own house, as was traditional in Catholic families. The final vigil had to be sat by men. Charlie’s widow went upstairs to bed while three male neighbours occupied the front room and drank Guinness in an effort to make the situation more bearable. This was a filthier than normal house, so alcohol was required to take the edge off things.

  They played cards, drank, dozed, played dominoes, dozed again. Even seasoned navigators of Scotland Road life were unused to conditions as bad as Kitty Maguire’s, and they slipped outside occasionally to clear their heads and noses of a stench that defied description. In the mix were dried urine, the droppings of rodents, decaying food and piled-up house dust, all topped by the musty aroma of damp mould. They felt sorry for poor Charlie, whose last night on the earth’s surface had to be spent in so malodorous a place. Yet they all knew that Kitty had tried her best until it all got on top of her, and that the man in the box had not done right by his family. He was a drunk, he was dead and, with the help of Miss Pickavance, Kitty and her three kids might get a fresh start.