When morning came, the men stood by the coffin until Kitty put in an appearance. She shot through the shabby parlour like a bullet from a gun, her expression similar to one visiting the face of a child who expected a decent Christmas. ‘He’s opening up early,’ she told them. ‘Just for me.’ She had scarcely delivered this announcement before she left the house. Three bedraggled children appeared, all dirty, all hungry. One of the neighbours took them home for a slice of bread, a drop of milk and a wash, while another announced his intention to gather borrowed clothes for them.
‘They’ve got clothes,’ he was informed by his companion. ‘Miss Pickavance will bring them across in a bit.’
Charlie couldn’t be left on his own. Even now, dead as a dodo, the poor beggar continued to be a nuisance. The remaining two men stood in the doorway to wait for Kitty to come home. When she finally returned, she had happy eyes, tidy hair and a mouthful of bright, white teeth. While she explained that Mrs Goldberg had done the hair, the two remaining keepers of Charlie’s final vigil stood open-mouthed on the pavement outside number four, their eyes riveted to her mouth. Her words seemed to struggle while being born, because they had to find their way past obstacles that were almost impassable. Her face was bigger, taller, different.
‘I’ve got teeth,’ she said proudly, though with difficulty.
This might have provided a subject for debate had circumstances been different. Because Kitty didn’t have teeth; the teeth had Kitty.
*
So sorry about your neighbour, Eileen. It’s sad when a man loses his life at such a young age, and tragic for his family. Let’s hope they have a better time when they get to Willows Edge.
Have you noticed how people talk about a ‘very nice funeral’??? I mean, what’s nice about shoving some poor devil in a box under damp earth with worms and moles and God alone knows what else? And afterwards, when you stand in a pub trying to eat a ham sandwich, you realize you can’t because the place stinks of men’s urinals, stale beer and tobacco smoke.
Eileen shook her head and giggled out loud. He was describing the Throstle’s Nest to a T, and yes, people had talked about the nice funeral.
I know it doesn’t seem right, but I have been laughing my head off about Kitty and the teeth. The date will be remarked upon not as the day on which Charlie was buried, but the occasion when the teeth moved in. How I pray your doctor friend will attend to Kitty’s mouth furniture, otherwise I won’t be able to look at her without chuckling when she gets here.
Dr Tom Bingley had been very kind. Not only had he attended church, burial and funeral tea, he had also asked Kitty whether the teeth hurt. Kitty had admitted that talking was difficult, eating impossible, so the good man had invited her to visit a friend in Crosby who specialized in the adjustment of dentures. There would be no charge. Tom hadn’t brought flowers, so this small service would have to suffice in lieu.
Eileen put down her letter and walked to the window. Some of Hilda’s parents’ bits and pieces were being taken by the local carter up to Willows. Hilda, Mam, Philip, Rob and Bertie would leave in a few days, while Eileen and Mel would be bound for Crosby. And he would be there, just round the corner.
It had all seemed so innocent, that meeting in town. He had come to talk to her about the work his wife was doing, had taken her to a headquarters in Liverpool, had asked whether Eileen would consider doing the job, but here, on Scotland Road, just once or twice a week. And she had said yes, and he had kissed her. He was not for her. She’d been plagued by sexual desire for other men, had always managed to escape before indulging her weakness. But this man was powerfully attractive and … and she was a damned fool. He was not, not, not for her. Keith was nearer the mark, yet Tom Bingley was a magnet, and she was scrap iron. Difficult. It was the war, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time.
For a few minutes, she was back in the car with him, her open mouth crushed against his, tongues meeting and playing, her body melting under the touch of clever hands. She needed … She wanted … His warm breath caressed her ear as he used words to praise her body, while his expertise brought her to a state of pleasure for which she had decided never again to search. It was wonderful and terrible, and she was now awakened once more. Had Laz lived, their family would have been huge. ‘He’s not for me,’ she repeated for the hundredth time. She thanked God – if God would listen to so pathetic an argument – that full intercourse had been an impossibility in a motor vehicle. Like many others, Eileen had caught the war disease. Make love while you can, for tomorrow …
Then there was Mam. Mam had noticed the glow, had listened to moans in the night while her errant daughter had relived in dreams what had happened to her in the front seat of a doctor’s car. But it wasn’t love; it was sex, and that was different, a sin to be confessed to a priest, except that she couldn’t, because she was ashamed. She needed, wanted … Damn the bloody war!
Nellie entered. ‘Daydreaming again? About that Keith one?’
‘No. Just watching Hilda’s stuff being taken. It’s getting real now.’
Something was getting real, Nellie Kennedy mused, and it was nothing to do with a tallboy, a wardrobe and a clock with a brass pendulum. ‘Eileen?’
‘What?’
‘Is it that doctor?’
After a brief pause, the reply was delivered. ‘Yes.’
‘Blood and rabbit innards, he’s a married man. His daughter’s our Mel’s best friend. Have you … you know?’
‘No.’
‘But you will?’ So many hurried weddings and unwanted pregnancies. ‘Don’t let Hitler push you into something you’ll regret.’
Eileen bit her lip. ‘I thought I’d be all right. I mean, this isn’t the first time I’ve been tempted, because it’s only human nature, isn’t it? Then I thought some kind of love might happen with Keith, because he’s lovely. But Tom … He brings out my best and my worst, Mam.’ She turned and faced her mother. ‘How many people can talk like this to their mams, eh? And who will I turn to when you’ve gone? I mean, he’ll be living yards away from me. His wife’s …’
‘What?’
‘Living in a different part of the house. Sleeping on her own, I mean. And I don’t want to repeat what happened in that car. He’s like some kind of master of the art, and he bloody well adores me.’
‘You’re pretty. You’re like one of them Stradiwotsit violins, and he’s a good fiddler, knows how to get the best tune out of you. Listen, girl. You know damned well Lazzer only had to look at you and you fell pregnant. How will you explain a big belly to your daughter, eh? So he’d better be careful what he does with his bow, or he can fiddle off. I’ll kill him.’
‘No, you won’t. And he knows ways of making sure I don’t get a big belly. I understand it’s all physical. I’m not daft. But he thinks she’ll want divorce or separation when the kids are older, and by then I might love him for more than the tunes he plays on my strings. He’s clever. I like clever people.’
‘Eileen—’
‘I’m thirty-three!’
‘So was Jesus, and look what they done to him. I’m going out.’ The door slammed.
The letter was lovely. Keith was lovely. He described early morning frosts, the birth of piglets, geese skeining over the moors, the fresh, cutting air of early evenings. He gave her the crow of a cockerel, communication between cats domestic and feral, a cow seeking the milkmaid who usually tended her, awarding her a flick of the tail, a gentle reminder that hot, painful udders needed relief. He brought her into the barn, where she inhaled the comforting, sweet scent of stored hay. Keith stroked her soul, but Tom had ignited her flesh. And Eileen’s flesh was a force to be reckoned with.
Nellie marched into Crosby like a Valkyrie with a severe headache after a long night on the mead in Valhalla. In the manner of one of those females from Norse mythology, she was here to decide who would die in battle. Dr Tom Bingley didn’t know he was engaged in combat, but she would inform him very soon. After stopping several peo
ple, she finally found a woman who was a patient of Dr Bingley. ‘He’s not open till four,’ she said. ‘But there’s a little coffee and tea place next door to his surgery. Just down there on Liverpool Road, it is.’
‘Ta, queen.’
Nellie rattled round in her purse until she found the price of a cuppa. Placing herself in the window, she waited for his car to pull up, thanking God that he didn’t practise from home. That wouldn’t have stopped her, but it would have been awkward. This was about protecting women from scavengers, and Marie Bingley was one of the number who required saving. Nevertheless, Nellie would have gone and done whatever … Here he came. She walked out of the cafe and stood, arms akimbo, outside his place of work.
‘Mrs … er … ?’
‘Kennedy. I’m here about me daughter.’
He blinked a couple of times as if trying to remember where he had seen her before. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Eileen Watson’s mother. You’d best get me in there before the sick start to form a queue, because you’ll be one of them if I get my way, lad.’
‘Oh. Right. Very well.’ He unlocked the door with an unsteady hand before ushering her through the waiting area into the surgery at the rear of the building. He sat down and, with a sweep of his hand, indicated that she should occupy the patients’ seat.
‘No, ta,’ she said. ‘You never know who comes into places like this. I might catch something.’ She waded in at the deep end, scarcely stopping for breath while she berated and insulted him in the age-old way of those who had lived the hard life. The air was stained by words that should never have visited the tongue of a woman, and the diatribe was not delivered quietly.
Then she got to the point of her visit. ‘Now, don’t be getting me mixed up with them who’re all wind and piss, because you’ll be wrong. My girl lost her husband to an accident five or six years back. Since then, she’s kept herself to herself, because she has four kids. And along you come, a married man, an educated bloke, and you want your way with her.’
He folded his arms. ‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Yes. Too bloody right I’m threatening you. If you don’t leave our Eileen alone, you’ll be just a little bit dead. All right? And if I and a few good lads have to go to hell for murder, so be it. Because I’m telling you now, if you get into her knickers, you will find yourself starting a new fashion, a six-inch blade worn just about where your heart would be if you had one. I’m not kidding. Touch her, and you’ll rue the bloody day. You’ll be watched. She’ll be watched. Wait till I tell our Mel about her best pal’s dad, eh?’
‘You wouldn’t!’
‘Wouldn’t I? I am putting the Dockers’ Word out on you, mate. The old lads won’t be called up, and they’re stronger than any mee-mawing quack from Crosby. Don’t be surprised if you wake up dead with a docker’s hook sticking out of your throat.’
‘That would definitely be a hanging offence.’
Nellie laughed, though the noise she created sounded grim. ‘Are you confusing me with somebody who gives a monkey’s arse what happens to you, your daughter, your fancy flaming life? Or to me? See, I’m not impressed by them what think they’re better than us common folk, because us common folk know how to fight wars, how to kill, where to stick the bloody knives, and how to scare seven shades of shite out of Hitler. We’ll be the ones that do that, Dr Bingley. Oh, and in case you’re still not hearing me, I’ll leave you a small deposit just as a sign of goodwill, eh?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Granted.’ She dropped her bag, balled her right fist and thrust it forward with all her might until it made contact with his left cheek. His head shot back and hit the wall. For once, she thanked God for all she had learned during a difficult life that had made her keen-eyed and street-smart. ‘That’s just the start. Leave her alone!’ she screamed before abandoning him to his pain.
He heard the outer door slam, and walked across the surgery to see if anyone had overheard the fracas. The waiting room was empty, and he was grateful that his receptionist was running late yet again. He placed the SURGERY CANCELLED sign in the doorway and shot home a couple of bolts. Anyone who needed urgent treatment would be seen by Dr Clarke, who was just a few yards along the road. Back in his consulting room, he surveyed the damage. By tomorrow, he would have a very black eye; right now, he might be in need of immediate help. The hag had possibly broken his cheekbone.
Six
Neil Dyson, who had been more than slightly drunk on what was now named ‘Flight Night’, had been talked out of his Guinness-fuelled decision to become a fighter pilot. He was too old, too daft, and he returned quickly to the old religion, which was pale ale and darts. He’d served in the last war, he had a good wife who needed a husband in one piece, and two daughters who adored their dad. Drunkenness didn’t suit him, and he intended to live life in a safer mode in future, because his three girls required a sober head of household. Furthermore, he would be wanted at home, because he was the main farmer, and he knew every inch of his acreage better than the back of his own hand.
His companion in lunacy, Jay Collins, adhered loyally to the black stuff, as it seemed to make him just a little stronger while he waited to hear whether the rabbit had died. Men didn’t talk much about pregnancy, as it was the domain of women, but he required an anaesthetic while he sat not talking about it. He’d no idea what a rabbit had to do with any of it, but he seemed not to be in full control of his life any more, because it was all beyond his reach. Between rabbits and Spitfires there was a very large chasm, and he was doing his level best to decide what was going to be his next move.
‘Jay?’ Neil said for the third time from the other side of the table. He was clearly flogging a dead horse and a comatose handyman. Oh, at last. Here came an answer.
‘What?’
Not an answer, then. ‘Gill’s talked a few times to my Jeanie, so I know why you’re wearing a miserable face. You just have to get through it; it’s as simple as that. You look like you’ve lost a quid and found a tanner.’
‘Oh.’
‘No news, then?’
‘No.’
‘Is she being sick of a morning? Is she eating daft stuff like pickles with jam or bacon with treacle?’
‘No.’
‘But the doc said he thought she was probably expecting?’
‘Yes.’
This was yet another thoroughly riveting conversation, thought Neil as he drained his glass. ‘Pint of Guinness, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Are you going to say anything other than yes and no?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Bugger.’ Neil went to the bar for a refill. Jay was about as much fun as a rainy Methodist picnic these days. Over in the opposite corner, Keith Greenhalgh was nursing a pint of brown. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he wandered into the pub from time to time just for a bit of company and noise. He should have got wed, because he was a good man and would have made a fine husband. There was a story to him, and rumour had it that he’d never recovered from the death of a fiancée. Damned shame, it was, because the lad needed something to paint a grin on his face.
But Elsie Openshaw was putting about a new tale concerning a very pretty woman who had visited Willows with Miss Pickavance. This woman was writing to Keith, and he was replying on a regular basis. ‘Three or four a week,’ Elsie had said. ‘And they’ve only seen each other once. Too fast, them Liverpool floozies are. She’ll have her feet under his table and her nightie on his pillow before you can say knife.’ Thus had the oracle spoken, though Neil would have preferred to hear the news from the horse’s mouth.
He paid for his pint and carried it to Keith’s table. ‘All right if I sit here?’ he asked. ‘Only Jay’s turned into the strong, silent type and I can’t cope – it’s like talking to the wall. I swear he’s in a world of his own. He needs a foot up his backside, that’s certain sure. There’s hardly one word of sense coming out of his gob.’
Keith inclined his head. ‘
Yes, park yourself here by all means. The lad’s worried. That mad Dr Stephenson didn’t need to do a test – I reckon she’s near three months gone, and I’m no doc. It’s as plain as a pikestaff to most of us. All Stephenson needed to do was lay his hands on her abdomen, but no, he had to go for a pee test.’
Neil laughed. ‘My Jeanie says the same. And if Stephenson was sober, Gill’s sample will have gone off for testing in some lab; if he was drunk, it could be anywhere from his back pocket to the medicine cabinet. Jean says she’d rather get the vet any day, because Stephenson doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. It’s time he stopped practising, cos he’ll never reach perfect this side of Judgement Day.’
Jay, having finally noticed his solitary status, wandered across and joined them. ‘I wondered where you’d gone,’ he complained. ‘I was sat there all by myself like somebody with smallpox. You could have said.’
Neil shook his head sadly. ‘We’re right opposite you. You couldn’t miss us if you’d just try to focus; there’s only three tables in here. But you’re hearing nothing, seeing nothing, and saying next to nowt. You’ve a face like a smacked bum, and it’s getting on my bloody nerves. She’s …’ He lowered his voice, as the topic was not going to be suitable for a men’s bar. ‘She’s having a baby. Jean thinks so, Keith thinks so, and Gill knows so. So. Go home and look after her while you can. Be with her, Jay.’
Jay stared down into his drink. ‘I’m thirty-two years old. I’m married to a woman who makes me happy, and she wants a baby. It looks like she’s having one, and I don’t know what to do.’
Keith frowned as if concentrating hard. ‘You’re thirty-three, I think. Boil a lot of water and find piles of towels and clean sheets,’ he said with mock seriousness. ‘Tell her to breathe, pant and push, but not necessarily in that order. Pick the kid up and make sure it’s screaming, slap it if it isn’t, then give it a wash and—’
Jay banged on the table with a fist. ‘I don’t mean that, you daft pair of lummoxes. The war. It’s my war, this one. You lot have had yours, and it’s my turn. If I wait to be called up, I could be shoved in the army. It’s an airman’s war. It’s all going to be happening over our heads, and I want to be there with the boys in blue, not stuck in a ditch with a gun, no ammunition, no cigs and salt beef butties for me tea.’
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 44