I really do miss our landlady. Mum, Dad and I cleared the room out and Dad put the bed etc. upstairs in the old lady’s original bedroom. We got some secondhand pieces and are now the proud owners of a formal dining room, though the chairs don’t match each other. The sideboard was of poor wood and very plain, but it serves its purpose by housing Miss Morrison’s lovely china. We have kept her easy chair by the fireplace with her favourite shawl draped over the back. Sometimes, I sit in it and talk to her in my head.
There was no Christmas. I spent the day with my friend Gloria and her family, and did not find out until I got home that Miss Morrison had died on Christ’s birthday. We console ourselves with the knowledge that she was happy in our company and that she lived a long and useful life. My mother cried a lot. It was the first time she had helped lay someone out.
The funeral was amazing. Two of her ‘girls’ spoke at the service in St Michael’s C of E church, and it was standing room only. They weren’t girls; they were grandmothers, and it took them the best part of half an hour to read out the accomplishments of Miss Frances Morrison. Although the church was packed, you could have heard a pin drop. My mother spoke, too. I was very proud of her – she even made people laugh about the countless cups of milky tea, the coddled eggs and just-right toast, not too pale, not too dark. Knitting was mentioned, as was the old lady’s tendency to be as deaf as she needed to be according to prevailing circumstances.
Right at the front, a very old man sat in a wheelchair. I spoke to him afterwards as he waited in the porch for his great-nephew to take him home. He was the famous vulgar caretaker. I told him that she had loved him, and he fixed me with the palest blue eyes I have ever seen. In a rusty, dusty voice, he said that she had been the only one for him, but he was from the wrong class. For once, I was lost for words. She never exactly told me that she loved him, but I could see it in her eyes every time she spoke about him. Why do people waste love, Miss Pickavance?
So we approach March, and Mam is more than six months pregnant. My stepfather’s war work in Crosby has been with builders, and he has come to love our city while trying to keep it safe. Our house here is finally stable and free of what Miss Morrison termed pit props. I think Dad pulled a few strings.
Mam and he need to get away. I pray nothing else will happen to keep them here; I also pray for a sister. Can you imagine how life would be if we got yet another boy? Dad is diplomatic, says I’ll need a bridesmaid in a few years, so he wants a girl. I know what he really wants – he wants the birth to be easy and his beloved wife safe and well. The sex of the child is not significant, because he loves Mam so much. So there are one-woman men. One is married to my mother, and another sat in a wheelchair in a church porch in freezing cold. Wasted love? How cruel life is sometimes.
Please, I beg you, look after my mother when she comes back to Willows. She has been well through the pregnancy, and I know Dad loves her to bits, but Gran has always been with her for births in the past, and she will be here looking after me. I begin to feel quite a nuisance. This will be our fifth baby, and I want her and my mother to be safe.
Thank you yet again, Miss Pickavance.
Hoping to see you soon.
Mel x
There were snowdrops outside, and they were fading fast. Hilda counted twenty-seven under her window, and she could see clumps of grey-white, drooping flowers spread round the edges of the lawn. Even in wartime, these preludes to spring caused hope to burgeon in the saddest of hearts. Here and there, premature green swords thrust their first inch above soil. These gladiatorial announcements were a proud statement from daffodils, narcissi and cheerfulness. ‘We’re coming,’ they said. Jay had planted them just about everywhere, including under the grass, so the first mowing could not take place until spring flowers had died off completely.
The boys were safe and behaving well. Rob, buried in his Christmas books about farming, muttered from time to time about turnips not being as easy as people thought, about the impossibility of resting land while there was a flipping war on, about spuds being good for the soil. He had gathered enemies and friends in the animal kingdom, and Bertie was his close ally when it came to ploughing. Those horses were brilliant when tractor fuel ran low. Bertie, too, was amazing, because he talked to the beasts and managed to urge them on till a job was done. But beetles, mice and crows were the enemy, and Rob fought them like a trooper.
Ah, here he came. After tapping on the door, he pushed his smiling face into Hilda’s room. ‘Well, I worked it out,’ he announced. ‘It was simple, really. The animals have to be closer to the farmhouse because they need tending. I’d never looked at it that way. Crops have to be further away.’
‘So will you be arable or mixed, young man?’
‘Mixed. I’m getting used to the animals. Bertie helps. He’s turned out to be a good lad, has our Bertie.’
‘You all have. So has he given up the idea of being a vet?’
‘Too much blood. Me and Bertie want to stay together and rent a farm. He can run a livery while I do the rest. Anyway, Gran says are you coming down, because the food’s going cold.’
‘I’m coming.’ So was Phil. He was walking across the lawn with Mr Marchant, his teacher. Mr Marchant had been known to say that Phil should be the teacher, so great was his talent. Snowdrops were not the only good news. Three boys who had led the wild life were gaining sense and knowledge. As for Mel, the world was her lobster, as Nellie often said with that cynical gleam in her eyes. Nellie was a walking dictionary. She knew all the right words, but preferred her own, and the gleam was the challenge.
‘You coming, then?’ Rob asked.
‘Soon, yes.’
He left the room, muttering this time about soil suitable for carrots, the differences between early and main crop, and the difficulties attached to thin planting.
‘I’ll miss you, Nellie,’ Hilda whispered. That lovely, voluntary Mrs Malaprop would return to Liverpool, and thereby leave a large hole in Hilda’s life. Nellie Kennedy was a one-off, a light in the darkness, a true friend. But life, as people often said these days, had to go on …
Women would trek miles in search of supplies. A whiff of orange peel, a glimpse of a banana, a rumour regarding tinned salmon, and they were off like the proverbial bats out of hell. A treasure-huntress was easy to spot; the head was always down, the march brisk, the owner-occupier of the body totally out of reach when it came to conversation or even a brief greeting.
Her purposefulness attracted followers who tried to latch on without being noticed. They noticed each other, of course, though it was quite commonplace for the leader of this route march to remain completely unaware that she was exercising a whole regiment. Unfairness set in when the shop hove into view. It was easily identifiable, as there was usually a queue outside. The ranks put a spurt on and overtook their not-really-commanding officer, often leaving her to bring up the absolute rear.
When the shop door slammed and the CLOSED sign appeared, shoulders drooped and a corporate sigh was offered up by the whole congregation. Somewhere towards the back, a little woman would be on the rampage, spitting, swearing and clobbering people with an empty shopping basket. It was all par for the course, and no one took much notice. This did not happen in Crosby, of course. Crosby was too dignified. Underhand behaviour might elicit a quiet sigh of disgust, animal faeces on a gate and, occasionally, the odd unsigned letter that pulled no punches, but there were no wrestling matches in the streets.
It was after one of these fruitless treks that Eileen was stopped in the main shopping area of Crosby village. Her newly arrived companion was Dr Tom Bingley, who was developing a habit of popping up all over the place, and he was bearing gifts in the form of two tins of salmon and two oranges. ‘For you,’ he said.
She took out her purse to pay.
‘No, Eileen. I get these things from grateful patients.’ Even when pregnant, she shone. Clear eyes, glossy hair with escaping tendrils, perfect skin, slender fingers … Oh, he shouldn�
��t look, shouldn’t be so bloody stupid.
‘Do you?’ She remembered telling his wife that he would do nothing to damage his precious reputation, yet just a year or so earlier, he had threatened to embrace Eileen in public and cause a divorce. She didn’t trust him. He was warming up again, was working on a last desperate plan before she left Crosby for Willows. He was actually panicking. ‘Then I don’t want them. The patients mean your family to have them.’
‘But the baby—’
‘Is my problem, mine and Keith’s. Leave me alone.’
‘I can never do that.’ His voice was low and quite chilling. ‘No matter where you go, it—’
‘Will never be over,’ she finished for him. ‘I am six months pregnant with the child of a man I would die for. He loves me so well and so thoroughly that I have no need, time or energy for anyone else. I am off the market, Tom. Not just rationed and in short supply – I am completely out of stock.’ It was true. Any residual desire for this man had dissipated completely. Did he care at all for his family? Was he aware that his son … No, she must not think of it. As the sole keeper of her daughter’s big secret, she needed to tread softly.
‘I love you, and you know it.’
He touched her hand, and she felt nothing apart from skin on skin. Well, almost nothing … ‘You love Marie, and she knows it.’
‘And you know I’d leave her for you. It makes no sense to me, either, so I just accept it.’
‘And I’m pregnant.’
‘And I noticed. You carry beautifully.’
‘My baby wants no new visitors calling in.’
Tom hid a smile with his free hand. She called a spade a bloody shovel, didn’t she? What was it about her? Why her? If he put his mind to it, he could surely find a quiet little woman with hidden depths and raging hormones. But he already had that in his newly improved wife. Whenever he thought deeply about Eileen, which he did frequently, he realized that what he loved was her playfulness, her outright silliness. He wanted to park her with cups on a draining board, carry her around like a sack of King Edwards, mess about before breakfast, chase her on the beach.
‘Tom, I have to get home.’
‘I’ll drive you.’
‘You’ve already driven me mad. Go away.’
‘I’ll miss you.’ Even a glimpse of her in the street was pleasure. The thought of Crosby without her was unbearable. Taking photographs to Willows for Phil was not going to be enough, because he could not travel every week just to see Madam. He had already posted three packets. And Phil was living at a different address; he would probably stay there, as there was no room at Keith’s place in Willows Edge. ‘Your husband knows how I feel about you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he angry?’
She shook her head. ‘He knows there’s no danger of me betraying him.’
‘Yet you’re tempted.’
‘No. I am not. He is enough for me, Tom. We have a very strong bond, and only death could separate us. I was happy with Laz, but this is perfect. So stay out of it, because you are wasting your own time and mine. Oh, and don’t think about killing him, because if anything happens I’ll get the police on to you before you’ve breathed in. Now get out of my way, because I am going home.’
‘You’re furious.’
She made no reply, turned and strode away. With her fingers crossed, she walked over to the opposite pavement and prayed that he would not make a scene. There was madness in him, and not a little desperation. She knew how powerful and confusing love could be, knew the strength of his feelings for her. It hadn’t been like that between her and Keith. Keith had tumbled clumsily into love, but she had eased her way towards him. She had chosen a good man, and had waited months to marry him.
The fool was kerb-crawling up Manor Road.
‘Do you have half an hour to spare, miss? Want to earn a few bob? My place isn’t too far away, and I’ve got some sugar.’
‘What are you after?’ she asked.
‘Just your body.’
‘That’s all right, then.’ Eileen climbed in next to her husband. ‘This baby is huge,’ she complained. ‘I think she’s going to turn up with a full suite of furniture and a gas mask.’
Keith’s mind was still focused on Bingley. ‘I watched you with him,’ he said. ‘He isn’t giving up, is he?’
‘No. He’s behind us.’
Keith sighed and looked in his rear-view mirror. He understood the desperate mind of Tom Bingley, but had their positions been reversed Keith would have walked away. Perhaps in his twenties he might have resorted to unusual methods, but he had grown up. Tom Bingley hadn’t; he was still a lad chasing pots of gold at the ends of rainbows. Dr Bingley’s childishness reminded Keith of Jay …
‘We’ll be gone from here soon, Keith. And I look like the side of a house, so I doubt he’ll pursue me.’ You carry beautifully, he had said.
Keith stopped the car and waited until Tom had overtaken him. The fact that he was still in the picture while Eileen was temporarily misshapen carried ominous implications. It was becoming clear that the doctor’s interest went beyond the merely physical; he had fallen hook, line and waders for Eileen and was bent on reeling her in. ‘He loves you, and I can’t blame him.’
She shook her head. ‘He wants me.’
‘While you’re pregnant? While you’re huge with our baby? Sweetheart, he’s crazy about you, and he’s out of control. He may think he’s clever, and he may actually be clever, but he’s as capable as the next man of losing his page in the book. If he slips off the edge of reason, forty miles is no distance for a madman. I’m going to talk to his wife.’
‘No.’
‘But Eileen—’
‘No,’ she repeated. ‘She’s been through enough. If anyone talks to her, it will be me. She’s been a frightened, lonely girl for as long as she can remember. Men are not her favourite people, so leave her alone.’ Eileen took her husband’s hand. ‘Do you mind if we baptize this one Francesca Helen? We’d use the Helen, but the fancy first name would be for Miss Morrison.’
It was ideal, and he told her so. Her mother was Helen, while his had been Ellen. ‘But we don’t want another Nellie,’ he insisted. ‘One’s enough.’
She agreed. The thought of another Nellie Kennedy caroming her way through life was exhausting. In truth, Eileen was exhausted anyway. Had she walked too far in pursuit of salmon? Had she … ‘Keith, we need to get home. Something’s wrong with me.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t feel well.’
Immediately, he set the car in motion. Should he drive quickly or slowly? Neither seemed right, so he went along at thirty. But he didn’t take her home; instead, he drove to Dr Ryan’s surgery. ‘Stay there,’ he ordered before dashing into the building. If Tom bloody Bingley’s mithering had damaged Eileen, the man would be dead in an hour or two. She had to be all right. She mattered more than any baby.
Pandemonium followed. A man who had been waiting to see the doctor about an ingrowing toenail forgot his discomfort and helped Keith carry Eileen through to the surgery, where she was placed on an examination trolley. Keith stayed at the top end and held his wife’s hand while Dr Ryan dealt with the lower department. ‘The plug’s out,’ she announced.
‘What plug?’ the patient demanded.
Dr Ryan smiled at her. ‘This is pregnancy number five, and you don’t know about plugs?’
‘Only in sinks and baths,’ Eileen’s replied. ‘Can’t you shove it back in?’
‘Same principle as sinks and baths, but no, I can’t just shove it back. A plug of mucus wedges in the neck of the womb to protect the pregnancy. If it comes out, premature labour is a distinct possibility. Now, listen to me, Eileen. You aren’t going to like this, but you sure as hell are going to follow my instructions. You will not walk at all. You will take wheat germ and vitamin C. The vitamin C will be in bottles of orange juice – like the ones we give to children, government issue.’
‘Bugger,’ sai
d Eileen quietly. ‘What about going to the lav?’
‘Bedpan.’
‘Shit.’
‘Exactly,’ said the seasoned medic. ‘Keith has to nurse you. You are about twenty-seven weeks. The closer we can get to forty, the better. For meals, you may sit up. Apart from that, you lie flat with your feet raised higher than your head.’
‘How exciting. And how nice for a man who still thinks I’m a goddess. He’ll have to wipe my backside.’
The doctor continued seamlessly. ‘A nurse will come twice a day. You may develop pressure sores on your heels and on your rear, so Keith and the nurse will rub the areas with surgical spirit several times a day. If you get sores, stop the spirit and ask the nurse for cream. Do not attempt to hold back faeces in order to avoid embarrassment. If you try to time bowel movements to coincide with the nurse’s visits, you will harm the baby. The orange juice will keep you regular.’
Eileen closed her eyes. In her opinion, if men had to go through this kind of rubbish, on top of big bellies, exhaustion and pain, the human race would die out in decades. ‘And when my legs seize up?’
‘They will be massaged and exercised gently on a daily basis.’
‘Whoopee.’
‘Don’t get excited,’ advised Elizabeth Ryan, sarcasm tinting the words. ‘We are going to save this baby. Mel needs a sister, and your lovely husband will enjoy being a daddy. So shut up and get on with it.’
The patient opened one eye. ‘It could be a boy.’
‘It’s a girl,’ the doctor replied. ‘Don’t ask how I know, I just do.’ She spoke to Keith. ‘Take no nonsense from her. If anything happens, call me night or day. If I’m not here, someone else will come to you. The main thing is to keep her still.’
‘She has a low boredom threshold, doc.’
‘I think we all know that. Oh, and the move to Bolton is not possible. I know it’s not ideal, but she must stay here in Crosby, in bed, until she has delivered safely.’
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 70