The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  Roy, completely alone in the world for much of his life, could not understand his fiancée’s reluctance to make contact with her extended family. He remarked on it now, and waited for her reply.

  ‘Dad used to call them the wild bunch. No education, no manners, no idea of how to behave. My mam says she heard some had gone completely to the bad, but she’s not really sure. As for me – well, I’ve managed this far without them, and I’d rather not rock the boat.’ She awarded him a smile. ‘Let’s go and look at Home from Home.’ The shop was up and running thanks to a man who knew his tobaccos, and his daughter, who did the half-shift. Loyal customers were back, and many newspapers were delivered daily to houses in the area.

  Roy knew better than to pursue the subject. Once Rosh made up her mind, it would be easier to shift Gibraltar with a washing line than to get her to revise her position. Their love life had been interesting for some time, because he’d been terrified about her insides. So she’d battered him with a pillow; it had taken two days to get rid of the feathers. She was back to normal in the female department. No, that wasn’t true; she was back to glorious.

  They stopped on College Road and walked up the side to her domain. It was beautiful, classy without being showy – just like its owner. The kitchen had been fitted, and cooking would commence one week into the new year. 1960. How time flew for a happy man.

  ‘When’s the wedding?’ he asked.

  ‘March.’

  ‘I can’t. I have a limp.’

  In the absence of pillows, Rosh clouted him with a tea towel. Sometimes, this man could be hilariously annoying.

  Thirteen

  On a bright, icy January morning in 1960, Seamus, recovering from a severe head cold, was off school, and he was mooching and rooting. These two verbal participles had been introduced by his grandmother; mooching meant wandering about aimlessly, while rooting referred to his tendency to put his hands, eyes and ears where they didn’t belong. Well, he was bored, and boredom wasn’t right for a lad with a good rate of recovery from illness and an inquisitive mind. There was no conversation to be overheard, so he had to indulge in rooting. Anyway, what did they expect? Did they think he’d sit quietly in a corner with a poetry book? Perhaps he could take up knitting or crochet?

  He was alone. Dad was out at work, busy being the manager of a big Co-op, while Mam’s day was split between Scouse Alley and Paddy’s Market. She helped her mother until after lunch, then gave the rest of the day to her father on his good quality secondhand clothing stall. Reen and Jimmy were both at work, and Seamus was fed up. There was nothing of interest in his own house, nothing exciting in Reen’s, so he ended up in Gran’s place. Downstairs was all holy statues under domes of glass, last year’s straw cross saved from Palm Sunday, rosary beads hanging next to the fireplace and, most treasured of all, a framed Papal Blessing centre-stage on the chimney breast. Upstairs was a bit more entertaining; upstairs sometimes housed secrets.

  He wasn’t supposed to go upstairs unless he was sleeping here, but he was drawn like a piece of base metal to the magnetic powers of Gran’s boxes. There were four of them, originally made to contain new shoes, now utilized to guard letters, photographs, birth, marriage and death certificates, curls of baby hair, insurance policies and the like. There was knowledge to be gleaned; if the adults wouldn’t talk, papers might.

  Oh, yes. Gran’s house, positioned between the homes of her daughter and granddaughter, was tremendously interesting on the upper floor. He could look at the photographs, some sepia, some in faded black and white, with the most peculiar-looking people frozen for ever on paper. One of the photos had been focused on the doorway of a Liverpool cellar dwelling, and its subject was a woman standing on flags at the top of steps, a swollen belly advertising pregnancy. Another, taken from further away, showed a water pump in the middle of the same yard. The woman in the doorway was probably Gran, and the pump provided water for thirty or forty families, many of whose members lived in windowless, underground rooms. It had been a difficult life, and Gran seldom referred to it these days.

  But Liverpool had cleaned itself up since then. In a sense, even Germany had done it a favour, because the living conditions of many had improved no end after the war. Mind, Seamus did miss the prefab, because it had owned a garden. The paved yard here was rubbish. Dad had promised to clear it, get topsoil and plant grass, but it would always be small.

  Seamus replaced the box, opened a drawer, and found photos of his older brothers, Michael and Finbar. They were hiding in Rainford, a village a few miles up the East Lancashire Road. This was all because of some trouble in London, the details of which were unclear to Seamus, although his eavesdropping skills were second to none. Nobody spoke about it, so there was nothing to hear. But, at last, he had found something to see. There was a letter from a man in London. He seemed to be chairman of an Irish club, and he was volunteering to take Gran, who was referred to as Mrs O’Neil, to the Kray house.

  What was a Kray house? Was it like a public house, a terraced house, a mansion? It was probably a mansion, because London people were rich, and they walked about with their noses in the air. ‘I bet that’s where the saying comes from,’ Seamus said quietly. ‘If you walk about with your nose up, pride does come before a fall.’

  The girl who’d played Mary in the school nativity play last month had been too proud of herself. With her head held high, she had taken a tumble over the hem of her frock. Her nose was bloodied and her dignity lay truly shattered, yet worse was to come. She landed on Jesus, partially hidden and, as yet, unborn, and the Messiah had been decapitated.

  Seamus giggled. Even now, he could hear her bawling in the wings. ‘The doll’s head came off, Mam. I shown meself up. No. I’m not going back. I’m not. They’ll all be laughing at me.’ Oh, yes. There were worse things than having to wear a silly suit at Reen’s wedding. Especially now, when at least four other lads had been forced to wear the resurrected bits and pieces. So. The nativity play had been abandoned, and a happy carol concert had filled the gap.

  He sighed heavily. Now, when the path of life seemed smoother, Gran was going to London. Yes. Here was a coach ticket and a letter. The vehicle would leave Liverpool at midnight and, after several comfort stops, would arrive at Victoria Coach Station early the following morning. The date on the ticket was for next week, and nobody had said a word.

  Mam would turn loony. Gran had been the first to go down with the cold, and it had left her with a cough that seemed reluctant to say goodbye. Bronchial, she called it. She should not be setting off to London with bronchial. He would have to tell Mam, but when?

  ‘Oh, God.’ He sank onto the bed. If he ran to Mam too early, there would be an absolute nightmare of a week, because neither would give in to the other. ‘I have to be clever,’ he whispered. ‘I have to wake Mam in the night and say I saw Gran leaving with a big bag, then Mam can follow her. Let’s hope there are some tickets left.’

  It might all go horribly wrong, yet he could think of no alternative. If he talked to Dad, there’d be trouble, and Dad might open up to Mam. When it came to keeping secrets, his sister Reen was like a colander – full of holes. But Gran had been so ill, and she shouldn’t even think about London; it was hundreds of miles away, like some foreign country. They didn’t even speak English. He’d seen films with Londoners in them, and they talked in something called Cockney, which was rubbish.

  But there was no other way. If there had to be trouble, it should happen on neutral territory and well away from home. The idea of Mam and Gran going at it hammer and tongs even for a day wasn’t pleasant. A whole week? ‘What if they get the same bus, cause a riot and the coach crashes?’ he asked the room. ‘What if they never come back? It’ll be my fault for not doing anything about it. I can’t win, can I?’

  Whatever a Kray house was, it didn’t matter. Gran’s secret journey, one she wouldn’t normally choose to make, had nothing to do with sightseeing. She couldn’t care less about Buckingham Palace and Big
Ben and mansions. No. All she worried about was family, because too many had gone into the bowels of London, never to be seen again. Who was still in London? Nobody. But two brothers were in hiding – probably as a result of having been in London. This proposed expedition was likely to be their fault. Oh, what could he do, what should he do?

  With his brain spinning at a high rate of knots, Seamus replaced Gran’s property, making sure that everything was as he had found it, with the ticket underneath the letter. It was time to go next door, since either Mam or Dad would call in to feed him and build up the fire. He wasn’t allowed near the fire, which wasn’t his fault. So he’d set light to some toast weeks ago – didn’t everyone make a mistake sometimes?

  Still, at least it was warm in his own house. Finding out Gran’s secret had been an exhausting experience. Seamus curled into a fireside chair and fell asleep.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Baxter. I don’t want you blaming me when you get out of step with legal procedure. And there’ll be homework on top of everything else, because they can’t do without you, but how can you be a legal secretary after tea with Alice chattering, Philly doing her piano practice, and Kieran mithering about the human reproductive process? I wish he’d hurry up and get on to neurology or whatever. You’ll have all that going on around you.’

  ‘I shall be fine.’

  ‘Oh. Shall you, indeed? So you’ll be in a hot kitchen all day, then stuck to a typewriter every evening? Are you some kind of superman?’

  They sat together on his sofa in his house. He was selling the place furnished all the way from beds and wardrobes to cutlery and cruet; it was going lock, stock and carpets to a young couple who were absolutely delighted. Due to be married in March, Roy would move into Rosh’s house while the other newly-weds would move into his place.

  It was all dovetailing beautifully as long as Anna stayed out of it. Roisin’s mother, who was showing signs of buckling under pressure, was not exactly glowing with the joys of spring. Rosh had taken her dress material out of the house for two reasons. First, she didn’t want Roy to get a glimpse of work in progress. Second, her poor mother had enough on her hands with bridesmaids’ dresses and her own outfit. ‘Mam’s cracking up again. To use her own famous words, she’s mortallious troublesome. Philly says if she gets pricked once more with a pin, she’s running away to London, taking up the oboe properly and busking in underground stations. Alice says she’ll go with her sister and play drums and tambourine.’

  ‘And Kieran?’

  Rosh shrugged. ‘Well, he’s not being fitted for a frock, is he? And he’s not what you might call musical. I’m a bit worried, though, because since he took up human reproduction there’s every danger that we – you and I – might come under the heading of practical demonstrations. We could well have a spy in our midst.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  She laughed. ‘No, just ordinary sex.’

  There had been nothing ordinary about it, Roy mused. He’d been terrified of hurting her after all she’d been through, though she’d certainly tried to hammer home the fact that she was Irish, tough, a quick healer, ready, willing and able. It had taken a while, but he had finally coped. Which was just as well, as she had threatened not to marry him, since she was fast becoming a recycled virgin. There was no one in the world like her. Even now, in the wake of the Clive Cuttle business, she remained unafraid. He had dreaded going with her to the shop, yet she hadn’t turned a hair.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’ she asked.

  ‘You.’

  She placed her head on his shoulder. ‘Tell you what, kid. They loved your cottage pie today. One bloke did an Oliver Twist, brought his plate back and asked for more.’

  Roy chuckled. ‘Did you make him pay?’

  ‘Course I did. We’re not a charity.’

  ‘But whatever, we look after your mother, because that’s not charity.’

  ‘Of course we look after her. She thinks it’s the other way round, of course, and that she looks after us.’

  ‘Take the girls and their dresses to your dressmaker. Anna’s showing the strain, love.’

  ‘What?’ Rosh sat bolt upright. ‘I know she’s not young, but she’ll go mental if I do that. She’ll take it as criticism, you know she will. There’ll be weeping and gnashing of teeth, moaning about nursing homes, scrap heaps and lack of appreciation.’

  But he had an answer to that. The wedding cake was made and ready for decoration. ‘Let her do it. I’ve got it in three tins, and I keep prodding it with a knitting needle and pouring in brandy, but I’ve no idea when it comes to icing and marzipan. She can do a lot of that sitting down, Rosh. Anyway, mothers don’t last for ever. Let her be in a bad mood. At least she’s still with us.’

  Rosh knew how dreadfully Roy had missed his mother. She’d done her best to talk him out of the guilt he felt. According to her fiancé, his father had been as bad as Cuttle, though his body count was lower. Baxter Senior had sent his wife to an early grave, and Baxter Junior, who had seen and heard much suffering, had done nothing about it.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Rosh said yet again.

  ‘I should have poisoned his tea.’

  ‘And put yourself at his level? At Cuttle’s level?’

  Roy shook his head. ‘Poisoning would have been much kinder than Cuttle, and a hundred times less nasty than the way my old man treated my mother. She was a wonderful woman, and so is Anna, but in a different way.’

  It was Rosh’s turn to laugh. There could be no two women as unalike as Roy’s mother and hers. Roy’s mother had received bruises both mental and physical, while Anna had inflicted damage, mostly with words and attitude. ‘My father was the saint in our house,’ she said. ‘Mam was sort of corrosive. Is that the right word? Or is it erosive? She wore everybody down till she got her own way. It’s taken years, but she’s got the Collingfords on her side at last.’

  ‘I thought you were handling the dry-cleaning stuff.’

  ‘Well yes, and he’s paying rent to me. But Mam will come down on a Thursday and check that the tickets match the tabs. It makes her feel as if she won, because they gave her a job in the end. They’ll be paying her a wage, you see. So that’s a victory for her.’

  ‘Marvellous. Give us a kiss.’

  ‘Hello?’ Anna’s voice crashed through the letterbox.

  ‘Beer and pork scratchings,’ Roy exclaimed. ‘We all know she reads minds, but there are a couple of gardens, two pavements and a road between her and us.’

  ‘Never underestimate my mother.’ Rosh went to open the front door.

  Anna joined them in the front room. ‘Now don’t start,’ was her opening salvo. ‘I’ve been to the doctor’s and got a diagonal nose is. All right, diagnosis. Arthritis in me hands. That’s why I keep impaling your daughters on pins. So will you please ask your dressmaker to deal with the girls’ dresses and my suit? Oh, and I’ve found somebody to decorate the cake. Is that all right?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Mam. You should have said something about the pain. Did you get some pills?’

  ‘I did, but I don’t like the looks of them. Purple, they are. A very lurid shade of purple. They’re in a drawer, Morecambed.’

  Roy scratched his head.

  Rosh translated for him. ‘The pills are a last resort. She nominated Morecambe as the same. So anything Morecambed in our house is there only in case nothing else works.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Morecambe?’ Roy asked.

  Rosh sighed. ‘Torrential rain the day she visited. She’s got it into her head that Morecambe will be washed into the bay any day now. Last resort she’ll consider visiting, because it’s going to be flooded. In my opinion, my mother’s decision to stay away is good news for Morecambe.’ She was trying to make light of the situation, but she knew that her mother must have been in great discomfort if she’d visited the doctor. Doctors were for cowards and layabouts. Yes, they were yet another Morecambe. She turned to Anna. ‘You know we love you.
Whatever, you’ll be looked after.’

  Anna tutted. It had taken time for her to pluck up the courage to confess her failing. ‘It’s not sympathy I’m after, Roisin. And I’ll not be giving up using my hands, since they’re the only pair I happen to have just now. It was all the cutting out and tacking that did for me.’

  Rosh disagreed. ‘You’ve been a workhorse all your life, Mam. Phil had so much respect for you – remember? He always called you Mother. What you have to know now is that you can rest sometimes. Slowing down isn’t a sin. Roy and I can cope with meals, and I’ll go part-time when I’ve found a couple of dependable girls for the café. Start thinking about yourself.’

  Anna folded her arms. ‘Well, I have been thinking. I’ve a great big cleaning-up job to do, and it can’t be left.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Roy asked. ‘Can we help you?’

  ‘It’s the rubbish in the kitchen. I’m going to shift it, and not before time.’

  It was Rosh’s turn to look puzzled. There was no rubbish in the kitchen. It sometimes looked like a war zone after all six of them had eaten, but that was easily sorted out. ‘My kitchen’s not messy,’ she insisted. ‘I’ve always kept a clean house – with your help, of course.’

  ‘It’s not your mess, not the kids’, not Roy’s. It’s mine. I shall take it away the day you get married. I’ll bring it back from time to time, and I’ll try to stop it standing there, twisting its cap in its hands.’

  ‘Mam?’

  Anna took a very deep breath. ‘My name is Mrs Holt. Well, somebody has to look after him, so. We didn’t want to steal any of your thunder, so we did it quietly. Yes, for once, I was quiet. We’ll be living at his house after your wedding, but if I stay out all night before then, I’ll be just at the bottom of the road with my husband. Ah, he’s a lovely man, but. So don’t be worrying about me, because Eric can do all the fretting from now on.’