‘What’s going on?’ she asked before Tom could frame a single word.
‘I’ll tell you in the car once we get behind the coach. Until then, button it, Maureen. I mean it. You start lashing out with words or handbag, and I’ll dump you in a ditch. You’ve had all your own way for long enough. Anyway, I’m giving up being a battered husband. This is for Finbar and Michael, so if you don’t care about your sons, bugger off home now and I’ll go by myself.’ His heart was beating like a drum in a marching band.
‘Who do you think you’re talking to, Tom Walsh?’
He gazed up and down the street. ‘Well, seeing as you’re the only one here, I must be talking to you. Unless the invisible man’s joined us. If he has, tell him to come back later, because I can’t see him at the moment.’
‘Don’t try to be clever,’ she snapped.
Right, that was it. ‘I don’t have to try.’ The words were forced through Tom’s gritted teeth. ‘I work for a nationwide company, and I’m about to join the board as Manager Representative. I can forecast trends, order correctly to the last ounce, predict what’ll be the next individual big seller, and take the rug out from under any salesman who tries to pull the wool over Co-op eyes. So trying isn’t necessary. Trying is what you are, because you’d try the patience of angels, saints, and the bar staff at the Eagle and Child, who are noted for their tolerant attitude.’
Maureen’s jaw dropped again, so she snapped it shut. She was beginning to realize that the gentle soul she’d married was fast approaching the end of his tether.
‘Come on,’ he ordered before walking away.
She staggered behind him on heels that weren’t easy. If she’d known about London, she’d have brought something more sensible to change into, but nobody ever told her anything, did they? And he wouldn’t have brought her make-up. Very few men understood the value of war paint when it came to unusual situations.
Tom was mulling over a different unusual situation. Roy from Waterloo, who had helped Tom climb out of a pit named despair, had turned out to be almost a relative. Injun Joe and a chap named Don were trying to round up the Rileys. There was one here right behind Tom, a part-Riley of the female persuasion, and Riley women weren’t easy. He wondered whether Injun Joe might have bitten off more than he could either chew or smoke in his peace pipe, because Maureen, whom Tom loved dearly, was a difficult little besom who spoke with forked tongue. If the others were anything like Maureen and Paddy, Injun Joe was going to need all his warriors and a bit of curare to dip his arrows in.
‘Tom?’
He stopped and turned. ‘What?’
‘Help me. These shoes are awkward.’
She was a beautiful besom. Paddy, who was a tall, well-built woman, had been a stunner in her time, and her daughter, slighter of frame, was another pretty one. ‘Come on, love,’ he urged. ‘Take your shoes off and I’ll carry you to the car.’ He would carry her for the rest of his life if necessary. Nothing was ever perfect, but Maureen was still the woman of his dreams.
Another nightmare that might register on the Richter scale. Tess was fighting her way out of the involuntary paralysis that is a companion to real sleep. Her voice was returning to her. ‘It’s mine,’ she muttered. ‘Give it back, give it back.’
Don reached up for the cord and switched on an overhead light. She started beating him with curled fists, and her eyes were slightly open. ‘Come on, my beautiful girl,’ he whispered. ‘Get past this. What about your squirrels and your birds? Who’ll look after them if you’re too tired in the morning?’ He gripped her flailing arms before planting a demanding kiss on her parted lips. It worked. She knew he was here; she knew she was not alone.
Eyelids fluttered before raising themselves fully. When her arms were freed, she wrapped them round him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Dear God, I’m getting worse. I shouldn’t be hitting you. It’s not your fault.’
She was getting worse. ‘Tess, it seems the safer we are, with us all working now and a nice house to live in, the more you have to lose. And because you’re asleep, you can’t reason with yourself, and I should understand better than most. Many’s the night I’ve been on that beach with dead mates in bits spread all round me.’
‘I know.’
He planted a chaste, matrimonial kiss on her forehead. ‘Baby, we have to pull you out of it. Bugger my knee, because this is more important.’
‘Oh yes? Are you sure?’
He nodded. ‘I’ll nip down and do us both a mug of cocoa, eh? No falling asleep before I get back.’ He peeled back the covers and stood up. ‘Read your magazine. There’s an article about Skaters’ Trails carpet being the worst thing invented since original sin. It’ll remind you about your good taste.’
‘Oh, shut up, Gordon.’
‘Don’t you “Gordon” me, or I’ll tan that pretty little bum.’
She plumped her pillows and leaned against them. ‘Promises,’ she snapped.
In the kitchen, Don made the half-milk half-water cocoa. While it was heating, he noticed the mousetrap on the floor. It wasn’t the old one, the one that killed small rodents; this was a cage with a lump of cheese inside. It was designed so that the animal would be trapped, but not hurt. Smiling to himself, he shook his head slowly. She was a character, all right. The woman who had been a nightmare was now a dream, but her dreams were nightmares. Twin tears travelled down his face. The bad was rooted deeply within her, so a long shovel would be required to dig it out.
The doctor, while unwilling to discuss too thoroughly the ills of another patient, had spoken in general terms about childhood trauma and the effect it might have in later years. Hunger and physical abuse could leave a soul bruised for a lifetime, but treatment was available. Should a patient require private care, he would gladly write a letter of introduction to a Rodney Street therapist.
So, if it was to be a straight choice between a difficult knee and the mending of Tess – well, there was no contest. Physical pain was a nuisance, but he could go on a waiting list and take his turn. No, he was not prepared to jump a queue for himself while Tess was in such dire need. There were people who would listen to her, strangers schooled in the art of counselling. She needed a friendly ear attached to someone dispassionate, a professional who knew how to extract the terrors and deal with them.
He carried the cocoa upstairs on a little tray. She was sitting bolt upright, hands clasped round raised knees. ‘Don?’
‘What? Here’s your cocoa.’
‘Thanks.’ She took her mug. ‘You know what?’
‘Me? I don’t know anything, love. Thick as a brick, me.’
‘I’m serious. You know how selfish children are? Remember our Sean pinching Anne-Marie’s banana when he already had his own?’
‘I suppose so. She was as bad, though. They both grabbed what they could and when they could.’
‘Exactly.’ She paused. ‘They were hungry, too.’
‘Listen, sweetheart. Our kids were well fed and well enough upholstered to be a couple of armchairs.’
She shook her head. ‘Not them. I mean my brothers and sisters back in Ireland all those years ago. See, a kiddy is centred inside itself. Boy or girl, it knows pain and hunger and running about for no reason at all. Like squizzles. Just little animals. Truth is, I wouldn’t know or care what the others had to eat. I concentrated on me.’
Don sipped his cocoa. ‘Survival instinct.’ She was analysing herself; at the same time, she was taking under consideration the needs of other family members. Was this the beginning of the end? Could she talk herself out of a dilemma that had lasted for so many years?
‘I was the easiest target.’ For minutes, she sat and said nothing. Then, finally, she wondered aloud where they all were. How carefully she had avoided mentioning them until now. ‘They won’t have crossed oceans,’ she said quietly. ‘We were all sick coming across from Ireland. None of us had sea legs. I had no legs at all, so I lay on deck trying to muster the strength to jump ove
rboard and have done with it.’
‘Might they go on aeroplanes?’ Don suggested.
Tess shrugged. ‘Where we lived, I think we’d only just caught up with the invention of the wheel. I can’t see our lot putting their lives in the care of a big metal tube in the sky. They’ll be around. Somewhere.’ She sighed. ‘I bet they’d go mad if somebody stole from their kids. I bet they’ve forgotten what they did to me.’
‘Then your parents should have guarded you, baby.’
She laughed, though the sound arrived hollow. ‘He was always drunk, and she was worn out by his other hobby, which was sex. They’re long dead now, both of them. He drank his way to the grave. For Mammy, his death was probably a blessed release because of her nerves. He used her as a punch bag later on in life, because booze had probably deprived him of the ability to perform in bed, so he found other outlets for his aggression. She suffered. By God, she suffered until he got pushed through the gates of hell. By which time, she was a shadow. I expect she never recovered.’
Don decided to remain silent. She seemed to be getting somewhere without any help.
‘I ran when I was fifteen. Last day at school, I just packed my few bits and pieces and fled. Sent a letter to my mother, which someone would have needed to read to her. I put no address, and I got a job in a shoe shop, shared a bedsit with a girl called Paula. We slept top to toe in a single bed, but I’d never felt so free. When you met me, I was under-manager in that shop, and I had my own rooms, if you remember.’
Don drained his mug. She’d scarcely touched hers.
‘Our kids were grown when I really fell in love with you, Don. Then when I lost my insides, I knew I didn’t have to be like my mother, with loads of kids and no food. I could enjoy … things. I probably did have strong feelings for you, but I couldn’t show them. And the business of being a Catholic … well, you know how irritating that can be.’
He waited.
‘I saw Mammy’s death notice in the paper. Forgiving myself for not going to the funeral is something I’ve never managed. I suppose she had a few peaceful years without him, but I bet she remained a frightened woman. I never even visited her. How would we feel if our kids left home and never came to see us?’
‘With or without Elvis?’ he asked.
‘Oh, Don.’
‘I know and I’m sorry. Forget Elvis. I love our children and would hate to lose them.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to find your family, Tess? Do you feel ready for that?’
‘I’m not sure.’
Should he tell her? Could he tell her that Operation Riley was already under way, and that some of those discovered were her siblings? No. It would be better to present her with a fait accompli down at Scouse Alley. The decent people he had met bore no resemblance to the hungry children who had denied the existence of their little sister. ‘It might cure you,’ he suggested.
‘Let me work my way up to it, love. Come on, lights out. Let’s try to get some sleep.’
Another person suffering severe sleep deprivation was Seamus Walsh. After a doze that lasted minutes, he suffered a rude awakening. Granddad had surfaced. It was probably Gran’s medicine time, and the habit seemed to be proving hard to break. He must have found the note, because he was up and down the stairs like a yo-yo with a long string. The coach would be leaving soon, surely? And why was Granddad grunting and groaning? Something unusual was happening, and the something unusual was climbing the stairs yet again. Seamus felt as if his heart might stop at any minute.
Kevin O’Neil stood in the doorway. ‘Get dressed,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not waking our Reen, so you’ll be coming with me. We have to follow the London coach. It’s nearly time for it to set off, so don’t be dawdling and messing about.’
‘No, we don’t need to do that.’ The child squinted when light flooded the room. Electricity seemed a lot brighter than it used to be.
‘What do you mean? Come on, don’t sit there blinking as if you’re innocent. I thought you’d been a bit weird lately. What do you know? What haven’t you told me?’
The boy bit his lower lip. ‘Mam and Dad are following the coach.’ He groaned under his breath. When was he going to learn what not to say?
Kevin folded his arms. ‘You what? You knew your gran was going to London, and you said nowt? And with her chest the way it’s been? Well, we’ve no time to be picking bones, but you’ll be a bloody skeleton when we come home. Get in that van. I’ve put a mattress and bedding in the back, so crawl in and stay there with your head down. I’m posting a note through our Reen’s door.’ He left the scene.
Seamus kept his pyjamas on, piling on top the clothes he had been wearing earlier. With his outdoor coat over an arm, he went out to meet his Armageddon, which had suddenly taken on the shape of his grandfather. But Granddad was already scraping a bit of ice off his windscreen. ‘Get in,’ he hissed. ‘And shut the door properly. I don’t want you to shoot out somewhere outside Birmingham, because I need a word when we get back. You’re in trouble, lad. Very big trouble.’
When was he not in trouble? He could remember very few days on which he’d scraped through without being accused of something or other. So what was the difference? It would have been more remarkable had he not been in some kind of grief, then somebody might tell him for once that they were impressed by how good he’d been.
To give them their due, the remarks on his much improved school report had given rise to kisses – which he could have done without – book tokens, three quid in change and a kit for a Spitfire off their Reen. He was clever. He knew he was clever because even old Vera with the prune face had said so, while Sister Beetroot – really Beatrice – had declared that his compositions were good enough to enter in national competitions. He had a good imagination. Yes, he had a good imagination, and he was shut in the back of an old van with two blankets, an eiderdown, an old army greatcoat and some skirts and blouses intended for the Paddy’s Market stall. Oh, yes. As Gran might have said, it was a hard life as long as you didn’t weaken.
He couldn’t see anything. There were two little windows in the van’s rear doors, and they afforded a brief glimpse of the lit-up Liver Birds, though nothing else of interest was visible. Then the van stopped.
Kevin called over his shoulder. ‘I can see your mam and dad’s car skulking up the alley. And your gran’s on the coach.’ He tapped the steering wheel. ‘I don’t know whether to go and drag her off. Lie down. Did I tell you you could sit up?’
‘No, Granddad.’
‘Then lie down.’
‘Yes, Granddad.’
‘You taking the wee-wee, Seamus?’
‘No, Granddad.’
Kevin almost exploded. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do. The coach is pulling out. I could have got her if you hadn’t taken my mind off things.’
Seamus closed his eyes. No matter what, no matter when, no matter where or which, the ills of this world would always be placed at his feet. If somebody dropped another atom bomb on the Far East or started an avalanche in the Swiss Alps, it would be down to Seamus Walsh of Prescott Street, Bootle, Liverpool, Lancashire. Should an earthquake swallow up Buckingham Palace, he’d be the one in the Tower.
‘Your dad’s following the coach, and I’m following your dad.’
So who was daft? Seamus pondered this for a few minutes. Sensible people would sort this out. Oh well, he might as well hang for a sheep. ‘Granddad?’
‘Go to sleep.’
‘I was just thinking.’
‘God help us.’ Kevin changed gear.
Seamus continued. ‘When the coach does one of its stops, Mam and Dad should lock their car and come with us. You’d have two drivers and you could take turns. That saves petrol. Mam could have a sleep with me, then you could swap with her and have a rest while Dad drives. They can lock their car, and pick it up on the way back. It makes sense.’
For an idiot, Seamus did make a lot of sense. Kevin grinned to himself. Seamus had taken after his dad for brains, thou
gh his mam wasn’t exactly backward at coming forward, was she? ‘We’ll see, lad. Now get your head down and try for forty winks. This is going to be a long night.’
Rosh turned over. She wasn’t ready to wake up, because she’d been having a lovely dream about being on the English Riviera in springtime with Roy. There were palm trees, some exotic-looking flowers starting to bud, and clotted cream teas stolen by this county from Devonshire, its next-door neighbour. She and Roy had a bridal suite with four-poster bed, a full bathroom including shower and bidet, and a bedroom balcony that overlooked a bay populated by fishing boats. Tomorrow, they would hire a boat and crew to take them out for—
But she couldn’t get back to sleep. She couldn’t get back to sleep because some fool was hammering hell out of the front door. Bleary-eyed, she blinked till the luminous dial on the alarm clock made sense. It was ten past midnight.
She got up and peered through the curtains, but she couldn’t see anything, since the intruder was shielded by the open porch. Though she did notice that Roy’s lights were being switched on. He watched over her and the children constantly. Right from the beginning of their courtship, he had taken on the job of caretaker, a sort of lieutenant to the absent Phil. He was lovely. Rosh pulled on a dressing gown and opened a sash window. She bent down and placed her mouth at the two-inch gap she’d created.
‘Who is it? If you wake my children, you’ll be a bit dead, and don’t expect a decent funeral, because you’ll go in the Mersey, burial at sea.’
Her mother stepped back onto the path. ‘It’s me,’ she said unnecessarily.
‘I can see it’s you because of the street lamp. Stop hammering. Even poor Roy’s awake – look across the way. You’ve probably woken everybody at this end.’
Anna, muttering under her breath, stepped into the porch once more.
Rosh went down and opened the door. She was not in the best of moods. ‘Where’s your key? I hope you haven’t lost it.’
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 113