September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘No thanks. The yard’s not big enough.’ It was amazing how quickly she had absorbed and dismissed my lurid story. It occurred to me that Liddy Mansell was all but beyond shock, that she must have seen a great deal of life before I came along. ‘Would I be receiving stolen goods?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Why, does it bother you?’

  I thought about this for a few seconds, recalled the occasion when, as a schoolgirl, I’d been accused of stealing a missal. Things were different now, harder. I had entered an area where survival would be confined to the fittest, and I had every intention of keeping my family fit. ‘I think not. You see, Liddy, I’ve not much money. If my children are ever threatened with starvation, I’ll go shoplifting. So it’s all the same, isn’t it? If I make money, I’ll give some of it to charity.’

  She nodded enthusiastically. ‘You’re honest, girl, I’ll say that for you. I mean, you talk a bit posh like, but you know which end’s which. We just have to get through life without making a lot of folk suffer. And if we’re honest about it, we’re all dishonest. See, I’m honest enough to tell you that I tell lies. I’ve had to tell lies to cover my back and stick hold of my children. Same as you say, you pinch from them what can afford it, and you give to them what’s in need. And Robin Hooding should start in your own house.’

  The door flew open and I worried fleetingly about the boys being disturbed. A female child stood on my step, her face set in a smile that was almost disarming. ‘They won’t go to bed. ’Ello, missus.’ She dashed in, picked up a digestive, crammed most of it into her mouth.

  ‘No manners,’ Liddy said. ‘It’s with having no full-time dad. They’ll get manners once old Mrs Hurst passes on, because Jimmy doesn’t like rudeness.’ She grabbed the girl and pulled her down onto the chair arm. ‘This is Mary,’ she announced. ‘She’s the eldest. There’s five more if only I could find them. Mary, tell Auntie Laura about your dad.’

  Mary grinned again. Her adult incisors bore scars from some disaster or other, were chipped too short for her words to be completely clear. ‘’E’s dead big, built like a sh … like a lavatory shed. An’ ’e’s got blue eyes an’ black ’air an’ ’e plays the melodeon. An’ I luv ’im.’

  Liddy beamed. ‘Best man in Liverpool, is my Jimmy. We’re going to have a great big wedding when his mother pops her clogs, and all the kids will be bridesmaids and pages. Mind you, if the owld girl doesn’t get a move on, her grandkids’ll be wed before we are. She’s one of them that’ll live for ever, straight through her century and into the next. I’ll be grey before she shows signs of bad health. Never catches cold, never ails a day. Even the bloody germs are frightened of her.’

  When they had left, I felt warmer and happier for having made their acquaintance. It occurred to me that neighbours were more important than family, because they were geographically closer, easier to reach. And party walls were no prison while a woman like Liddy sat on the other side. I stood on my front doorstep, wondered how many women had stood there over the years. The slab had a dip in the middle where generations had worn away the stone. Did they stand here in their clogs and shawls while their men fought for work on the docks? Did they scurry to the shelters when the Luftwaffe vomited its cargo on this beautiful city?

  The view from the house was a new one, was filled by large concrete flats that towered into the sky. Some council houses were almost finished, tarpaulins flapping over beams that waited for tiles. There was a bit of grass across the way, some swings and a slide to occupy the children. I liked it, liked the shops, the streets, the people. There was something about Liverpool, a quality I could not quite name. It was to do with friendliness, yet it was more than that. It was almost a welcome, as if this seaport still opened its arms to all newcomers. During my excursions to the shops, I had heard Irish voices, Scottish accents, a variety of Lancashire dialects. It was a meeting place, a city where a foreigner could come, lay down his head and be at home. And a part of me knew that while I might long for my own folk and for the moorlands, I would never drag myself from Liverpool, not completely.

  I closed my door and I was at home.

  Loving Liverpool is easy. By the time I had plucked up the courage to venture into what the locals called ‘town’, I had mastered the language, could cope in any crisis.

  There are many bad moments in a young mother’s life, and one of the worst is met when two children are dragged through a city, one on reins, the other in a pushchair. But when I asked, doors were opened, when I looked harassed, there was always someone to take Gerald’s straps or Edward’s pram. I was received with more kindness than I had ever encountered before, and we wandered round Lewis’s, Lee’s, Marks & Spencer, took our time, made our purchases. The attitude to children was almost continental, because we were accepted and helped all the way. Yes, loving Liverpool is not difficult.

  We sauntered down to the Pier Head while we waited for transport, watched the gulls swooping, counted pigeons as they strutted with out-thrust chests all over the pavement. Gerald was excited by the water, wanted to stay for ever. Even Edward forgot to moan, concentrated instead on the river and the birds, especially the two stone giants that overlooked the water. ‘Liver birds,’ I said. ‘Liber birds,’ repeated my younger child.

  Our return journey took a different route, brought us parallel with the dock road. Through gaps in buildings, we glimpsed ships and cranes, saw a ferry loading for a trip across to Ireland. I thought briefly of Confetti, hoped that her parents were feeling better. There was an excitement in me, because I had finally found my own feet, my own place. I still longed for Frank, but if I couldn’t have him, then I would rather be without him in Seaforth.

  We showed our purchases to Liddy and company, took tea and Ribena at her cluttered hearth, discussed the possibility of becoming electrified. Of course, Jimmy knew somebody, but a new mains connection would need to be done by the book.

  Liddy went into her scullery, came back with a large cardboard box. ‘It’s your typewriter,’ she said happily. ‘And some paper and carbon and white ink for your mistakes.’

  I opened it, looked down with eyes that were misted with gratitude. ‘Thank him, Liddy,’ was all I managed. It was almost new, a little portable in a brown leatherette case.

  ‘Just don’t ask where it came from. We never ask where things come from, do we, kids?’

  They chorused their ‘no’, carried on playing with Gerald’s new Lego.

  Six weeks later, I sent off my first True Hearts romance. It came back very quickly with a note attached. They had found it interesting but unsuitable, invited me to try again. I looked at my rejected paper offspring, felt like a mother whose child is unfairly accused of some terrible crime. Oh, I couldn’t go through all that again, couldn’t sit and worry about Reginald and Lucy finding passion, losing it, rediscovering it on page 204. The books were so simple to read, so difficult to write. I had often mocked the authors of such small, thin books, but now I realized how skilful they were, how attentive to detail. There was nothing else for it. I must do it all again, because I would soon have yet another mouth to feed, and my savings were dwindling fast.

  My daughter was born in October 1966, came screaming into the world on a tatty hearth-rug in front of a roaring coal fire. I had scarcely felt a twinge when the waters broke, was pushing down within seconds of this first warning. Gerald, who was quite the little man of the house, ran next door for Liddy. She shoved both my children into her house, left them in Mary’s dubious care, returned in time to welcome the new arrival.

  ‘Well, I’ve heard of special delivery, but this is a flaming miracle,’ she declared as she washed the yelling infant. ‘Keep pushing,’ she barked at me. ‘You’ve got to give me a clean afterbirth, or you’ll be in the hospital come midnight.’

  I pushed, delivered, was cleaned and cosseted by a woman whose life skills were truly amazing. ‘This calls for a celebration,’ she said when the baby had quietened. ‘I’ll send our Mary with a jug. Do you want black or bitt
er?’

  I lay back on my pillow, which was really an old tapestry cushion, considered various names. ‘I’ll call her Joan, I think. They can’t do a lot with a short name, can they? Poor Gerald will get Gerry, and Edward will be reduced to Eddie. So I’ll plump for Joan and a bottle of lemonade.’

  She left me alone with my daughter. Gingerly, I eased my aching bones onto the sofa, picked up the scrap of new life, counted her fingers and toes before wrapping her once more in Liddy’s best towel. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and she was not the child I had expected. I was blonde, the father’s hair was a golden ginger, yet I had just delivered a child with violet eyes and long black tresses that looked ample enough to be plaited. She smiled at me, grinned in a way that could not possibly be connected with wind. My Joan was born old, knew straight away who she was, who I was, where she fitted in the scheme of things. When people discuss reincarnation, I always remember that knowing look, the wisdom etched deep into crumpled features.

  We drank, interviewed the family doctor who had come to assess the health of mother and baby, then we watched with baited breath while Joan’s reflexes were tested. ‘She’s fine,’ he said as he put away the stethoscope.

  ‘Course she is,’ snapped my feisty neighbour. ‘She bred her and I delivered her. No rubbish round here.’

  He walked round my little home, wrote some notes on a card, declared his intention to have the house upgraded. ‘You need light and warmth with children. These houses can get damp at this time of year.’

  I eyed him warily. ‘They’ll only put the rent up.’

  Liddy agreed. ‘We’ll manage as we are. Twenty-seven and six takes some finding.’

  The man smiled, pulled on his overcoat. ‘They’ve two choices here, girls. They can pull this lot down and rehouse you, or they can update the terrace and stick in a few mod cons. Don’t worry.’ He pulled a scarf from a pocket, wound it round his neck. ‘Your rents won’t go through the roof.’ He left us to our own devices.

  Liddy looked glum. ‘I had Jimmy round the corner, two lavvies, a proper bathroom and a big kitchen. And I lost my temper and lost the lot.’

  I laughed at her. ‘Keep smiling, Liddy. Something tells me that you’ll win through in the end.’

  She swallowed half a pint of stout. ‘Tell you what, queen. If I don’t bloody win, them Liver birds’ll topple off their perch.’

  I didn’t doubt that, not for a minute.

  We had our second good Christmas. In spite of the three children, I had rescued Reginald and Lucy from the rubbish bin, had tidied them up to a point where the publisher had paid me £200. The cheque sat on my Utility sideboard for three days, because I didn’t want to part with it. I was Georgina Dawn and I was getting paid for being schizophrenic. Existing as two people is not the easiest of things, so I was Laura during the days, Georgina in the evenings. Georgina worked hard on her proofreading, but she did have the benefit of electric lighting. Laura struggled through the days, entertained and pacified three children, washed, shopped, cooked, cleaned, ironed.

  For Christmas, I bought an electric cooker. Eleven of us, plus one baby, crowded into the scullery, all ooh-ing and ah-ing at the sight of so much luxury. ‘I’ve had a gas one,’ said Liddy. ‘But never the electric sort.’

  Jimmy ran a huge finger across the pristine hob. ‘It’s very nice, Laura.’ He was the loveliest man I had ever met – except for my father and Frank, of course. There was so much of him that he almost filled the tiny scullery, leaving the rest of us to gather together in a clutch of arms, legs and squashed bodies. ‘You can do a turkey in it. I’ll get you a grand bird, then you can cook dinner for my kids as well.’ He would be cooking for his mother, eating with his mother. Yet even though he was so much under the dragon’s thumb – it was Liddy, of course, who had christened her not-quite-mother-in-law – he remained very much a man. ‘I’ll be down in the afternoon to see you all,’ he said.

  I’ve never forgotten that Christmas. We all had presents from Jimmy, and we had made or bought gifts for one another. There’s something about a place that’s too small, a very special aura that brings out unexpected qualities in people. As we fell over one another, I realized why Westminster had never been modernized. Those small crowded chambers brought together people whose views were so opposed whereas a larger space might have absorbed some of the quarrelling, thereby rendering the arguments tepid and meaningless. When crammed together, folk are forced to get on with the business in hand, and our business was enjoyment.

  We all had to do a turn when Jimmy came. He presided, acted as Master of Ceremonies, sitting on the stairs between introductions. Peter and Paul and Mark did the Beatles minus one, Gerald laughed his way through ‘I Know an Old Woman who Swallowed a Fly’, Mary sang ‘Silent Night’ in a sweet, reedlike voice. But Jimmy and Liddy stole the show, got up after Edward’s ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, delivered several duets. I had not expected ‘Greensleeves’ and ‘Early One Morning’, not from such life-toughened people. The harmonizing was perfect, needed no accompaniment. This pair kept together in more ways than one.

  I think they expected something wonderful from me, because I was thought to be artistic. But they received ‘Albert and the Lion’ very well, though they must have heard it a million times before.

  We had crackers and funny hats, mince pies and cream, carols under my plastic tree. Everyone looked at my cards from Anne, from Uncle Freddie and Auntie Maisie, from Goretti-Confetti and Colin Thompson. I explained the ex-nun’s name, told the story of the little Italian saint who was my friend’s namesake. Then Mary asked about two other cards, items that I had relegated to the dustbin. Liddy distracted her daughter, drew the fire away from me. One of those cards had been sent by my mother, and the second had arrived via McNally’s. It was from Tommo, who wished me and Gerald a happy Christmas.

  Joan was passed from child to child with a level of expertise that was remarkable. At just over two months of age, she was a student of the human animal, always keeping her eyes fixed on somebody, as if she were collecting data to be used at some time in the future. When I looked at her, I knew I was a mother. My feelings for the boys, too, had blossomed with the birth of my daughter, though I’ve always credited Liddy for my new attitude. Being near a woman like Liddy opened me up, helped me to embrace my children. She lived hand to mouth, day to day, yet she was a mother through and through, a fiercely protective female who guarded those cubs with her life. All the flippancy, all the ‘I don’t know where the bloody hell they’ve got to’, hid a heart made of something far rarer than gold.

  When our Christmas was almost over, Liddy took her brood next door, and I put my three to bed while Jimmy washed mountains of dishes that had been gathered together from both houses. Then he sat with me, feet on my fender, eyelids drooping with a satisfied exhaustion. ‘I knew she’d be upset when it finally happened,’ he said out of the blue.

  ‘I beg your pardon, Jimmy?’

  He tilted his head to one side, rested against the chair’s high back. ‘Mam’s got cancer, so my girl’s upset.’

  It was so sweet, the way he called Liddy ‘my girl’, because Liddy was thirty-five if a day. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and I was.

  He nodded. ‘Well, we’ve waited to get married, me and Liddy. Liddy’s been so good, stopping on her own all the while and putting up with all my kids. People think I’m soft for staying with my mother, but she’d nobody else. And she can’t be doing with Catholics.’

  I gazed into the fire. ‘Why didn’t you say something earlier?’

  His eyes opened wide. ‘What? And spoil the kids’ Christmas?’

  For me, that last sentence summed up Liddy and Jimmy, embraced the Liverpool I was learning to love. People here were tough, warm, sensitive, aggressive. The large man snoozed in the chair, waited for his lover to summon him to say six goodnights in the crowded bedroom where his children slept. Jimmy had struggled on Christmas Eve, had made his dogged way from Liverpool centre to Seafort
h, had borne the weight of a 16 pound turkey and presents for everyone. He had laughed, played games, had sung like an angel. And all the time, he had worried about a nasty old woman whose life was drifting to a close. Occasionally, I liked a person so much that I came near to tears. But I breathed them in, smiled at my companion, stayed silent while he enjoyed the rest of a just man.

  She stepped out of the car, a coat of grey wool wrapped close to her body, as if she were afraid of touching anything in this mean and dirty street. So, here came my nasty old woman, though she looked younger than I felt. At fifty-six, Liza McNally had the legs of a dancer, the body of a teenager, the face of a Madonna. It was only when she came close that the meanness showed, two lines between the eyebrows, a slight downturn of the painted mouth, some creases in an upper lip that had sucked for forty years on tubes of tobacco.

  The vehicle was a Jaguar, an elongated item with a fierce-looking bonnet and large headlights. It suited Mother, because it stared at me, seemed to accuse all who stood in its path. ‘Hello, Laura,’ she purred. Yes, she was in the right car, because that purred too until the man at the wheel stopped the engine. ‘I hear you’ve had a daughter.’

  I hadn’t expected her, was preparing to go next door for my Boxing Day meal. ‘Yes,’ I replied feebly. ‘Do you want to see her?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She stepped into my shabby little home, and I was glad that I’d cleaned up the mess that had sat here through Christmas night, bits of cracker, crumbs, torn party hats and strands of tinsel. Then she did yet one more unforgivable thing. Although my home was small and old, I kept it clean, was forever polishing and dusting and sweeping the carpets. But Mother was not satisfied with my standard of housekeeping, because she flicked a handkerchief over a dining chair before daring to seat herself.

  ‘The room is clean,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you do your best.’ Her accent was still stuck somewhere between the Queen’s English and the fish market in Bolton. ‘Hello, Gerald. And hello, Edward.’