September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  Someone knocked at the door. Maybe I thought it was one of Liddy’s brood, or perhaps I was rather engrossed in looking for the magazine. Whatever, I was too tired to be careful, too busy to be alert. ‘Come in, it’s not locked,’ I called.

  The door swung open with menacing slowness, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise. I was reminded of those old black and white horror films, all creaky doors and dark nights, tall servants with white hair and white gloves, a flash of thunder illuminating the hand that holds the knife.

  I stood, transfixed and wide-eyed, my feet bare, my hands clammy with cold sweat. A tall figure was framed in the doorway. It was a man. He was broad and strong, with grey clothes and a white scarf at the neck. Frost in the air marked his breathing, made it hang about his head in wreaths of mist. The rain had stopped, then, I thought irrelevantly. My tongue found itself at last. ‘Are you looking for someone?’

  ‘Mrs Thompson?’ The words were clipped, precise. ‘Are you Mrs Thompson?’

  To say no would have been foolish. ‘Who wants to know?’

  He stepped into the room, his height dominating the small area as soon as he closed the door. This action was performed softly, as if he needed to be quiet. Why? Who had sent him? ‘Who sent you?’ I asked, the words almost sticking in my throat.

  ‘No-one sent me. I am here at my own behest.’

  Behest. What an old-fashioned word. I backed away, rested my hands on the table’s edge. ‘I don’t know you.’ This statement sounded feeble, childish. ‘I’m … I’m expecting a friend to call shortly.’

  He looked me over. ‘Your feet will be cold. Dry them and put on your slippers.’ He waved an arm towards the fender where my mules were warming. ‘Don’t be afraid of me. I have not come here to do any harm.’

  I blundered about, managed to get the slippers to stay on feet that were rigid with tension. For a criminal, for a messenger from Tommo, this was a very gentlemanly person. But crime was not the property of one section of society. In fact, most criminals probably came from the upper strata, from levels where detection was almost impossible. As I turned to face him once more, I wondered how many of the big fish actually got caught. After all, money could silence many a complaint. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘May I sit down?’

  I nodded, watched as he pulled out a dining chair and lowered himself into it. He was about fifty-ish, I guessed, a handsome man whose thinning hair had once been brown, almost black. Streaks of iron-grey sat among the darker strands, allowing him an air of dependability. His eyes were hazel, I thought, quite crinkly at the edges. They were the eyes of a man who smiled a lot. He was smiling now. ‘My name is Starling, Ben Starling.’

  He seemed to expect an answer. ‘Laura Thompson.’

  ‘Yes.’ He steepled his fingers, rested his chin on the apex. ‘I know your husband.’

  The clock ticked so loudly that I thought it might jump off the mantelpiece at any explosive second. And I could feel my heart beating right through my body, causing my fingertips to thud, my limbs to tremble. ‘I am no longer married, Mr Starling.’

  ‘Ah. But Bernard Thompson does not recognize divorce. As far as he is concerned, you are still his property.’

  In spite of the grim situation, my temper bubbled, moved me to debate the issue. ‘Nobody belongs to anyone. No person can own another. The man is crazed, has always been mad.’

  ‘Quite. There is a boy named Gerald?’

  I stumbled over the rug, arrived at the table rather clumsily. My head seemed to bend of its own accord, was forcing the rest of me to face up to this unwelcome visitor. ‘My children are in my custody, my sole custody. Their care and control is my business and nobody else’s. He can’t have Gerald, can’t ever see him. If I have to kill the man, I’ll keep him away from my children.’

  Ben Starling took hold of my hand. ‘My dear lady, I am here to protect you.’

  I pulled away from him. ‘Protect me? Like Al Capone protected his victims? Look, I want nothing to do with you. In fact, if you don’t leave my house at once, I’ll scream. Liddy next door will get the police. And that’ll be you back where you belong, mister.’

  He sighed. ‘Mrs Thompson, I am a law-abiding citizen of this country. Here is my card.’ He took a beautiful leather wallet from a pocket of what looked like £100-worth of suit. The overcoat was a Crombie, I thought. When the card was on the table, I picked it up gingerly, holding it along its edges, as if I might become contaminated by it.

  ‘You see?’ he asked pleasantly.

  ‘There’s a lot of crime committed in your sphere, Mr Starling.’

  ‘I agree.’ He did not pick up the card when I laid it on the tablecloth. ‘But I am a mere prison visitor, Mrs Thompson. I spend time with those whose families do not come to the prison. Your ex-husband is a lonely man.’

  ‘Do you know what he did?’ My tone was rising in pitch, climbing the slope to hysteria.

  ‘I never ask. I never ask because I don’t wish to know. Many of us have pasts that are best left alone. I have come here simply to warn you.’

  ‘I’ve already had my written warning, thanks.’

  He nodded gravely. ‘So you are aware that he is determined to frighten you?’

  ‘He will try to terrorize me for the rest of my life, I think. But what has that to do with you? If you’re a dealer in gemstones and precious metals’ – I referred to the wording on the card as I spoke – ‘then why spend time in a prison?’

  He shrugged. ‘Because like the men in Walton, I have a past, a past I never discuss. When I go to the jail, I see caged birds. They have offended, I understand only too well that they are criminals. But to be locked up is a terrible thing. So I do what I can for them, try to make life a little happier for those who cannot see fields and trees. Most of all, those men’s minds are trapped. They lose all faith and all hope—’

  ‘And they lost all charity before they went in there, didn’t they? How can you pity thieves and murderers? Why don’t you spend what’s left of your charity on people who deserve it?’

  He studied me for a few seconds. ‘Did you never steal?’

  My eyes moved of their own accord towards the typewriter that sat, idle for now, on a small table next to the stairway door. ‘Not directly, no.’ My cheeks were alight with shame. ‘But I’ve fought my corner, protected my kids, made sure I had the equipment necessary to make a living. But I don’t hurt people. And … and I’ve made a donation to the NSPCC.’ There were times when I felt really lame and foolish. This was one of those times.

  ‘For the typewriter.’ This was not a question.

  ‘Yes.’

  He loosened the scarf, made it sit outside the heavy greatcoat. ‘Most of the time, I try not to judge, attempt to draw no lines between offenders. Who am I to say that a man is good or bad? Many in prison are victims, some are held after mistakes that started off small and foolish. But there is one category that cannot be ignored.’

  ‘And Tommo is a member of that group.’

  He nodded slowly, thoughtfully. ‘Tommo, yes. That’s the name he gets in Walton, too.’ He thought for a moment, fixed his gaze on me. ‘He’s a dangerous man, Mrs Thompson. He should be in a hospital for the criminally insane, I think. There’s a power in him, a terrible anger that nourishes him and turns him into some sort of hero among the socially defective. He possesses a magnetic force, the sort that took Hitler from house-painter to Führer. Tommo hates, nurtures the hatred, enjoys getting what he calls his own back. I listen in there, Mrs Thompson, and I have worried for you.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was impossible to find something to say.

  ‘You must leave here. He has been courting the attention of prisoners who are due to be released. And he has chosen carefully, concentrating on Liverpudlians with a track record of violence. As he cannot deal with you himself, he is trying to appoint deputies. So you will need to move on immediately.’

  I should have been grateful, but all I could feel was an unreasoning a
nger born of exhaustion and disappointment. Searching for a new home was not my idea of fun, and this fellow was putting poison-laced icing on a day that had already been far from perfect. ‘It’s all right for you, isn’t it?’ I yelled, knowing that I was being rude and unfriendly. Despite my guilt, I was swept along like an unwilling passenger on a roller-coaster ride. ‘There are three kids up there, three little children who’ve never done anything to deserve this. They didn’t ask to be born, did they? I know what you’re saying. For weeks, I’ve been aware of the threats. But I can’t find anywhere. It’s almost Christmas and we’ve nowhere to go.’

  His face wore no expression as I ranted and raved. He simply sat and waited until I had finished. ‘Three children?’ he asked. ‘From what your ex-husband said, I thought there was just the one.’ His English was perfect, yet it was not quite right, was slightly out of rhythm.

  I closed my mouth with a snap.

  ‘However,’ he went on smoothly, ‘there is no need for any explanation.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The sarcasm was plain.

  ‘You don’t understand me, Mrs Thompson. My belief is that every day is a new start for each one of us. The past does not make a person what he or she is. Intentions, goals, desires and needs – these are the prime constituents of the human soul. You must begin anew, my dear lady. At this moment in time, you need help. Because of the season, many prisoners are being considered for release, prisoners whose sentences are almost completed. There is compassion in the judicial system, and men with children may well be let out before the due date. Some of those men are under your husband’s influence. So you will come now. Well, tomorrow.’

  I stared at him, my eyes wide and my jaw dangling on its hinge like a worn gate. ‘I don’t know you. Come where?’

  ‘To my house.’

  My veins were throbbing again. ‘You expect me to lift three children from their beds tomorrow morning, then lead them into the home of a stranger? I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Starling. I’ve learned the hard way that trust is a mug’s game. They’re babies, they’re in need of support and guidance. I can’t just whip them off without explaining why.’

  He laid his hands on the table. The fingers were tanned, the nails well shaped and clean. ‘Their bodily safety is the immediate aim. Stay here and someone will suffer. Bernard Thompson is an organizer. He can cope with everything from drug-smuggling to full-scale riot. Frightening you is not my intention, yet I feel that you must accept a fact. That fact is that you will be safer in the house of a stranger than in your own home. So you will come.’

  I found that I was held by him, riveted by the intelligence in his eyes, in his words. He was an unusual man, one who was not quite … not quite real. The falseness lay in his accent, in that too-perfect English which rolled from his tongue with something that fell just fractionally short of ease. Yet he was not dehumanized by this frailty, because his face was lived-in, pleasant, kind. ‘Is it so urgent, then, Mr Starling?’

  ‘Oh yes. One of the men, a good soul who was lost for a while, is a person I visit from time to time. Tommo failed to recruit him, and the man found out what was afoot, told me last week.’

  I swallowed. ‘What is afoot? Come on, I can take it.’ Could I? Of course I could, I’d taken rape, beatings, verbal abuse …

  ‘The general opinion is that Tommo wants you dead. He has money, a stash hidden somewhere on the outside. This money has come from drugs and extra tobacco. How he gets things in and out is a mystery, but it seems that most things are within his power. If he wants, he gets, if he shouts, a dozen people jump. He may put out a contract on you.’

  It was like being in a film, one of those gangster movies that never ring true. Was this my Eliot Ness? Moments earlier, I had compared him to Capone. ‘Do those things really happen?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, they do.’

  I was a mother. As a mother, my chief function was to protect my children. There were things I didn’t know, things I couldn’t understand. Like who was this man, where did he live, why did he want to help me? But there were facts, too, truths that should not be ignored. Tommo was a fact, so was his evil. If we stayed here in this house, we would become victims within days or weeks. If we moved into the unknown for a while, if we stayed with Mr Starling until another place became available, we would have a chance of survival. ‘Where do you live?’ I asked.

  ‘Waterloo.’

  ‘Not far, then.’

  ‘Far enough. Nothing will happen while you are in my care. I liaise with police and prison officers. You will be safe.’

  I was not sure, could not work out my future. ‘Perhaps we should leave Liverpool.’

  ‘Perhaps. But you need time to work out the answers to such questions. This period will be spent with me. I have a large house, so you will have the privacy you need. And you may tell the children that you are coming as my housekeeper. This will preclude the need to give them the truth.’

  I bowed my head, remembered Gerald’s conversation. ‘I have vowed mat I will always tell them the truth, even when it’s not easy.’

  ‘Sometimes, the truth can be cruel. And there is a time for that, a better time for these explanations. The little ones will be warm and fed, they will be safe with me.’

  This Mr Starling had spoken earlier of Hitler’s hypnotic power, of Tommo’s ability to influence others. Yet Mr Starling himself was a persuader, a man with an invisible halo about his person. Was it his voice, his appearance, his kindness? I didn’t know.

  Not knowing, I took the children and left my house at the end of November, carried few belongings with me. When we reached the end of Wordsworth Street, Gerald noticed something in my face. ‘We’re not coming back, are we, Mam?’

  ‘No.’

  Jodie tugged at my arm. ‘What about our things?’

  I sighed, heard my breath quivering on a sob. ‘A big van will come tomorrow, Jodie.’ Everything had to look normal, Mr Starling had said. I was to tell nobody of my destination, was to leave the house as if we were going to school. ‘I’ve got a new job,’ I said with forced brightness. ‘We’re going to look after a man called Mr Starling.’

  ‘That’s a bird,’ grumbled Edward. ‘And you’ve got a job, you write books.’

  I dragged them along, wanted to get out of the area before anyone from Liddy’s house appeared. ‘Bird or no bird, Edward, we are going to stay with him. He has a garden and two sheds where he looks after injured seagulls and other birds.’

  ‘That’s why he’s called Starling,’ giggled Jodie. ‘He’s a bird man.’

  The Bird Man of Alcatraz. I thought about Burt Lancaster, wondered whether this Starling chap had been a prisoner who looked after feathered patients. After all, he seemed to have an affinity with criminals and an affection for birds. ‘In cages’, he had said when talking about men serving time. He was a man of mystery. And I was taking Gerald, Edward and Jodie into the home of a person I didn’t know.

  I allowed myself a last look down our street, was glad that it had been ours for a while. These people had minded us so well, so lovingly. There was the greengrocer who gave me tick – ‘Pay next Friday, queen’, the chemist who treated Jodie’s chicken pox, actually coming to the house with calamine and cotton wool. ‘I’ve seen less spots on a leopard,’ he said that day. We were moving further away from Liverpool, along the coast towards Southport and gentility. I would miss my sorties to Williamson Square where the pigeons collected to steal my sandwiches, where ‘Old Jack’ cavorted in his army greatcoat to entertain the pram-bound infants. The markets, the stations, the flower sellers in the streets, the streetwise lads who sold tea towels from a suitcase, ‘Hurry up, missus, the cops are coming’.

  He had driven me away again. How big was England? How much further would we need to run? Perhaps I would finish up in Ireland with Confetti and her family, would learn to milk a cow and churn butter.

  I hadn’t told anybody, couldn’t risk anybody. Auntie Maisie, my cousin Anne – even Liddy and Confetti w
ere in the dark this time. We were moving on again, going into the unknown.

  Part Four

  Chapter One

  I saw three ships come sailing by, but not on Christmas Day in the morning; also, there were more than three. It was a couple of weeks ago, and all because Mrs Columbus of Genoa had a baby boy in 1451. If Christopher had been a girl, then Haiti might never have been discovered, might have failed to develop its strange religious mixture of Catholicism and voodoo. Christina Columbus would have sat at home, all demure, ironing her wimple, would surely have broken her dear mother’s heart if she’d given up the harpsichord and gone off with a gang of roughnecked sailors. Anyway, the problem never arose.

  So, during August, in this year of our Lord 1992, sail from Italy, Spain, America, Portugal and Britain swayed gently into the Mersey’s docks to celebrate the fact that no-one really knows who discovered the US of A. The Portuguese claim that they were the first invaders, while poor old Columbus, whose statue was removed from Liverpool a few years ago, thought he had found Japan. The man was a fair-to-middling coastal pilot but, as a navigator, he should have stuck to ironing wimples.

  The beautiful vessels stayed awhile, then drifted out to sea again. On the day of the ships’ mass departure, I parked myself on the beach, the bird-watching binoculars hanging from my neck. There were thousands of people on the sands, an army of invaders who ignored traffic cones and parked just about anywhere. Those cones must have gone forth and multiplied during the previous night, there were acres of them. Offending vehicles would be clamped, but I didn’t want to spoil anybody’s fun by issuing a verbal warning. Ben, wrapped in his Sunday rug, sat in the wheelchair behind the railings, eyes and mind focused elsewhere, hands clasped in his lap as if prayers were being said.