Daughters of Penny Lane

by Ruth Hamilton

  Harry pushed the chair into the house.

  ‘Peter will be back to help Dan in a little while,’ Alice said. ‘Just stay till I find that article for you – the one on pigeon fanciers. It’s upstairs in a magazine.’ She fled.

  The two men sat at the kitchen table, Dan in his wheelchair, Harry on a more conventional seat. Dan was the first to speak. ‘You can tell me to bugger off if you like, but do you fancy that little wife of mine?’

  Harry grinned deliberately. ‘She makes me laugh.’ What else might he say to a man whose doctor believed that his patient would die sooner rather than later? ‘Vera was the same when we were young. Don’t be worrying, cos there’s nothing going on. All I get from her is abuse about poor Joe Foley’s pigeons.’

  Dan’s eyes narrowed as he studied his companion. Harry continued to blink at a normal rate, no rush of blood appeared in his cheeks, and his body made no defensive moves. Oh yes, Dan Quigley was an expert people watcher. ‘Harry?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Alice has a lovely family except for her mother, but keep a neighbourly eye on her if . . . if anything happens to me, right?’

  ‘Right. Don’t worry. There’s Vera, too. And Olga, Peter and Yuri. Anyway, you’re going nowhere.’

  Dan smiled. He hadn’t felt well for a while, and repeated attempts at baby-making were taking their toll. Even so, his mind was fixed on Alice.

  ‘Come on,’ Harry said, ‘don’t start talking yourself into your grave. You need to be positive.’

  Upstairs, Alice was talking to her invisible uncle. ‘Will Dan see this child?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Callum?’ There was no response. ‘Callum?’

  She sat on the sofa with her copy of a women’s magazine. It contained an article about a female pigeon fancier who was considered strange by family and friends, since the keeping of pigeons was thought to be the exclusive province of men. This was her reason for being up here. She rose quickly to her feet. The last thing she remembered before collapsing was that the magazine was for Harry . . .

  Peter was patting her hands. Alice found herself in the downstairs used-to-be living room. Her eyes fluttered open. ‘Dan?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s fine. The doctor’s on his way.’

  ‘Oh. Is Dan ill?’

  ‘No, love – he’s all right. You fainted.’

  She frowned. ‘I never faint. Fainting’s for soft rich women who flop about moaning and having vapours.’

  Dr Booth popped his head through the doorway. ‘Hello, Mrs Quigley. What have you been up to?’

  Almost fully returned to normal, she glared at the handsome young doctor. ‘I’ve been climbing mountains in Wales.’ Dan staggered in on his crutches, Harry behind him. The woman on the marital bed continued to look displeased. ‘What’s this? Have they paid to see the show? How many tickets did you sell?’

  The medic sat on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Go away,’ Alice advised her audience.

  They left in slow motion, Peter supporting Dan, Harry staring hard at the woman he loved.

  ‘Right, Mrs Quigley. Forget the mountains. What happened?’

  She bit her lip before answering. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she whispered.

  ‘I see. When and where did you have the test?’

  The blood rushed to her cheeks. ‘I just know.’

  He did all the checks: heartbeat, temperature, blood pressure. This wasn’t his first I-just-know patient. A small percentage of women knew within twenty-four hours, and Alice Quigley was possibly one of that number. ‘Have you told anyone?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then don’t, or they’ll think you’re daft if you’re mistaken. When was your last period?’

  ‘Two weeks ago, but it never turned up.’

  ‘You missed just one, then.’

  ‘Yes. I’m usually regular unless there’s stuff going on. I thought it might be because there’s been a few problems, but . . .’ she shrugged, ‘I just feel different.’

  He studied her. She was a sensible woman, a hardworking seamstress with a sick husband and a very pretty face. Alice Quigley, in spite of all the rumours about her sixth sense, was wise for her age, had been made wise by a mother who, according to local gossip, had been a nightmare. ‘Miss another period, then come to my surgery.’ He paused. ‘Why are you blushing?’

  She sighed. ‘We’ve been trying hard to make a baby. Dan gets breathless, so I want to stop trying. I’m going to tell him that you think I might be pregnant, but it’s a bit early for the test.’

  ‘I’ll agree to that. Doctors have been wrong before. Eat well – liver, eggs, fruit and vegetables. Good luck.’ He picked up his accoutrements and left.

  Someone was stroking her hair. ‘Sleep,’ Uncle Callum ordered.

  She slept.

  When Alice woke, it was pitch dark. Her husband snored quietly at her side. She didn’t remember him getting into bed, didn’t remember much apart from her conversation with Dr Booth. Callum was still here. He was getting closer and closer to her and to something else – she had no idea what the latter might be.

  Feeling like a naughty and desperately hungry child, she slid out of bed. In the hall, she spoke to him, her voice low. ‘You don’t have to pretend to surprise me now; I can sense you here.’

  ‘That’s good. What’s coming will be hard for you, and you will need to be strong. And I don’t mean Dan – he’s not due on my side just yet.’

  She thought about that as she buttered some bread and slathered plum jam all over it. ‘Can I be pregnant and strong?’

  ‘You can, yes, because I’m here for you. Many people wouldn’t be able to tolerate me, but you will.’

  Alice chewed thoughtfully. ‘Will I see you, Callum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And my dad?’

  ‘He’s always with me. You will see him.’

  ‘You were close.’

  ‘He loved me. No one else did. Get some cocoa and clean those teeth before going back to bed.’

  ‘Yes, sir. And Callum?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve decided something, and I want you to leave Muth alone. She’s in her seventies and terrified.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You heard me. I know things, my dear uncle. For a kick-off, whatever’s going to happen belongs to this house, and I’ll move out if you don’t leave old Elsie alone. I mean it.’ She waited. While brushing her teeth in Dan’s bathroom, she waited; while changing into pyjamas, she waited.

  ‘You don’t know what she did,’ Callum said.

  Alice sat in Dan’s easy chair. She knew Muth had pestered Dad until death had been his only escape. Elsie Stewart was a cruel woman and had been an unforgiving, selfish parent. But she was over seventy years of age.

  ‘I’m reading your thoughts,’ Callum said.

  ‘Read Gone with the Wind instead – that’s more exciting. Look, I was glad in a way when you warned her, but I don’t think an old-age pensioner should be persecuted by anyone, let alone a bloody ghost.’

  He chuckled. ‘Right, I’ll leave her alone. But when she does wrong, you must take some responsibility for that.’

  ‘Nellie worries about Muth. I love Nellie.’

  ‘Which is why I need to keep the old witch at bay.’

  Alice shook her head. ‘No. I’m here and I’m real and you’re not even visible.’ A thought shot into her head. ‘I have the power to make you go away.’

  ‘Yes. I just sent you that knowledge. Do you want me to go before business is concluded?’

  What the heck did he mean by business?

  ‘Look at me.’ His voice was soft.

  And there he was. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the wall, still visible through a perfectly outlined figure that shone with rainbow colours. She could even see the four Stubbs prints hanging behind him. It was a tall man with an arm reaching out for her. ‘Remember to breathe,’ Callum said. ‘Touch my hand.’
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  She complied, almost shrinking back when a gentle thrill shot up her arm like static electricity. And she saw. And she heard a baby crying. And she felt anger, fear and sadness while children played and Muth screamed. She remembered seeing bits of rainbow during many periods of otherness, and those shards had represented or been a part of Callum.

  ‘You will forget this terrible noise, Alice, but you’ll remember its importance.’

  ‘Will I remember your beauty?’ she asked when the colourful tableau had faded.

  He chuckled. ‘I’m vain enough to allow that if God is willing.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘For now, I am whoever you allow me to be. Look after yourself and little Callum, and take good care of Dan.’

  ‘When will he die?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘That’s not good enough . . .’ She was talking to thin air. Lord, whoever Callum was, Nuisance was his middle name. What had she seen, felt, heard? He was a rainbow. For some silly reason, she smiled because Dad’s brother was a rainbow. Those coloured arcs in the sky marked the end of a storm and the beginning of sunshine. She had no memory of whatever he’d just shown her, yet she knew the experience had been horrible. But she also realized that at the end of everything there would be prisms of light birthed by moisture and sunlight. She returned to bed.

  ‘Where’ve you been, love?’ Dan asked sleepily.

  She stretched out beside him. ‘I’ve been talking to myself, but we’re not alone.’

  ‘Otherness?’

  Alice swallowed. ‘No. I fainted earlier on – remember?’

  ‘Yes. You have to take iron pills.’

  ‘There’s a chance I might be pregnant. If I am, we’re not alone, because there’ll be a passenger on board.’ She heard him gulping back happiness, laughter mixed with tears. ‘Too early for a test, Dan, but a lot of women faint right at the beginning. And . . .’ she placed an arm round him, ‘I’ve missed. If I miss again, it’ll be a certainty.’

  She heard him swallow once more; he was digesting his rainbow. ‘Dan?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We can slow down a bit now. After all, we don’t want to lose him, do we?’

  ‘So it’s a boy?’

  She giggled. ‘Callum Daniel Quigley. Dad’s older brother was a Callum.’

  ‘Right.’ He dried his eyes on the sheet. ‘What if it’s a girl?’

  ‘Caroline’s nearest to Callum. Caroline Alice. It’s not a girl.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘But shut up and go to sleep. Women just know these things, only don’t start knitting until we’re sure.’

  Dan laughed. He didn’t know his knit from his purl, let alone pass the slipped stitch over. ‘Good night, love.’

  ‘Good night, Dan.’ She was having a baby; she was losing her husband. Alice didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so she fell asleep instead.

  The wedding took on a life of its own, due chiefly to the indiscretion of the Penny Lane Traders’ Association. The meetings, no longer attended by the bride-to-be, concentrated on subject matter far removed from plans to fight the the Co-op’s divi, and recent agendas had moved on to the forthcoming wedding of Olga and Peter.

  Terry Openshaw, master butcher, failed to hide his disappointment, while the rest of the retailers expressed an interest in seeing the wedding. But the register office was not the largest of buildings, and they wouldn’t all fit, especially now that the whole neighbourhood knew. No one had been invited, but many intended to wait outside the office to see Russian bride and Lancastrian groom after the wedding ceremony.

  On top of that large problem, Alice’s family wanted to attend, as did Vera, Yuri and Harry. Marie and Nigel might not be there, as they had taken Jason and Hercules to Jersey, which was to be the cubs’ halfway house between babyhood and Africa. Nellie, deprived of whalebone and slightly thinner, had a new two-piece suit and a hat, all of which needed an airing, while her elasticated roll-on would keep her in shape, more or less. Claire, Janet, husbands and babies would arrive, no doubt, while Dan and Alice had already been roped in as witnesses.

  Peter found the solution. ‘It’s sorted,’ he told his fiancée. ‘There’s been a cancellation. Some poor bugger’s appendix exploded, so he won’t be getting wed tomorrow, but we will. I must tell the bank and the photographer.’

  Olga’s jaw dropped. ‘But everyone thinks Saturday.’

  ‘They can think what they like. There’d be a traffic jam or a bloody riot on Saturday. This was what we wanted – a quiet ceremony. We get wed at Brougham Terrace Registry at two o’clock tomorrow. Before that, we go to the bank for photos with all your emeralds. Alice and Dan know, so we have witnesses, and they’re sworn to secrecy. Best kick off sorting your clothes out, love.’ He held up a hand in the manner of a policeman stopping traffic. ‘Don’t start. Gummy Tommy’s going to open up the big house for us on Saturday. Marie and Nigel wouldn’t mind, and there’ll be a buffet.’

  Olga was still struggling with the Gummy Tommy title. ‘He was Tombstone,’ she managed to squeeze out. ‘Two teeth like grave markers.’

  ‘He had them taken out. Last time I saw him, he had no teeth at all.’

  ‘Sad,’ she said absently. ‘Go now, Peter, and tell Harry he must help Dan tomorrow. I need wash hair and do nails. This is shock for me. But as you say, we cannot have rioting or traffic jam.’ She stared at him. ‘Jam is for toast.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Why would traffic have jam?’

  ‘You what? Oh, right – it’s just a saying when cars or horses block a road and can’t move.’

  ‘Stuck like jam on bread?’

  He grinned. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘English is silly language,’ was the remark Olga threw over her shoulder as she went to prepare for the occasion. This was farewell to spinsterhood. Spinster? She’d never in her life spun thread. Crazy language, crazy country, crazy Liverpool. This was happiness; this was home.

  The overture celebrating the forthcoming marriage between Olga Konstantinov-Romanov, who had double-barrelled herself just prior to marriage, would go down in Liverpool’s already colourful history as the Second War of the Roses. In a safe room behind the bank’s normal working area, one of the longer walls was covered in pleated ivory satin, while the full extent of said wall was festooned in plants and flowers of many hues.

  The wedding was to take place in an hour, though the chances of getting out of the bank in time were looking slim. Olga, resplendent in purple, glared at the bank manager. ‘Photographer have Kodachrome,’ she pronounced.

  ‘I beg your pardon, madam?’ the orange-haired boss enquired.

  Olga turned to her groom. ‘What he say?’

  ‘He doesn’t know about photography, love.’

  ‘Why they have foreigner in job so important?’

  ‘You’re a foreigner, sweetheart.’

  Sweetheart glowered. ‘Yes, but I not bank manager.’

  ‘Olga?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shut your cakehole.’ He was grinning while delivering this order.

  Countess Olga Kristina Konstantinov-Romanov tightened her lips and began to walk the length of the room, removing from display anything peach-coloured or bright blue. This was her day, her last day as a countess – or whatever she might have become had Russian royalty endured – and some of the photographs were going to be in colour, so nothing in the world should be allowed to clash with her ball gown.

  The photographer arrived. Seeing the bride at work, he went to help her. ‘Leave it to me, Miss Konstantinov,’ he said. ‘I know what you want.’

  ‘I am glad you know. Never trust foreign bank manager with anything important or artistic.’

  The heavies bearing the Romanov jewels entered the arena. So sacred were their burdens that the four men walked slowly and carefully, rather like altar boys preparing to serve at Mass. The watching bride nodded; they were right to treat the property of the Romanov dynasty with r
espect.

  While the photographer moved flowers, arranged his equipment and fiddled about with something designed to measure light, Olga spoke to her beloved. ‘Why you let them choose flowers my dress does not like?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m a Lanky bloke, so I know nowt.’

  She waved a hand towards the photographer. ‘He knows. Look, he putting up big lights.’

  ‘Aye, well, he’s probably a Scouser. They can be on the creative side.’

  Bride and groom were posed together and separately. Peter stood and watched while Olga became the aristocrat she truly was, with her tiara and bracelet, then necklace and earrings, followed by the gargantuan brooch high in solitary splendour on a shoulder. He attempted to swallow an emotion he scarcely understood, but there was pride in his heart and a lump in his throat that wouldn’t shift. Was it humility? Did he feel inadequate in the presence of this tall, Russian royal?

  Then she winked at him. ‘They have made conglomerate,’ she said.

  ‘Eh?’ was all he managed.

  ‘Hatton Gardens have held hands together to pay for our emeralds. Americans interested, too.’

  It was the word ‘our’ that helped him swallow his confusion. She was his and he was hers, and the emeralds didn’t matter. Countess Olga Kristina Konstantinov-Romanov, soon to be plain Mrs Atherton, suspected that the suite of jewels might be broken up, planted in gold or platinum and re-sold as smaller items, so she was giving them their final celebration as a set. Or was she? Did the smile on her regal face disguise a secret?

  When the happy couple had left the bank, an unusual sight was enjoyed by Liverpool’s shoppers. Four huge men stood on the pavement, offering flowers and plants to passers-by. War broke out when two women argued over a potted fuchsia, while one of the guards broke ranks in order to chase a few scallies who had stolen several dozen cream roses.

  Olga walked to the taxi. ‘What is scallies?’ she asked.

  Her fiancé helped her into the hansom. ‘Naughty Scousers, usually young.’

  The burly guard returned with the roses and doled them out.