Daughters of Penny Lane

by Ruth Hamilton

Olga grinned broadly. ‘When Yuri and me young, we were Russian scallies stealing fruit from other people’s orchard. Also flowers. So simple then, life was.’

  ‘We’re late, my love.’

  She tutted. ‘Children are never late. You and I are rich, we are happy, we are in love. Together, Mr Atherton, we journey towards our second childhood, never late, but sometimes delayed.’ She chuckled as she placed herself on the leather seat. ‘Now, the fun begins.’ Out on the street, women carrying flowers waved at the couple in the taxi.

  ‘See?’ Peter chuckled. ‘We’re spreading the love already.’

  At Brougham Terrace Registry, love was thin on the ground.

  ‘We’ve never had dogs at a wedding before,’ the registrar grumbled.

  Alice blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘You’ve never married Russian royalty before, either, have you?’

  ‘Royalty?’ he blustered.

  ‘That’s what I said. Her mother was a cousin of the king of Russia.’

  Vera dug Yuri in his ribs. ‘You tell him, love.’

  ‘This is true,’ Yuri announced. ‘My father worked for them. Olga and I played together, and Olga was second cousin to the tsar.’

  The registrar’s spine straightened and, after rearranging his tie, the man returned to his desk to wait for the latecomers; royalty or commoners, they were still late, and he had another wedding in just over half an hour. He glared at the dogs. Both wore golden collars, and each collar had a small, red purse attached to it. The younger boxer belonged to the bride, and his purse contained a ring for the groom. The bigger fellow, named Frank, had a purse that held the bride’s ring, and the registrar thought the whole idea was like something out of a bloody pantomime.

  Then they arrived, and he all but jumped to his feet. Almost as tall as her husband-to-be, Olga owned the office. She probably owned the building, the street, half of England and the crown of a tsarina. This bride, no longer a youngster, retained an undeniable beauty. It was in the structure of her face, in the long, proud neck, in the definition of the collar bones. The official wished he’d worn a newer suit, but his best was in the cleaner’s.

  During the short ceremony, he stuttered slightly until Olga placed a hand on his. ‘My friend,’ she said kindly, ‘worry not about the stammer, because your King George has same.’

  Peter swallowed a laugh and disguised it as a cough.

  ‘Are you ill?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She returned her attention to the registrar. ‘Continue, young man,’ she suggested sweetly. They reached the giving of rings part. At this juncture the situation deteriorated slightly. Leo, owned by Olga, was supposed to be carrying Peter’s band of gold, while Frank, borrowed by Peter, should have had Olga’s in his red purse. Alice, who was beautifully clad in pale yellow silk, sorted out the mistakenly swapped bands of gold, while the small congregation exploded with laughter. At last, the bride held the groom’s ring, while he claimed hers, and Alice threw herself into the seat next to her husband. ‘Bloody circus,’ she muttered as the rings were exchanged.

  For the final time, Olga Konstantinov-Romanov signed her name. From now on, she would be Mrs Atherton. The witnesses signed, then the photographer took the usual pictures outside the registry. Several Penny Laners had gathered to watch, since news of the changed date had floated round the area like an invisible gas, though Vera was thought by most to have been the origin of the leak.

  That night, their first together as a married couple, Peter and Olga sat at the kitchen table with their fish supper. ‘In days, we will be millionaires,’ Olga stated. ‘And with this money, we should do some good.’

  ‘Like what?’

  She raised her shoulders. ‘We talk, you and I. Together, we make decision. I have no children, and you have no children. We have no brother, no sister, no anybody, so we think hard to stop government taking our money when we are dead.’

  ‘Millionaires, though?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  Olga looked over her shoulder, as if expecting to find eavesdroppers. ‘I have proof of provenance, so the whole collection going to an American who wants to keep the jewellery like it is now. He will be paid for lending to museums the property of the tsar.’

  ‘Why, love?’

  ‘Because he can do this. Because he American. They like to be showing off. Young country, no long history yet, so they buy ours. He offer much more than what London wants to pay. And my mother’s pieces might stay as they are. Like me, buyer is born of escaped Russians.’ She impaled a chip with her fork. ‘We are rich, so we can now buy vinegar. I like more vinegar.’

  Peter studied his bride. Her English was easily as poor as his, and she was a wreck in the mornings until she’d had two cuppas sipped through cubes of sugar. Awkward customers made her stamp about like a two-year-old in a tantrum, and she was unreasonable when it came to foreigners of the Scottish persuasion. She made him laugh several times a day, had a huge heart and a loving soul, and fewer grey hairs now that harvest time had arrived; she plucked out the front ones, while he was responsible for greys that dared to encroach at the back. Olga Atherton was wonderful. ‘Eh, I love you, girl,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll be legal in bed now.’

  ‘This I am know already. Leo, go into your basket.’ She waited until the dog had performed about a dozen circles before settling. ‘Husband, we go to our bed. Yuri now with Vera, so no need to worry about does he hear us.’

  Peter grinned. That was another thing – Olga laboured under the delusion that she was always in charge. He chortled. She probably was.

  Downstairs, Dan and Harry were trying to be friends over a game of cards. Alice was in the first floor sitting/sewing room and seemed to be whispering to herself. She wasn’t, of course.

  ‘Just being dead doesn’t make me clever or special.’

  Alice sniffed.

  ‘What?’ Callum asked.

  ‘I noticed your lack of brain,’ was her terse reply. ‘You know I’m the one making sense. According to you, there’ll be a showdown and she will need to be here. After your bit of palaver, she’ll not set foot within a mile of Penny Lane.’

  A few prisms of fractured light danced round the room.

  ‘What’s that about?’ she demanded to know.

  ‘I’m thinking.’

  ‘Must be hard work, because you’re coming to pieces all over my wallpaper.’

  The invisible man laughed. ‘It will happen on the eighth of April next year at about seven o’clock in the evening.’

  ‘My birthday. Muth’s birthday, too.’

  ‘Quite. Your dad will be here.’

  Alice chewed her lower lip. ‘Is he made of stained glass like you?’

  ‘No. He’s a pipe with a man on the end of it. Alice?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It will not be pleasant, so choose your witnesses carefully.’

  Silence reigned for a few minutes. She broke the quiet. ‘We’re going to visit her and let her know you’ve removed the curse. But she still has to stay away from my sisters and my nieces and their kids. It’ll take me months to persuade her to visit this house, anyway. So polish your leaded lights, because we’re visiting Brighton-le-Sands.’

  ‘Do I have to? She frightens me to death.’

  ‘You’re already dead, you soft sod.’

  ‘Mmmm. I forget sometimes.’

  Another quiet spell was shattered by a question she scarcely dared to ask. ‘Callum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She swallowed hard. ‘My baby will be born before April.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Will my Danny Boy be alive?’

  ‘He will.’

  ‘Thank God.’ Alice slumped in her seat.

  ‘All right. I’ll thank Him when I see Him.’

  ‘Is He stained glass?’

  ‘No. Only angels are rainbows, my love.’

  ‘Are you an angel?’

  No reply w
as forthcoming: he had exited the stage.

  Eleven

  ‘If it makes no difference to you, why do I have to wait for my birthday? And why does it make no difference, Callum? You don’t half talk a load of ear’ole.’ This accusation had been stolen from Peter, the local Boltonian who had imported his vernacular to Liverpool, together with the flat, broad and slow speech birthed at mules and looms in deafening, overheated and damp cotton mills.

  Alice, not in the best of moods these days, glared at the small prism of light that hovered over one of the chairs. Callum talked in riddles sometimes, and Alice’s temper was on a very short tether, especially where her uncle was concerned. Turning, she gazed at a ribbon of smoke near the window. ‘You, too, Dad. You’re as bad as him, hanging about like what Peter might call cheese at fourpence, never a word out of you – so why are you here?’

  ‘He’s with me,’ said the shard of splintered, mobile light.

  ‘I’d worked that out, thanks, Uncle. After all, I’m only half Irish, so the other half can think in straight lines if the wind’s in the right direction.’ She gritted her teeth momentarily before continuing, ‘Why does it not matter to you when this whatever it is happens?’

  ‘Because time means nothing at this side, but it does where you are. We have no clocks, no walls, no restrictions. Well, except one; we need a good reason to come back into your sphere.’

  ‘And you have good reason to be here?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And Dad?’

  ‘Is an important link. And he wants his girls to know he loves them.’

  For want of some kind of occupation, Alice paced about for a while, her complaints continuing to pour forth. ‘Why does that baby cry? Who is the baby? I used to think you were the grown-up version, but I’m not so sure now.’ She stopped pacing. ‘I adopted my Frank, a lovely dog with a heart of gold, and he got pulled into this second bloody sight I’m cursed with, then I moved here and watched the tsar of Russia and his family being slaughtered, and—’

  Callum interrupted. ‘Frank is a link that was used until you got here, on Penny Lane. As for the Russian scene, Olga needed a friend, and so did you. Frank’s no longer involved, so he can be just a dog with his little boxer friend. You’re here now; you’re where we need you to be. Your expected bundle of joy will be born shortly before your birthday. Until then, you do the waiting and we’ll do the existing. Oh, and you’re right. Court your mother, because she’ll need to be here next April. Please bear with me. There’s something I need to do, you see. Don’t be afraid, as I will not hurt you, though I will expose what happened. Get witnesses and bring your mother.’

  Alice sighed heavily. ‘And all this goes off on my birthday, right? She has the same birthday as me, and she’s terrified of you. Frightened to death at the thought of you haunting her. And another thing – you were trying to keep her away from me, and now you’ve changed your mind. How come?’

  ‘I gave you a short rest from her, didn’t I? Visit her. I shall wipe her mind before you get there.’

  She sat down and swallowed hard. ‘Will I see my dad?’

  ‘Yes. He was very troubled until I brought him back to you.’

  ‘Troubled?’

  ‘Wait until April. Then I shall give you a truth that will hurt, but it will also bring you answers. The crying baby will go forever and this house will be at peace.’

  ‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘You and Dad? Will you leave forever?’

  ‘We will always watch over you. You’re our girl. Alice?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I love you.’

  The prism and the smoke disappeared simultaneously, leaving a bemused young woman in her first floor sitting/workroom. She felt lonely. Downstairs, the husband who had saved her life lay sleeping in their double bed, happily unaware that his time on earth was sorely limited. The guilt Alice felt rested heavily on her shoulders, because she believed she had already chosen Dan’s replacement. ‘No,’ she whispered, ‘he picked me.’ She had to deal with him, too, because two dozen pigeons still wanted shifting.

  Once again, from somewhere that defied all dimensions, came Callum’s answer. ‘I chose you both for each other.’

  ‘Bloody Mr Clever Clogs,’ she hissed. He was getting on her nerves. ‘If you weren’t already dead, I’d kill you. You’re too high-handed.’

  He hooted with laughter.

  ‘I would. I’d separate you from your voice box, believe me.’

  This time, he was almost inside her head. ‘No, you wouldn’t. Murder isn’t in you. To commit that crime, you’d need a bit of yourself to be twisted. You’d need not to care about anyone except yourself.’

  ‘I don’t care when it comes to pigeons. Now, bugger off again, will you?’

  She’d done some investigating about pigeons and was ready to approach Harry with what she believed was a sensible solution, but would he listen? She’d make bloody sure he listened, because— ‘Stop it.’ Callum was making affectionate billing and cooing sounds down her right ear, producing his very good imitation of a pigeon. ‘Go away,’ she commanded.

  He left, but his chuckle faded very slowly, accompanying her all the way downstairs to the marital bedroom. She switched on a small lamp. Dan looked well, she thought, hoping he felt as well as he appeared to be. He would see his child, and that was important. Yes, he would meet the second Callum. ‘I’ll look after you as best I can,’ she whispered before joining him in the bed. Within minutes, she was fast asleep. Her dreams were of Muth chasing her with a frying pan, a man made of stained glass stopping Muth in her tracks, and another man with teeth so bright that they blinded everyone. She stirred, turned over and cuddled up to her husband. Once deeper sleep claimed her, all dreaming stopped.

  The rain was gaining momentum as Alice alighted from the bus.

  Harry’s car drifted to the pavement’s edge and the passenger door flew outwards. ‘Get in,’ he commanded.

  She had no umbrella. Black cloud was moving from the Mersey to cover the land. It was Harry’s Austin, and Harry would never hurt her. Bending down, she spoke to him. ‘I’m going to visit the wicked witch of the west,’ she told him.

  ‘Get in,’ he repeated.

  She got in. ‘Go right at the end of the road, and I’ll tell you when to stop.’

  ‘Like you always do,’ he complained.

  ‘Don’t start with the daft stuff, Harry. Apart from anything else, the doc says I might be pregnant, so just take me near enough to Muth’s, and go home.’

  ‘I’ll wait for you.’

  ‘No need,’ was her answer.

  He spaced his words emphatically. ‘I . . . will . . . wait . . . for . . . you.’

  Alice stared at the man who loved her. ‘All . . . right,’ she said, copying his strange pattern. ‘But stop at the blue door – she’s higher up behind a red one. Believe me, the fact that I arrived there with a man would be in Tuesday’s papers.’

  ‘Another Vera, then?’

  ‘I wish, Harry. No. We don’t want to be seen by Muth – no way.’

  He grinned broadly. ‘Ask your mother where she stands on pigeons.’

  ‘Across their throats, I shouldn’t wonder. She nagged my dad to death, chased our Theresa to the other side of the globe, never shed a tear when three of us were killed in the Blitz, and made life a total misery for our Nellie.’ She inhaled deeply. ‘Now I’m going to be nice to her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it suits my purpose.’

  He watched as she walked away. Pregnant or not, she had to understand that he would wait for her. Forever.

  The business started like a mixed-up jigsaw with thousands of pieces, but with no corners and no edges to the picture. Martin Browne, Kevin Holden and Paul Myers were now the owners of a flatbed truck for which fuel was scarce. Because of poor petrol supplies, they had also acquired a cart with shafts and a carthorse named Nelson. Nelson lodged with the disparate collection of animal life housed by Marie and Nigel, who
se permission had been sought before they’d left for Jersey with the cubs. It had been a confusing time, and the roles of various people were under discussion for several days. Who would do what, where and when was the main topic.

  One person was in her element: Nellie had two babies. When she thought about her life, she realized that she’d been at her happiest when Janet and Claire had been infants. Proudly, she wheeled a second-hand twin pram up and down the road, stopping to chat to anyone who showed the slightest interest in its two small passengers.

  Since Nellie had the ability to buy wholesale, babies Simon and Keith had every toy on the market. Their mothers complained daily, because Nellie was spoiling her grandchildren, but she was good at turning a deaf ear – she’d practised doing just that for years when Elsie had been around.

  Things began to settle. Janet and Claire ran their parents’ shop, while their dad fronted the furniture business in the old ice cream parlour and milk bar that had once belonged to the Turners. Thus, after a few hit-and-miss days, a pattern formed almost of its own accord. Kevin and Paul were busy, mostly in the reclaiming of war-damaged furniture and household goods, for which they used the large shed at the rear of their garage on the fringes of Blundellsands and Brighton-le-Sands. From two or three wrecked tables they produced a single good one, which would be sold from the Smithdown Road shop. Nothing was wasted, and within a short space of time they accumulated enough spare components to make stuff from scratch.

  Nellie often brought the little ones to visit Granddad but, one Thursday lunch hour, she arrived in a state worse than Paddy’s Market just after closing time. ‘Martin,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Martin. I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.’

  ‘What’s up, love? Sit yourself down before you start bloody crying and flood the area.’ He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Come on, tell me all about it. Deep breaths, now.’

  She parked the pram before dropping onto a stool and inhaling a welcome draught of oxygen. ‘I met our Alice outside that shoe shop next to the bank. She’s gone round to see Muth. You could have knocked me over with a feather duster, I was that shocked. But she was in a hurry, so I got no time to say anything much.’