That Liverpool Girl

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Hilda could just surprise us all yet,’ replied Nellie. ‘She might not have lived our life, but she’s been in these parts for long enough to know what goes on. With a cane, a blackboard and a bit of chalk, she’ll come into her own, I reckon. There’s a streak in her, Eileen. It’s something I’ve seen in our Mel, and I think it’s called bloody-mindedness. Listen to me. Give it a try. If we can’t manage, I’ll let you know. Anyway, you have to speak to Miss Morrison first. Let’s not make the horse jump before we’ve got to the hurdle, eh? Save your energy for later.’

  A subdued and thoughtful Eileen Watson found herself wandering the streets of Crosby that afternoon. This, the main village, had wonderful shops, thatched cottages and pleasant, dignified people. She didn’t notice the men who stared at her, failed to realize that she was causing quite a stir in Hilda’s suit, blouse and shoes. But with only two hours to spare before collecting Mel, she set off up Manor Road towards the truly select houses. On St Michael’s Road, she opened a gate, walked up the path, and inserted her key in the door of Miss Morrison’s detached residence.

  The old lady was happy but surprised to see her cleaner. ‘Have I got my days wrong again?’ she asked. ‘I think I’m getting worse in the memory department.’

  ‘No, Miss Morrison.’ Invited to sit, she placed herself opposite her employer and laid before her the problem concerning Mel, the school, evacuation and safety. ‘I’m sure Dr and Mrs Bingley are decent people. I know he’s your doctor, and he’s a nice man. But my Mel’s thirteen and nearly forty in the head. You see, Miss Morrison, she could be seventeen or so when the war’s over. I can’t take her to the middle of Lancashire, because they gave her a scholarship at Merchants, and she needs to see it through. All I want is my children to be safe. If the boys are running about on a farm, I can rest easy. Mel’s different, ahead of her time, very attractive—’

  ‘Like you, then.’

  ‘Younger, Miss Morrison. I don’t want her head turned. She can be stubborn. I need to keep hold of her, because her growing up to adulthood has already started.’

  Frances Morrison inclined her head. ‘We’ve all been young, dear. Now, I suppose you want somewhere for you and Mel, because we’re all sure that Scotland Road will be less than safe. It’s too near the city and too close to shipping. The answer is yes, since I’m no longer fit to be alone all the time. And a bit of life in the house will do no harm. Take the two bedrooms at the back, dear. Mine is at the front, as you know, and the one next to mine is small.’

  Eileen grinned. ‘It’s bigger than the one she has at the moment.’ This was a lovely house. It had electric lighting, a proper cooker, a nice kitchen, gardens, a hall . . . ‘Thank you, Miss Morrison.’

  The old lady’s eyes twinkled. ‘Er . . . if you wish to be diplomatic, I don’t mind if you tell the Bingleys that I invited you to stay here. He knows I now need a nurse once a day, so he’ll understand that I don’t wish to be alone at nights. In fact, it won’t be a lie, since you didn’t ask directly.’

  Eileen explained that the move could not take place until the boys and her mother had left for the countryside. She made tea and sandwiches for Miss Morrison before going off to meet Mel.

  As she reached Liverpool Road, a thought occurred. She hadn’t consulted Mel. The girl was at the age when she considered, quite rightly, that she should have some input in decisions that impacted on her life. Oh dear. Everything had moved along at such a pace today that Eileen had failed to allow herself time for thought. War did this. War made people jump ahead without thinking. Mel was almost a woman. The area in which she lived made for early maturation, because kids who lived in poverty needed to grow physically and mentally in order to survive. Her academic superiority had also added to her development, and she was far wiser and abler than most of her peers.

  Yet when Eileen met her daughter outside the gates of Merchants, the news was accepted with joy. Mel would have her mother, her own larger room, and an electric reading lamp. ‘Great,’ she cried. ‘I’ll still be able to visit my friends, but my best friend will be living with me. You, Mam. You’re my best friend.’

  It was at times like this that Eileen felt privileged. Mel was grounded. She knew what she wanted, what she needed, what she owed. All around her on a daily basis she saw girls from backgrounds that were rich in money and lifestyle. She displayed no envy and no desire to imitate what she saw. An almost inborn sense of manners, of how to behave in a multiplicity of circumstances, meant that Mel seldom felt out of place. She was already a citizen of the world and, to prove it, she spoke several languages.

  Mel smiled at her mother. She had never brought friends home, because she could not imagine them accepting her way of life even though she accepted theirs. Yes, the divide existed, but she would straddle it. A canyon stretching from Liverpool to Cambridge might have been judged impassable by most, but Mel was the brightest girl in her class. She knew it, the school knew it, and her classmates were acutely aware of it. She had tamed the lion named Merchants; Cambridge would be just one more pussy cat. Perhaps a Bengal tigress, but this girl would have it eating out of her hand.

  ‘Mel?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We still have to go and see the Bingleys, don’t we?’

  ‘Yes, Mam. We do.’

  Gloria wasn’t here, as she had stayed behind for music lessons. Somewhere down the road, the sound of a cat being tortured would be inflicted on other people’s ears, and that was fine in Dr Thomas Bingley’s book. Gloria, like her mother, was an un-pretty plodder. Marianne Bingley’s looks had faded rapidly after marriage, and she was now a mouse, all corrugated brown hair, light brown skin and pale eyes. At least the eyes weren’t brown, but Tom wasn’t the sort of man to be grateful for small mercies. Her cooking was tolerable, but unimaginative, and he thanked whichever deity was in charge that Marie wasn’t learning the violin alongside their daughter.

  Two of them today, then. The mother of Mel Watson was easily as beautiful as the child, so he was in doubly responsive mode. Later, he would probably make use of his wife, but in the dark. Until now, the body he had pounded had been a substitute for Mel; now, it might change identity, and he was glad of that, since he hated to think of himself as a paedophile. Marie looked even plainer today, as would any dandelion in a bed of rare orchids.

  Marie smiled, just as she always did. She poured tea, handed out sandwiches and cakes, all the time wondering why the hell she stayed. She had been a good match, had brought money into the marriage, and the house on St Andrew’s Road was not mortgaged. But he wasn’t interested in her. Every time Gloria’s friend came to the house, Tom wanted sex. It wasn’t love-making; it was masturbation with a partner.

  And now, here came the mother. The accent was there, broadened vowels, confused consonants, participles jumping into places that ought to have been claimed by verbs. She ‘been’ somewhere, she ‘done’ something, yet Tom hung on every syllable, even when a T bore traces of S, when D collided with a different T. As she settled and the nervousness decreased, Eileen Watson’s English improved rapidly. It seemed that she had two tongues; one for the place of her origin, another for the rest of the world. She was well read . . .

  Yes, the older of the two guests was a long way removed from stupid. Physically, the woman was ethereal, like some Victorian heroine who had survived a slight decline. Her words cracked the facade, but failed to shatter the image. That such physical perfection should be visited on a product of the slums was sad. It would be of little use unless Eileen Watson chose to sell herself to sailors, Marie thought.

  But the daughter . . . Marie’s eyes moved left and settled on the younger wraith. Whenever seated next to this one, poor Gloria looked like a bag of bricks. Not only did she trail in the wake of the creature when it came to physical attributes, but Mel was also an out-and-out winner in the academic stakes. She seemed to float ahead of the work, as if she took extra lessons, yet that could not possibly be the case. But worse by far than all that was th
e fact that Mel knew what was happening. The mother seemed unaware, but the daughter awarded Tom sly glances and pretty little smiles. Oh yes, she knew how to work the oversexed creature to which Marie had fastened herself.

  ‘Marie?’

  She looked at her husband. ‘Yes?’

  ‘A fresh pot of tea, perhaps?’

  The smile remained in situ. The urge to break the teapot against his skull had to be carefully denied, because Marianne Bingley was a deliberately good wife. She was a good wife into whose bank account went every penny she could salvage from housekeeping. Her running-away money was safe, but she had to wait until her children were grown. Like the obedient soul she portrayed, she asked the visitors whether they might prefer coffee, and would they like a slice of Madeira.

  In the kitchen, Marie Bingley splashed cold water on heated cheeks. The girl would not be living here, and that was the good news. But the bad news outweighed it, since both mother and daughter intended to settle for the duration in St Michael’s Road, which was well within walking distance of this house. Miss Frances Morrison’s health would now become of prime concern to Dr Tom Bingley, and Marie’s anger, damped down for so long that it seemed to have turned to black ice, suddenly made her stomach ache.

  She returned with fresh tea, watched her husband’s eyes travelling over the bodies of two unbelievably beautiful females. Her digestive system continued in overdrive, and she excused herself rather suddenly. After vomiting in the downstairs half-bathroom, she rinsed the taste from her mouth, washed her husband from her mind. Because this was the day on which the worm would turn. There would be no healthy argument, no true fight. But from this very night, she would move herself into the fourth bedroom. The twins would notice, but the price she had been paying for peace in this house was suddenly too high. ‘He will not touch you again,’ she promised the plain, wholesome face in the mirror. If he wanted relief, he could find it elsewhere.

  When the visitors had left, Marie forced herself to be brave before the children returned from music and chess. ‘Say one word, and I shall probably kill you, Tom.’ The tone was even, almost monotonous. She inhaled, closed her eyes against the sight of his shocked face, then allowed it all to pour out of her like more vomit, but without the retching. ‘I’ll be moving into the spare room,’ she said. ‘It has taken me years to work my way up to this, so try listening for once. You almost ate Eileen and Mel Watson while they were here – after undressing them with your eyes, of course. That would have impinged on me, as you would have used me later to relieve yourself of sexual tension. So I advise you to find someone else to tolerate your sad, selfish bedroom activities.’

  ‘What the hell—’ he attempted to begin.

  ‘Hell is the right word. You’re hopeless. Now, sleeping arrangements aside, life continues the same. When Gloria and Peter leave, I leave. My father has willed his house to me, so I shall not be homeless in the long term. He will take me in if he’s still alive, and when he dies everything comes to me, so I am safe. Meanwhile, we keep things on an even keel for the children, and for the sake of local society.’

  Tom stared at her. In fourteen years of marriage, she had never strung so many words together in one speech. Life had wobbled on its fulcrum, had shifted because of a force he had never before recognized. As a result, he suddenly felt insecure, undermined and slightly afraid. She was his wife, but she was a creature far stronger than the dull, quiet woman with whom he had lived for all this time. ‘I have rights,’ he said.

  ‘So do I. What happens in our bed isn’t love, isn’t even sex. It’s rape. You come upstairs with your hormones rampaging for Mel Watson. You give me no consideration – not even a kiss, and scarcely a word. I just lie there in pain while you make noises like a sick gorilla. Not one recognizable syllable do you utter. You were never much of a lover, but you have become a bloody rapist. So bugger off and leave me be.’

  The door slammed in her wake. She never swore. She always did exactly what was asked or expected of her. The door opened for a split second. ‘Oh, and the girl plays you like a fish on her hook. Stick to the mother, or you’ll be in jail. I’ll put you there myself.’ The door crashed home for a second time.

  Tom dropped into his favourite wing chair. What was it his father had said? Something about allowing a woman to win, and about allowing her to know she had won? All the time, Marie had realized that he needed sex whenever stimulated by someone other than her. Well, what did she expect? There was nothing desirable about her. She was frumpy, asexual and boring. Yet he was suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. Was he useless in bed? Certainly not. He was an attractive man who needed a beautiful woman. Marie was not beautiful, but Eileen Watson certainly was.

  The evening meal was even quieter than normal that night. Marie topped up her wine glass three times, leaving too little for her husband, who had to make do with water when his own glass ran dry. He chewed his way through lamb cutlets with mint sauce, carrots and sauté potatoes, and waited for his wife to clear away in preparation for a pudding. But she announced that there would be none tonight, and they had better get used to that, as there was a war on. She would be joining the Women’s Voluntary Service, so people in this house had better buck up, clear up and wash up. After this undecorated announcement, she left the room and went upstairs.

  ‘Is there something wrong?’ Gloria asked.

  Tom had his answer prepared. ‘Your mother hasn’t been sleeping well. She’s going to try the spare room.’

  ‘But Mel might need that, Daddy.’

  ‘No. She’ll be staying elsewhere.’

  Peter was audibly disappointed. ‘She’s fun,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll be stuck here with Gloria in excelsis. I was looking forward to having a bit of life in the house for a change.’

  Tom studied his children, realizing that he seldom looked closely at them. Gloria, like her mother, promised to be a brownish person with a dumpy, clumsy frame and no outstanding features. Had there been no money in the family, she could never have gone to Merchants Girls, because she would not have gained the marks required in order for one of the few bequeathed bursaries to be awarded to her. The only person in whose company Gloria became animated was Mel Watson, who owned life and brains sufficient for several. Unselfish for a second or two, Tom felt sorry for his daughter. She might have come out of herself had Mel been stationed here for the duration of war.

  Peter was a different kettle of fish. He had inherited his father’s brown eyes, yet his hair remained fair. The boy had a well-developed body, clear skin, a handsome face and, like Mel, managed to shine at school. Academically sound and with a good memory for detail, Peter also did well in a variety of sports. This was definitely Tom’s son. Unsure thus far of his goal, the older twin swung between medicine and a fierce desire to play cricket for Lancashire. Tom had explained that the two were not mutually exclusive, so Peter could well do either or both.

  It was as if Marie had given birth to one carbon copy of Tom, and one of herself. There was no malice in Gloria, just as there had been none in her mother until today. He shifted in his seat. Had that been malice, or had it been natural anger? He didn’t wish her any harm, but he could no longer manage to want her. Like many of her sex, she was wise and intuitive, and she had worked out that whenever he engaged with her she was just the nearest piece of equipment designed to receive him.

  The twins left the room, abandoning their father to sit among the debris of the last supper. He named the event thus because everything would be different from now on. Marie would provide for her family, of that he was in no doubt. But he imagined her in the WVS and knew that she would make a good member of such an organization. Determinedly English, and quietly furious with Germany, she would invest her all in any job required of her. As wife of a well-known doctor, she enjoyed the respect of local people.

  He stood up and walked to the window. Again, he wished that he might join up and serve in some field hospital, but that privilege would be denied him, as he had two sm
all afflictions: his feet needed supports under their arches, and he had a perforated left eardrum. A thought occurred. Peter was thirteen; if this show continued for five years, the boy would be conscripted. He had not inherited his father’s flat feet, but his twin sister had. Peter was fit. Peter was going nowhere, Tom decided as he cleared the table. His wife seemed to be on strike.

  The kitchen bore a strong relationship to a battle zone. Remnants of high tea shared with Mel Watson and her mother lingered on the drop-down middle section of one of a pair of green cupboards known as kitchenettes. Saucepans, abandoned on the hob of the gas cooker, had traces of the last supper encrusted on their interiors. A grill pan contained congealed lamb fat, while peelings from carrots and potatoes occupied a colander in the sink. This was what she faced each day, and more than once. Marie was a bloody good mother who always gave one hundred per cent of herself.

  Tom rolled up his sleeves and set to. He did everything properly, dealing first with glassware and cutlery, changing water for crockery, soaking pans, wiping surfaces.

  ‘Thank you, Tom.’

  He turned. ‘Marie.’ He was a bad man, and she deserved better. ‘Men don’t realize what women cope with until they’re stuck with it,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have left the washing up.’

  He looked at her; she looked at him. After shifting her clothes from the marital wardrobe and into the spare room, she was hot and sticky and her hair was corkscrewed. Tom, in a flowery apron and damp shirt, brought to mind some henpecked character from a Charlie Chaplin film. They burst out laughing simultaneously. He remembered the girl he had married; she thought about the laughter that had accompanied their courtship. ‘I don’t hate you,’ she said quietly.