‘Same here.’
‘We’ll just have to muddle through, Tom.’
‘Yes. You, me and the armed forces. Life’s rich tapestry, what?’
She nodded and began to dry dishes.
Eileen opened the door. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ she mouthed.
‘Hardly,’ said the policeman who held one struggling boy in each hand.
‘Philip, Rob and Bertie,’ said the second, who was holding on to Rob. ‘Jesus and his mam and dad never turned up, said they were busy. But these three were there. I believe you are the owner of these fine young criminals?’
Eileen stepped aside to allow the representatives of the law into her parlour. There was scarcely room for family in the tiny front room, so by the time the three offenders were lined up in front of the fireplace she and her mother were forced to stand with their backs to the opposite wall, the one to which Mel’s bike was affixed, while the constables had to occupy the window area.
‘What now?’ Nellie asked resignedly. ‘Have they burned down the Liver Buildings, sunk the Isle of Man ferry, or is it something serious like high treason?’
‘There’s a special school opening,’ said one of the men. ‘It’s for young delinquents, and it’s in the middle of Derbyshire. We can kill two – or three – birds with one stone, because it counts as evacuation as well. They won’t be bombed, but they’ll be knocked into shape. God knows they need it.’
‘What have they done now?’ Nellie repeated.
One of the pair delivered the opinion that what these three hadn’t done would make a shorter list. The other attempted a reply. ‘They’ve been running bets for Nobby Costigan, pinching fruit from the Jubilee Stores, and when we finally caught up with them they were trying to work out how to free a barrage balloon from its moorings with a penknife and an axe. The axe is being kept as evidence, but the penknife broke and one of these heroes chucked it in the river.’
‘Why?’ Eileen asked.
Philip answered. ‘Because it was a no-good knife. Couldn’t cut butter.’
Eileen closed her eyes for a moment. ‘Not the knife, soft lad. Why the balloon? Why did you try to free a balloon that’s there to protect our city?’
‘We wanted to see what would happen.’ Bertie swallowed hard after this admission. ‘If it got loose, like, and floated off.’ His voice died of terror.
Nellie sighed deeply and turned her head in the direction of her daughter. ‘Eileen, go and fetch Hilda. She can explain what’s going to happen to these three.’ She glared at the miscreants. They looked like gingerbread men cut from similar shapes in descending sizes. Each had brown hair, blue eyes, angelic features and a devilish attitude painted over by good looks and sweet smiles. Well, Bertie’s would be sweet once his adult front teeth grew in properly.
Their grandmother continued to stare at them while Eileen was away. The three lads were more trouble than a gang of drunken Orangemen at a St Paddy’s day party. They were wild, daft and short of several good hidings. But they weren’t going to any school for delinquents, oh no. They were bad enough already without being taught more tricks by the rest of the criminal fraternity. A couple of years in juvenile jail, and they might well return with violin cases, funny hats and Chicago accents. ‘They’re going where I take them,’ Nellie advised the constables. ‘Not to some training camp for gangsters, thanks all the same.’
The policemen removed their helmets. ‘One thing’s sure, Mrs Kennedy. When Hitler starts playing with his big fireworks, there’ll be looting. A direct hit on a row of houses, and these three would be in like Flynn. They can’t help themselves. Their dad would be ashamed.’
‘There’s nothing worth pinching,’ Nellie told them. ‘Most round here think soap’s a luxury.’
‘That’s not the point. War’s hard enough without having to keep an eye out for the Three Stooges. They need a firm hand.’
Hilda and Eileen squeezed their way into the house. ‘Good evening,’ said the former. ‘I understand that you are on the brink of arresting these three young boys.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t go as far as—’ The first policeman stopped when his mate dug him sharply in the ribs. ‘What?’ he asked, rubbing his side.
‘They and some others have to be removed.’ Policeman number two assumed charge of the situation. ‘Yes, they have to go.’
‘I see.’ Hilda folded her arms. ‘Removed? Like a growth? Or three growths? Over my dead body, young man. They are going to no commune for the unsalvageable.’
Eileen and Nellie looked at each other. As suspected, there was more to Miss Hilda Pickavance than met the immediate eye of any beholder.
‘And you’ll take responsibility?’
‘I shall. They will be in rural Lancashire, and I shall deal with their education. There will be no barrage balloons, no shops and no bookmakers for whom they might run. Their mother has told me of their behaviour. The whole family is deeply ashamed, but you have to understand that these two ladies are widows, and there is no male influence in the boys’ lives.’
‘Which is why they could do with a special school,’ said Number Two.
Number One, still busy holding his ribs, simply nodded.
‘They will be farming,’ Hilda snapped. ‘They will be providing food for the populace. Now, unless you want to place them in a cell tonight – and I advise strongly against that – I suggest you leave us to cope with this matter.’
The three boys watched in awe as the policemen left the scene. Miss Pickavance was absolutely brilliant. They grinned at each other, rejoicing in their good fortune. But their happiness was short-lived. As soon as the uniformed men had disappeared, they got both barrels. Mam would save them, wouldn’t she? For once, Eileen remained rigidly unmoved.
‘Get your night things and go to my house. There is a double bed in the front upstairs room, and you will sleep in it. Tomorrow, you’ll blacklead my grate and clean all windows before and after school. If and when I go out, you will be supervised by your mother or your grandmother. You will eat when we decide, speak when we decide, breathe when allowed. You will go to school, but if you are late coming home, appropriate punishment will ensue.’
‘En-what?’ Six-year-old Bertie was struggling to keep up with all the posh talk.
‘Follow,’ snapped their nice, quiet, well-mannered neighbour. ‘Every moment of your lives until we move to inner Lancashire will be supervised. You are not to be trusted. I am thoroughly ashamed of you.’ She turned on her heel and walked out of the house.
Philip, at eleven, was the oldest of the gang. ‘I’m not going to her house,’ he announced, arms folded defiantly across his chest. ‘I’m not.’
Rob, at nine, was similarly decided, but Bertie, who thought there might be cocoa across the street, ran upstairs to pick up sleepwear made by his mother out of a shirt that had belonged to his beloved father. He picked up similar items that were the property of his brothers before returning to the ground floor. ‘I’ve got your nightshirts,’ he told them.
Nellie fastened her eyes to Philip’s. After a few seconds, the sheer weight of her personality forced him to avert his gaze. She moved on to the middle brother, and he endured her glacial stare for a fraction of a second. Hilda Pickavance had begged Nellie to accompany her into the countryside because she needed help with children. But Hilda could manage better than most, and this evening had proved that. ‘Right,’ she said to the three rapscallions. ‘You can’t be trusted, so your mam and I will take you to Miss Pickavance. It’s that or the police station. Well?’
They chose that. After walking the three across the street, Nellie and Eileen waited until they heard Hilda’s key turning in the lock when the boys had entered the house. ‘Bloody hell,’ Nellie whispered. ‘Talk about hidden talents.’
Eileen waited until they were home. ‘She’s acting.’
‘I know that.’
‘She’s being Miss Millichamp.’
‘Miss Millie who?’
‘Champ. Head
mistress at her school. They didn’t believe in caning young ladies, but Hilda said that sometimes she would rather have had the cane. So when you sent me to fetch her, she said she was going to do a Miss Millichamp. Miss Millichamp used to get so deeply disappointed that the girls would be in tears. Psychology, according to Hilda. See, she seems quiet and polite and all that, but underneath, she’s just like the rest of us, only cleverer.’
Mel came downstairs. ‘Armageddon again?’ she asked.
Eileen nodded. ‘Police. Something to do with a pound of apples and a barrage balloon.’
Mel decided not to ask for further clarification. ‘Where are they?’
‘With Miss Millichamp,’ Eileen replied. ‘She looks like Hilda Pickavance, but actually she’s a Miss Millichamp. The cops wanted to send the boys to some sort of special school for bad lads, but Hilda stepped in. Wiped the floor with a couple of constables, then waded in on Rob and Philip. Bertie was all right, being the youngest.’
Mel grinned. ‘Peaceful, isn’t it?’
Nellie raised her head and looked into her granddaughter’s eyes. ‘For some, it’s going to be too peaceful, love. Out there, we have unborns who’ll never see the light of day, babes in prams who won’t live to learn to walk. Loads of old people won’t get the chance to die in their own beds, and every man who ships out of here will be a target.’
‘Sorry, Gran.’
‘In 1918, I never really believed it was over. I was right. They just had a long rest, that’s all. We’ve enjoyed what they call a pause in hostilities, because all our young men were dead or near-dead, so we had to grow a new lot. But as long as men are in charge, Mel, there’ll be war. There’s always some bugger trying to prove he can pee highest, run fastest and beat folk up. Like at school. Only this time, it’s a bigger playground.’ She left the room.
When Mel made to follow, Eileen stopped her. ‘Leave her, girl. She’ll be talking to your granddad. She always does when she’s frightened – she prays to him like he’s a saint.’
‘Oh, Mam.’
‘I know, love. I know.’
Four
Keith Greenhalgh was in the morning room at Willows trying to write to Miss Hilda Pickavance. He forced himself to stop chewing the pen and start shaping words. After all, he couldn’t sit here forever daydreaming about a woman who was, for the present, out of reach. How old was he? Seventeen? No, he was forty-odd and counting, so he’d best get on with things.
Dear Miss Pickavance,
The four tenant farmers have not yet been approached by evacuation authorities, and they are each willing to take two children from Liverpool, preferably older ones, as their wives will be too busy for baby-minding. I am still discussing the situation with cottagers who live in Willows Edge, but there is one house empty, and you may want to bring a family; a mother with young children, perhaps.
He threw down the pen. Elsie Openshaw was being her usual pig-headed self. No, pigs were OK people; crocodile-headed was nearer the mark. Unprepared to accept the undeniable fact that ‘her’ cottage was not her actual property, she was standing firm and refusing to cooperate when it came to the placement of children.
The sight of Elsie Openshaw standing firm was not a pleasant one, as she was a woman of considerable size and, with her arms folded and her face set, looked about as inviting as a midwinter funeral tea. The cheerful flowered apron wrapped round her uncomely form lost any appeal it might have had as soon as it made contact with her body. The metal from which her curlers were made echoed the state of her mind. She was fixed, unbendable, and she intended to ensure that all her neighbours took a similar stance.
Your four tenanted farms are Cedars, Four Oaks, Pear Tree and Holly. So in reality you have five farms rather than four as mentioned in your letter. It occurred to me that I hadn’t told you the names of those places, but your solicitors may well have. All are occupied by decent folk, and you will find them extremely
Yet again, he discarded his pen. The cottages on the Edge were also the property of the woman to whom he was attempting to write. Elsie Openshaw, a widow whose husband had died to escape her, Keith suspected, was allowed to stay on rent-free because of the years of labour her man had put in at Willows Home Farm. Did she not realize that she could be out on her ear if she remained intransigent? ‘I am not afraid of you, you old witch,’ he mumbled. The letter could wait; a more pressing piece of business required his attention. ‘Why is it always me?’ he asked no one at all, since he was alone. It was always him because he was agent and steward, so he had better shape up, buck up and prepare to put her back up.
He pulled on cap and coat, left the house, and began the walk down the lane towards Willows Edge, his own cottage, and the abode of Mrs Elsie Openshaw. She wanted sorting out. Her kids were long fled, yet all three of them sent money for her food and other necessities. If they didn’t send money, she visited them, and they avoided that like the plague. She wasn’t a woman; she was a bloody government.
Elsie had been a tartar all her life, and it was time somebody stood up to her. Keith, a mature, strong man, was not in fear of her. The sudden quickening of his pulse was connected to the business of being slightly older, wasn’t it? No, it wasn’t. He was scared to bloody death, and he had to have a showdown. Showdowns were not in his nature, but they were required occasionally.
For many years, Keith had lived near the harridan. No one ever answered her when she ranted, but everyone in the terrace talked behind her back. Some said it was a pity she’d not died instead of poor Bill, who had been eroded by hard work and nagging to a point where he could take no more. All said she was a nasty old witch, but who would dare to tackle her? He grinned. Something about the group he termed the Liverpool girls promised that life might change. He wished he could speak directly to Nellie Kennedy, ask her to bring a large, loud family to live in the empty cottage. He wished he might speak directly to her daughter, but the reason for that was a mile away from Elsie and her lashing tongue. He paused for a fraction of a second before passing Elsie’s house. He would deal with her in a minute. Yes, he definitely would.
Keith entered his own house first and laid a fire to be lit later if needed. Evening came earlier now, and there was sometimes a chill in the air. Why did he keep seeing her face? Not since the death of his darling Annie Metcalfe of Bromley Cross had he looked with real desire at any woman. Annie’s death, some twenty years earlier, had left a hole in him. She had been stricken with a kind of blood poisoning after suffering a burst appendix, and she had been his soulmate. Her photograph, in faded sepia, still took centre stage on the mantelpiece. They had never married . . .
Her name was Eileen, and she had three sons and one incredibly talented daughter. When alone with Eileen for a few precious seconds during the visit, he had fallen hook, line and sinker for a woman who spoke what was tantamount to a foreign language, who had difficult boys, the eyes of an angel and hair like gossamer silk. She was bloody gorgeous. He did not trust his feelings. This kind of stuff happened in daft books written by daft women for daft women. Yet he was persecuted by visions of her in his bed, his house, his life. He pictured her at the sink, saw himself creeping up behind her to fold her in his arms, pull back her hair, kiss her neck. He was daft. Love at first sight? Not again!
Keith Greenhalgh almost laughed out loud. Women found him handsome; he found women silly or nasty, like the old bat he would be visiting shortly. For sex and companionship, he had enjoyed a ten-year relationship with a childless woman whose husband did not quite satisfy her hunger. It was a good friendship, and there would be little acrimony should a parting of their ways occur. So he wasn’t looking for anything shallow, was not looking for anything at all. It was the same with most aspects of life. ‘Search for a lump hammer, a great huge article you’ve owned for years, and it’s disappeared off the face of the earth. When you don’t want it, you fall over it in the shed doorway,’ he told Annie’s photo.
But Eileen wasn’t a lump hammer; Eileen had heart and
soul in her eyes, a delicate, beautiful face, and a body that should be on cinema screens. He was glad she wasn’t on cinema screens . . . What if she already had somebody? No. He’d overheard Nellie saying to Jay that Eileen steered clear because of her boys. Did he have a chance? Did he? He hadn’t ached like this for years. ‘I want her,’ he said aloud. ‘I want a bloody woman I don’t even know. She talks funny, she’s got terrible sons, and I bet she knows as much about estate management and farming as I know about delicate embroidery. I need my head examining.’
However, none of this was useful. He should take a short walk and impose himself on Elsie Openshaw, hag of this parish, self-appointed queen of all she surveyed, miserable old woman with a black heart, a face like a giant plate of stewed tripe, and her husband’s teeth. She didn’t like to waste anything, so she’d taken them from the mouth of a corpse, and had spent several years trying with a marked lack of success to break them in. She was horrible.
She opened her door before he had time to knock. As usual, she had been at the window keeping an eye on her territory. ‘I’m coming in,’ he said, trying not to recoil too obviously when brushing past her hugeness. That was a good name for her. Her Royal Hugeness. It should be patented and hung round her neck with a bit of rope. Or a garrotte. He walked through the small shop, once a parlour, into the kitchen-cum-living room. The house smelled unclean, like rancid butter, dirty cloth and old paper. He turned and faced her. ‘I’m writing to the new owner of the estate,’ he began. ‘I have to give an account of everybody who lives round here.’
‘Oh, aye? The Liverpool woman what’s dad ran off with a cleaner?’
‘Yes.’ He bit back the words ‘at least she cleaned’.
‘And?’ The upper teeth dropped again. For a split second, she looked like something that lived under a bridge to frighten billy goats. She was quick, though. The set was clicked back into position in a fraction of a trice. He’d seen better-looking gargoyles acting as rainwater goods outside mansions and the like.
That Liverpool Girl Page 6