‘And people want you out. They daren’t say it to your face, and they’ll deny it if you ask, because they fear you. You’re a bully, and your brain’s smaller than your gob. Oh, and if anyone else complains about mail being interfered with, it’ll be the police that provide the transport to shift you. Stop steaming things open. Stop poking about in parcels and putting new string round them. We’re all on to you. Folk aren’t as daft as you want them to be.’
She dropped into a chair, which complained loudly at the sudden assault. ‘Who do you think you’re talking to, Keith Greenhalgh?’
‘You. I’m talking to you. You’re in a rent-free cottage, and we need space for evacuees.’
She almost managed to fold her arms across an upper body the size of Brazil. ‘So to keep me house, I have to take a bloody Scouser in?’
He shook his head. ‘Not likely. I wouldn’t put any child within a mile of you, Elsie Openshaw. Your own couldn’t get away quickly enough. Young Daisy threw herself at that farmhand until he impregnated her. Everyone along here knows that. They know how you treated Bill and the kids, and they know first-hand how you treat your neighbours. If I told them you were leaving, they’d have a bonfire, but the guy would be large and female. Even the blackout wouldn’t stop them celebrating seeing the back of you.’ There, he had done it. A peaceable creature by nature, this was hardly his forte. He wasn’t shaking. There was a chill in the air, that was all.
Her mouth opened and closed, Bill’s teeth shifting nervously in a cavern that threatened to inhale them, but no words emerged. A terrible fear visited her chest. Widows of long-serving farmhands were always housed. Sometimes, they had to share accommodation, but they were never thrown out. ‘Can she change things, just like that?’ she finally managed.
‘She can. So can I. It’s part of my job, Elsie. If any tenant, whether tied or rent-paying, makes life difficult for another or others, he or she will be given notice to leave. It’s in every agreement signed by a resident.’
The woman gulped.
‘Careful. You’ll be having Bill’s dentures for dinner.’ Keith sat down. ‘Two conditions. One, you clean this place up – it stinks. Two, you stop yapping about everything and everybody. Don’t put people off when they think about taking a Liverpool child. Those kiddies live in a huge port, and there’ll be ships, explosives and God alone knows what docked nearby. Sorry. Number three is the one I almost forgot. Leave the post alone, or I’ll have you out of here so fast your curlers’ll catch fire before you reach Willows Lane.’
Elsie struggled to her feet. ‘I’ve just remembered, there’s a letter for you.’ She went off towards the front room, which was now her precious shop.
‘Did you hear all I said?’ he shouted.
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
She returned. ‘Woman’s writing,’ she wheezed. ‘From Liverpool.’
‘Right.’ He stared at her. Was she the full quid, or was she a bent farthing? ‘Elsie?’
‘What?’
‘Did you hear my conditions if you’re going to stay here?’
She nodded, and her several chins wobbled, though not in harmony. It was as if they were fighting for space above a tight collar, and no one was winning. After a few seconds, the layers of blubber reached some sort of agreement and settled down, presumably to negotiate terms of peace. ‘Clean up, shut up, put up, and leave the bloody mail alone,’ she barked.
She was the full quid, then. ‘And stop being nasty to people and about people. Some teeth of your own might be a good idea, and all. Those you took from poor Bill are fit to frighten horses.’
Outside once more, Keith tried to contain his excitement. The writing wasn’t Hilda Pickavance’s. Miss Pickavance used as near as damn it to copperplate. He couldn’t imagine Nellie sitting down to write a shopping list, let alone a letter. It had to be from her. But he left it on the dresser while he brewed tea and lit the fire. Sometimes, a treat tasted sweeter if you had to wait for it. Her lettering on the envelope was clear, though this was not the hand of a formally educated person. Well, he wasn’t educated. Anything he knew had been picked up long after his escape from the confines of school.
He opened the envelope carefully with the help of some obscure item attached to a penknife of many parts, including a tool that had never in its life managed to remove a stone from an equine hoof.
Dear Mr Greenhalgh,
I am writing to let you know that I shall be staying in Liverpool with my daughter, as she is too young to be left for any length of time. It must seem terrible, because my mother will be forced to cope with Philip (11), Robin (9) and Bertie, really Albert (7 if I let him live till Friday).
Please try to put these boys of mine to some sort of work. They are quick learners, but easily led astray, and they were in trouble with the police again very recently. The farms should be ideal, because work in the fields will use up their energy. I hope you aren’t annoyed at my boldness in assuming too much in view of our brief acquaintance . . .
He put down the page and smiled. She might talk oddly, but she was well-read, by gum. That paragraph might have been penned by Austen herself. He hadn’t been wrong; there was something special about Eileen Watson. But she wasn’t coming. Sighing, he picked up the letter again.
our brief acquaintance, but will you please keep an eye on them, on my mother and on Hilda? Goodness, how many eyes does one man have? Also, I beg you to come or send someone whenever possible to bring me and my daughter over to Willows at weekends. I know that cannot happen every Friday, but I should like to spend time with my family. We hope to visit at half-term and at Christmas as long as we can overcome travelling difficulties and find someone to care for Miss Morrison, the lady with whom we shall be lodging.
Travelling difficulties? If he had to steal an armoured vehicle from an army base, he would do it and be damned. And she had written ‘should’ like to spend time with family. So this was the source of Mel’s good brain, then. Like many born in the early years of the twentieth century, Eileen had experienced only a brief and unedifying brush with scholarship, but she had remedied that.
I walked down to the river earlier on. It is very busy. There is urgency in the movement of every man, and no one stops for a crafty smoke like they do when life is normal. Beyond trains and cranes and ships, I saw the sun and wondered why God was allowing it to shine at such a time.
The warehouses are said to be bulging with imports, though we cannot know exactly what, and they are under heavy guard. As well as police, soldiers and sailors are standing watch and many are armed.
As the sun went down, the river was bright red and that made me shiver. I am sure you can guess the reason for my discomfort.
I enclose on another sheet the address of Miss Frances Morrison. She has a telephone and I have included the number in case you need to reach me in a hurry after we have all finished playing musical chairs. Thank you for your kindness. Please keep in touch if you have time, because I shall enjoy reading about my fine, healthy, country bumpkin boys.
Yours sincerely,
Eileen Watson.
Oh, God. He was almost in love. The paper was thin and cheap, so he reused the envelope as protective custodian. ‘She wrote to me, not to Jay. She knew him better, because he did the driving, but she chose me.’ There had been a connection, a mutual attraction. More important, her humour was on show in the letter, and where there was humour, there was intellect. ‘Eileen.’ He tried the name for size and shape, rolled it from his tongue into the empty room. It seemed lonely out there by itself, so he paired it off with his own forename. ‘They’ll have me locked up,’ he advised the crackling fire. ‘I’ll get put away for talking to the fireback. But there’s no cure for this one.’
He stepped out of the kitchen into his back garden, fed his half-dozen friendly and inquisitive hens, picked some rhubarb for a crumble to be shared with the Dysons, and dead-headed a few flowers. A good enough housewife, Keith always helped his neighbours, since c
ooking for one was uneconomical and no fun. Jean baked his bread, so this tit-for-tat arrangement had been born long before Hitler decided to take over the world.
There was no treatment for this. It had been the same with little Annie Metcalfe of Bromley Cross. Little Annie had retained her full title, even after death, as there had been several Annes born that year, and the need to differentiate between them had birthed extended names. Even now, he could smell the sweet breath of an angel who had died in the sort of agony from which an animal would have been released within hours.
There was no mercy for gentle human souls, was there? He had never been unfaithful to his Annie. What happened between him and Cora Appleyard was mechanical, automatic, almost akin to breathing. He was grateful to her, as was she to him, but there was little or no pillow talk, because their joinings imitated the behaviour of animals. They had a need, and they indulged it. Until now, his heart had been the property of a dead girl.
The letter to Miss Pickavance could wait until morning, but the scribe in him itched to reply to one Mrs Eileen Watson. She had word-painted a picture of blood on the Mersey; he would return the favour by describing the gentle beauty of rural Lancashire, though he would not go over the top. What had she said? Something about not assuming too much after so brief an acquaintance. ‘And I’m sitting here with a daft grin on my face,’ he said. ‘But by heck, I’ll drag that one up the Willows, even if she has to come kicking and screaming.’ God, he was stupid.
Still laughing about the child who would be seven if Eileen allowed him to live until Friday, he toasted bread and scrambled a couple of eggs. A man who lived the country life had to keep his strength up. A cup of tea and a bit of music on the wireless, and he was set for the night. Keith Greenhalgh might be as mad as a frog in a box, but that was normal, since real love made a man crazy. He knew that. Because he’d been here before.
A flabbergasted Jean Dyson closed her mouth with a snap. She didn’t believe what she had just heard, yet she must believe it. Neil had a chance. There was a possibility – even a probability – that his occupation might be judged essential and reserved, because somebody had to show the Land Army what was what, so many of England’s farmers would be kept at home. ‘Why?’ she asked softly. ‘Why volunteer? If you sit it out, you’ll be too old to get called up.’ There was no point in screaming at him. If she shouted, he would go and sit with his cows in the shippon.
‘We got talking, me and Jay, and we decided it’s what we want. There’s no saying we’ll be picked anyway, so don’t start worrying yet. There’s every chance we’ll be psychologically unsuitable, or we won’t get through training for one reason or another. Then, as you said, there’s my age. If I volunteer, I’ll be considered.’
She cleared the table and began to clatter supper pots on the counter. She should have been in bed at least an hour ago, but she’d started knitting and lost track of time. ‘So you’re down the pub playing pat-a-cake with Jay, and you both come home fighter pilots.’ She poured hot water into the washing-up bowl. ‘How drunk did you have to be to get off the ground? I know he’s a daft beggar, but you should—’
‘Stop it, love.’
‘What was your fuel? Guinness or bitter?’
‘Jeanie—’
‘Don’t you Jeanie me.’ She waved a tea towel under his nose. ‘Leave this house voluntarily, Neil Dyson, and you won’t get back in. If you did get called up, you should have the sense to keep your feet planted on the ground. At sea, if the Germans don’t get you, the water will. In the air, you’ll become a ball of fire with two hundred bullets up your rear gunner. The army’s the only lot with a small chance. I knew I’d married a daft so-and-so, but it takes the whole cream cracker, this does.’
‘I’ve been reading, Jean, and—’
‘Then stop bloody reading. You’ve two daughters upstairs. Don’t you want to live for them?’
‘Course I do. I don’t want them raped by invaders either, don’t want them shoved into some prison camp then on to a breeding programme because they look Aryan.’
‘And?’
‘It’ll be fought in the air, Jean. They’ll fly in to bomb, to drop troops, to invade. It’s because of my children that I want to shoot the buggers out of the sky.’ He didn’t say the rest of it, because it would sound too soft and maudlin. In a way he didn’t properly understand, he was keen to fight for the King. George VI had suffered enough through getting lumbered with a job he’d never wanted; now the poor chap had to come over all positive and determined, because a war had arrived to ice the cake for him. ‘I want to serve my country,’ was all Neil allowed himself to say.
‘Oh aye? And growing cabbages and spuds isn’t serving your country? What’s the flaming matter with you? Somebody has to keep the home fires burning and the ovens filled. I’ll be here ripping guts out of chickens and knee-deep in feathers while you go and save the world? Right.’ She tore off her apron. ‘That’s it. You are manager of Willows Home Farm. I am not. I shall take the girls to my mam and dad’s up Bury Road, seeing as they’ve got a couple of spare rooms. You can please your bloody self, but the farm will have no boss.’ She stalked out of the room. After a few seconds, she reappeared briefly. ‘This kitchen is shut due to illness. I am bloody sick of it. The farm is shut, too.’
He waited, tapping his fingers on the table, walking round the room a few times, drinking a small bottle of ale, glancing at headlines in an old newspaper. When the clock told him she’d been gone for twenty minutes, he followed her upstairs, undressed and slipped into the bed. ‘Jeanie?’
‘Bugger off.’
‘Hit me, and I will.’ He dragged her into his arms. ‘Do you think I like the idea of some ugly, sweaty Kraut doing what I’m about to do? Would I want a Nazi general touching you like this, or like this?’
‘Stop it.’
‘You know you want me. You always want me.’
It was no use, she told herself resignedly. She was his happy plaything, and she loved him. When she got her breath back, she dug him in the ribs. ‘Oi, you.’
‘What?’
‘Come back dead, and I’ll kill you.’
‘OK, love. I’ll remember that.’
Jay Collins was rather less fortunate than his partner in drunken crime. He told his wife of his intentions regarding the air force before going out to fill the log basket. When he returned to the house, all the doors and windows were locked, and he was rendered homeless. This new circumstance was disconcerting, as he had enjoyed a roof over his head for all of his thirty-two years, so he waited to see what would happen next. What happened next was extremely damp and uncomfortable, because his wife opened an upper window of the gatehouse and poured a bucket of water on his head. The water was cold, and he moved away in case a repeat performance might be in the script.
‘Gill?’ he spluttered.
‘They won’t take Neil,’ she yelled. ‘He’s well turned forty, and his eyes are funny. In case you haven’t noticed, his arms need to grow longer so that he can read the newspaper properly. But they’ll take you, because you’re nobbut a handyman. Why don’t you wait to be called up? You will be called up, because we’ve no kiddies, but why go now?’
‘Because I want to choose what I do in the war.’
‘Huh.’ The window slammed.
‘Gill?’
Nothing happened.
‘Gill? Let me in.’
Nothing happened again. He considered his options, which were few. The idea of sitting outside and dying of pneumonia didn’t appeal, even though it would make her sorry. He could break in, but she would kill him. Neil kept farmer’s hours, in bed at nine and up and about by five except for one night a week – tonight – when he went to the pub and Jean took over morning duties on the following day. She still had to be up by five, so that was a non-starter. Which left only the boss, who was a man of understanding and discretion, and therefore won hands down.
Jay, feeling a real idiot, jogged down the lane until he reached Willo
ws Edge. He hammered on the door, and was almost overcome by relief when it opened. ‘Thank God,’ he said from the heart.
‘Bloody hell in a handcart,’ the boss exclaimed. ‘Who got you dressed and ready? Neptune? Have you been paddling in Blackpool? Did you take your bucket and spade? Where’s my stick of rock?’
Jay rushed to the fire. ‘Don’t start, Keith. I’m not in the mood. She threw me out. I can’t break windows that are antiques, can I? Get that bloody kettle on, my bones are frozen and my teeth won’t keep still.’
‘This isn’t like Gill. What happened to make her carry on like that?’
‘Me and Neil happened. We were in the Red Lion, because it’s Neil’s night off, and we made a decision. We want to be fighter pilots. And we even went home early, but a man can’t do right for doing wrong as far as Gill’s concerned.’
Keith, doing a pale imitation of a saddened man, put the kettle to boil. ‘On a scale of one to ten, how drunk were you when this decision made itself?’
‘About seventeen. Put it this way – the landlord wouldn’t let us play darts, and we both got lost on the way home, ended up in a cow shed just off Willows Lane. It was Neil’s cow shed, so we got our bearings after that. Nice, aren’t they?’
‘Eh?’
‘Cows. Very comforting. I’d never noticed that before.’
‘Jay?’
‘What?’
‘Sit down and shut up. I’ll find you a towel and some pyjamas.’ Shaking his head slowly, Keith walked up the stairs. Hitler had a lot to answer for, and one of his first victims was downstairs, teeth chattering so hard that they threatened to break. Fighter pilots? Jay couldn’t navigate marriage or his way home, while Neil had no chance. He’d been in the last war, Lancashire Fusiliers, so he’d already trained in the army, and if they did start taking older men they wouldn’t want him as an airborne hero.
That Liverpool Girl Page 7