That Liverpool Girl

by Ruth Hamilton

  Tom’s spare time was less gainfully employed. He did his duty, helped the sick, tended the dying and the newborn, but he was restless. Then he saw an article in last week’s newspaper, the story of a washed-up body found on a nearby beach. Next to this item was printed a grainy photograph of the widow standing in a street with her neighbour. Even here, in patchy black and white, the neighbour shone. Dear God, Eileen Watson was seriously beautiful.

  He showed the paper to his daughter. ‘Where exactly do they live, Gloria?’

  ‘Rachel Street, number two, I think, so that poor lady whose husband drowned must be number four. It’s quite near the Rotunda theatre, round about where Cazneau Street meets Scotland Road. Why?’

  ‘It’s just that we know Mel, don’t we? And now that I’ve met her mother, well . . . I thought I might help the bereaved family.’ He watched her smile as it arrived to illuminate a face that seemed to be improving somewhat.

  ‘That’s a nice thing to do, Daddy. But Mel never takes anyone home. I can’t say she’s ashamed, because she probably isn’t; she’s too . . . organized for that. It’s just that she keeps her two worlds apart, because they wouldn’t mix. Even the poor have their rules.’

  ‘Rules don’t buy a coffin, Gloria.’

  ‘No, but some things are bigger than money.’

  For a few seconds, Tom looked at his daughter. She was a sensitive soul, then. She would probably grow up to be like her mother, dutiful, correct and capable. No beauty had been promised, yet something was happening. Cheekbones. Yes, they had started to show through disappearing puppy fat. ‘When are they moving to Crosby?’ He attempted to dress the question in casual clothes.

  ‘Very soon. Miss Morrison’s having their rooms painted. She has a soft spot for Mel’s mother, so she’s trying to get everything nice for them.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Tom left his daughter to her homework and went into the study. He had to see Eileen Watson. But he owned the grace to feel some shame, since he was considering using a dead man as a stepping stone, and such an intention did not sit comfortably on his conscience.

  Marie entered the room, a piece of white paper in her hand. ‘I wonder,’ she began, her tone offhand, ‘whether you might do me a favour, Tom.’

  ‘If I can, of course I shall.’

  The paper was a five-pound note, and she passed it to him. ‘I read that the other day,’ she said, pointing to the newspaper. ‘And I thought we might go down and visit Mrs Watson and her neighbour. But I simply haven’t time today, because there’s a committee meeting early this evening. Please give the poor young widow that money. God knows she’ll need it.’

  There was an unfamiliar expression on Marie’s face, a cross between challenge and a sort of triumph. She was telling him that she’d lost the key to her chastity belt, that he could look elsewhere, that she had better things to do, wool to wind, women to organize, a war to win. The balance of power had certainly shifted on this bit of St Andrews Road.

  He felt strangely hurt. She was married to a successful, respected, handsome man, but all she offered was politeness and a kind of comradeship. ‘A civilized arrangement’ was what she wanted. After the war, depending on how long it lasted and how old the twins were at the time, she might look for divorce or separation. The disgrace of that would ruin his practice, so he must try to change her mind. At present, that mind was rather like Stonehenge; any change would arrive as a result of centuries of erosion.

  She left the room, smiling to herself as soon as the door was closed in her wake. Taking the upper hand was strangely exhilarating. Having been the first to contact the relevant authorities, she was, by default, in charge of the WVS. Although no ranks existed within the service, she was the first to receive an official blouse with that badge on the pocket, red and white, a crown at its top, and W.V.S. embroidered above the words CIVIL DEFENCE and CROSBY.

  In accordance with the dictates of its founder, the Women’s Voluntary Service undertook a duty to familiarize locals with the dos and don’ts in case of bomb attack. Members were instructed to hammer home the necessity of keeping light from showing, as well as provide comforts for displaced persons at home and for troops employed in battle. She had a reason to live, a reason all her own. No longer was she just a wife and a mother; she had lists to type, telephone calls to make, women to manage. The war was her saviour.

  Then there was home. She had assumed command here, too. By removing herself from the marital bed, Marie had taken charge. This also had been by default in its own way, as she had never fully understood the power of sex. It was something one did in order to procreate, and it was a nuisance. But when it stopped, the male became very odd. Sometimes, he looked almost crazed, eyes shifting from side to side, occasionally fixing on her breasts or her legs. She wasn’t a handsome woman, but the breast and leg departments were adequate. Was he going insane? If that were the case, he could travel the road alone, because she had no intention of losing her own mind.

  Anyway, she’d seen all she wanted of the damp patch on the main bedroom ceiling, had wasted more than enough time waiting for him to groan and flail before collapsing on her like a lump of boiled fish. The whole business was moist and rather unwholesome. He needed it, though, especially when a pretty woman or girl had visited. Well, he could manage without her. Men were designed literally to please themselves, and she had just given him unspoken permission to turn his attention to some other female.

  So that was that. Now, where had she put the instructions about how best to pack a shoebox with goodies for a soldier? And should Muriel Crabtree be in charge of bandages? Muriel kept horses, and there was usually a whiff of manure about her person . . .

  The edge was keener in Liverpool than in Crosby and Blundellsands. People scuttered to and from the docks, humour less audible, faces set in lines that spoke volumes about what was dreaded. Barrage balloons, pretty and silver, bobbed about in the cool evening air. Older men wore the garb of wardens and fire-watchers, while younger males went about their business in a hurry, as most would soon be gone into the hungry maw of Europe. The invisible, silent wind of change howled behind expressionless eyes. Afraid yet determined, this tough, valiant breed prepared to bomb and to be bombed. Grey ships moored in shallow water were being edged out by tugs, as they were sitting too low and in danger of becoming silt-bound. What was their cargo? Why were there so many Royal Navy uniforms about?

  They were no doubt loading missiles, and it was all suddenly very real. Tom drove past guns whose huge nostrils pointed skyward as if in immediate readiness to spit rounds of flak at German fighters and bombers. Thousands of sandbags were piled on pavements waiting to be taken to their final resting places. Windows bore criss-crossed tape applied so that glass would not fly too freely once the show began in earnest. Little trains chugged across the road, and a smell akin to cordite danced skittishly on the breeze.

  He stopped the car and watched a different world, one that was a mere seven miles from his home. Used to houses with garden gates, a stranger to organized and heavy industry, Tom was cushioned, and he knew it. And he suddenly understood Marie’s obsession with socks and bandages. While the contribution of one small arm of civil defence might seem paltry, it could be vital to a man who bled in a ditch, to another whose extremities were unbearably cold and wet. Little shoeboxes crammed with sweets, biscuits, cigarettes, socks, a scarf and a greeting would mean the world to an injured man in some damp and undermanned field hospital.

  He left the docks and drove a short distance inland. No longer wishing to see Eileen, he knocked at the door of number four. But Eileen opened it. He followed her into the kind of hell he had read about, though this was his first real sight of it. The need to stop breathing had to be overcome, though there was very little oxygen in the place. Eileen Watson looked like a diamond set in tin, though Mrs Maguire fitted her surroundings well enough. ‘I’m Dr Bingley,’ he said to the new widow. ‘My wife’s at a civil defence meeting, but she asked me to bring you this. We saw
the article in the paper.’ He handed over the five-pound note. ‘We know Mrs Watkins and her daughter, so . . .’ He ran out of words.

  Kitty Maguire’s hand shook as she accepted the note. ‘Me teeth,’ she said through tears. ‘God bless you, doc. I’ve never had hold of a fiver before. I can pay for me new teeth so I won’t show me kiddies up.’

  He didn’t know what to say, because mind and throat were suddenly dry.

  Eileen led him out. ‘She’s not herself,’ she said quietly. ‘All she goes on about is her teeth. Mushy Goldberg took out the bits that were left a few days back, and he’s making her a set of falsies. They’ll be ready in the morning, just before the funeral. We had a collection to pay for them, but she can use that for other essentials. I’m afraid she’s coming out with some odd things.’

  ‘Shock,’ he managed.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  They stood on the pavement. He fiddled with his trilby while she stared at her shoes. ‘It’s a bloody mad world,’ he said eventually. ‘And I think it’ll get worse before it gets better.’

  ‘No doubt. Thanks, anyway.’ She went back to Kitty.

  Tom drove home. He knew he couldn’t offer his services as fireman, warden or driver, because he was going to be essential. If a baby was coming, it wouldn’t hang on while he manned a phone in town. Perhaps he might be allowed to roll a few bandages. Perhaps he could learn to knit socks. Whatever he could or couldn’t do, he felt seriously inadequate.

  Fortunately, Kitty Maguire had managed by the skin of her few remaining teeth to keep up her insurance payments, so Charlie could have a decent enough send-off. He was in a closed coffin, as the Mersey had done its usual thorough job, but he came home and spent his last night in his own house, as was traditional in Catholic families. The final vigil had to be sat by men. Charlie’s widow went upstairs to bed while three male neighbours occupied the front room and drank Guinness in an effort to make the situation more bearable. This was a filthier than normal house, so alcohol was required to take the edge off things.

  They played cards, drank, dozed, played dominoes, dozed again. Even seasoned navigators of Scotland Road life were unused to conditions as bad as Kitty Maguire’s, and they slipped outside occasionally to clear their heads and noses of a stench that defied description. In the mix were dried urine, the droppings of rodents, decaying food and piled-up house dust, all topped by the musty aroma of damp mould. They felt sorry for poor Charlie, whose last night on the earth’s surface had to be spent in so malodorous a place. Yet they all knew that Kitty had tried her best until it all got on top of her, and that the man in the box had not done right by his family. He was a drunk, he was dead and, with the help of Miss Pickavance, Kitty and her three kids might get a fresh start.

  When morning came, the men stood by the coffin until Kitty put in an appearance. She shot through the shabby parlour like a bullet from a gun, her expression similar to one visiting the face of a child who expected a decent Christmas. ‘He’s opening up early,’ she told them. ‘Just for me.’ She had scarcely delivered this announcement before she left the house. Three bedraggled children appeared, all dirty, all hungry. One of the neighbours took them home for a slice of bread, a drop of milk and a wash, while another announced his intention to gather borrowed clothes for them.

  ‘They’ve got clothes,’ he was informed by his companion. ‘Miss Pickavance will bring them across in a bit.’

  Charlie couldn’t be left on his own. Even now, dead as a dodo, the poor beggar continued to be a nuisance. The remaining two men stood in the doorway to wait for Kitty to come home. When she finally returned, she had happy eyes, tidy hair and a mouthful of bright, white teeth. While she explained that Mrs Goldberg had done the hair, the two remaining keepers of Charlie’s final vigil stood open-mouthed on the pavement outside number four, their eyes riveted to her mouth. Her words seemed to struggle while being born, because they had to find their way past obstacles that were almost impassable. Her face was bigger, taller, different.

  ‘I’ve got teeth,’ she said proudly, though with difficulty.

  This might have provided a subject for debate had circumstances been different. Because Kitty didn’t have teeth; the teeth had Kitty.

  * * *

  So sorry about your neighbour, Eileen. It’s sad when a man loses his life at such a young age, and tragic for his family. Let’s hope they have a better time when they get to Willows Edge.

  Have you noticed how people talk about a ‘very nice funeral’??? I mean, what’s nice about shoving some poor devil in a box under damp earth with worms and moles and God alone knows what else? And afterwards, when you stand in a pub trying to eat a ham sandwich, you realize you can’t because the place stinks of men’s urinals, stale beer and tobacco smoke.

  Eileen shook her head and giggled out loud. He was describing the Throstle’s Nest to a T, and yes, people had talked about the nice funeral.

  I know it doesn’t seem right, but I have been laughing my head off about Kitty and the teeth. The date will be remarked upon not as the day on which Charlie was buried, but the occasion when the teeth moved in. How I pray your doctor friend will attend to Kitty’s mouth furniture, otherwise I won’t be able to look at her without chuckling when she gets here.

  Dr Tom Bingley had been very kind. Not only had he attended church, burial and funeral tea, he had also asked Kitty whether the teeth hurt. Kitty had admitted that talking was difficult, eating impossible, so the good man had invited her to visit a friend in Crosby who specialized in the adjustment of dentures. There would be no charge. Tom hadn’t brought flowers, so this small service would have to suffice in lieu.

  Eileen put down her letter and walked to the window. Some of Hilda’s parents’ bits and pieces were being taken by the local carter up to Willows. Hilda, Mam, Philip, Rob and Bertie would leave in a few days, while Eileen and Mel would be bound for Crosby. And he would be there, just round the corner.

  It had all seemed so innocent, that meeting in town. He had come to talk to her about the work his wife was doing, had taken her to a headquarters in Liverpool, had asked whether Eileen would consider doing the job, but here, on Scotland Road, just once or twice a week. And she had said yes, and he had kissed her. He was not for her. She’d been plagued by sexual desire for other men, had always managed to escape before indulging her weakness. But this man was powerfully attractive and . . . and she was a damned fool. He was not, not, not for her. Keith was nearer the mark, yet Tom Bingley was a magnet, and she was scrap iron. Difficult. It was the war, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time.

  For a few minutes, she was back in the car with him, her open mouth crushed against his, tongues meeting and playing, her body melting under the touch of clever hands. She needed . . . She wanted . . . His warm breath caressed her ear as he used words to praise her body, while his expertise brought her to a state of pleasure for which she had decided never again to search. It was wonderful and terrible, and she was now awakened once more. Had Laz lived, their family would have been huge. ‘He’s not for me,’ she repeated for the hundredth time. She thanked God – if God would listen to so pathetic an argument – that full intercourse had been an impossibility in a motor vehicle. Like many others, Eileen had caught the war disease. Make love while you can, for tomorrow . . .

  Then there was Mam. Mam had noticed the glow, had listened to moans in the night while her errant daughter had relived in dreams what had happened to her in the front seat of a doctor’s car. But it wasn’t love; it was sex, and that was different, a sin to be confessed to a priest, except that she couldn’t, because she was ashamed. She needed, wanted . . . Damn the bloody war!

  Nellie entered. ‘Daydreaming again? About that Keith one?’

  ‘No. Just watching Hilda’s stuff being taken. It’s getting real now.’

  Something was getting real, Nellie Kennedy mused, and it was nothing to do with a tallboy, a wardrobe and a clock with a brass pendulum. ‘Eileen?’

 
; ‘What?’

  ‘Is it that doctor?’

  After a brief pause, the reply was delivered. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Blood and rabbit innards, he’s a married man. His daughter’s our Mel’s best friend. Have you . . . you know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you will?’ So many hurried weddings and unwanted pregnancies. ‘Don’t let Hitler push you into something you’ll regret.’

  Eileen bit her lip. ‘I thought I’d be all right. I mean, this isn’t the first time I’ve been tempted, because it’s only human nature, isn’t it? Then I thought some kind of love might happen with Keith, because he’s lovely. But Tom . . . He brings out my best and my worst, Mam.’ She turned and faced her mother. ‘How many people can talk like this to their mams, eh? And who will I turn to when you’ve gone? I mean, he’ll be living yards away from me. His wife’s . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Living in a different part of the house. Sleeping on her own, I mean. And I don’t want to repeat what happened in that car. He’s like some kind of master of the art, and he bloody well adores me.’

  ‘You’re pretty. You’re like one of them Stradiwotsit violins, and he’s a good fiddler, knows how to get the best tune out of you. Listen, girl. You know damned well Lazzer only had to look at you and you fell pregnant. How will you explain a big belly to your daughter, eh? So he’d better be careful what he does with his bow, or he can fiddle off. I’ll kill him.’