That Liverpool Girl

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I do,’ Elsie announced. ‘She’s a good two months gone.’ She sidled up to Gill. ‘Just let me put a hand on your belly, love.’

  Gill marched across the room and flung herself in a supine position on the sofa. Jay was in a bad mood? Murder sat in her heart while the local blabbermouth prodded her abdomen. ‘Well?’

  ‘There’s a babby in yon,’ announced Elsie. ‘Collie?’

  The vet joined the unqualified midwife. He placed both hands on Gill’s belly and the smile on his face was answer enough. After listening to the sounds of her innards through an instrument usually employed on pigs and cows, he spoke to Gill. ‘You’ll farrow in about seven months, perhaps six,’ he announced. ‘And yes, Stephenson should retire—’

  Everything stopped when Keith entered just in time to catch the suddenly legless body of a father-to-be.

  Gill sat up. ‘See? See what I mean now, Keith? Bloody fighter pilot? He goes into shock because his wife’s expecting, so how will he manage with half of Germany up his back end?’ She stood up. ‘Put him on here, Keith. Elsie, get brewing tea, will you? Collie, toast some bread. He’s always hungry when he comes round after one of these carryings-on.’

  The vet stood over Jay. ‘How often does this happen, Gill? Every day, once a week, or what?’

  Jay’s wife pondered for a moment. ‘It happens, then it stops. He has phases. He can’t drink much beer or he goes peculiar, sort of white and shaky, and faints now and again. No pattern to it, except it’s tied up with food and ale. He passed out on our wedding day, showed me up good and proper, and he sometimes loses what I call his thinking-in-a-straight-line if he hasn’t eaten enough.’

  ‘Does he drink a lot of non-alcoholic stuff?’

  Gill nodded vigorously. ‘Water, tea and pop by the gallon. Why?’

  Collie reminded everyone that he was not a doctor. ‘But I’m taking him to Bolton Royal tomorrow whether he likes it or not.’ Recent research had discovered that diabetes came in at least two types, and Jay, who was relatively young and on the thin side, seemed to be suffering from type one. Either his body was producing insufficient insulin, or his system was failing to make use of it. ‘He needs looking at.’ And if Collie should be proved right, Jay would not be serving his country in any conventional way.

  The eyes opened. ‘What happened?’ Jay asked.

  Elsie arrived with tea. ‘Drink this when you sit up,’ she ordered. ‘I’ve put sugar in it. Sometimes they need sugar. His breath smells like pear drops. Oh, yes. I’ve seen it all before.’

  ‘Be quiet, Elsie,’ Collie urged.

  ‘What?’ Gill’s antennae were on red alert.

  Elsie ignored the vet and motored on, in her element now. ‘Could be suffering from the sugar diabetics,’ the queen bee pronounced. ‘It means injections and a special diet and a review at the hospital from time to time. This’ll be why you think he sometimes doesn’t make a lot of sense. They go funny and they smell of pear drops. So it’s not his fault, the way he carries on, love. If it’s diabetes, they do act a bit daft from time to time, and they can’t drink beer.’

  Gill swallowed hard. ‘Will he die?’ she asked.

  ‘We all will,’ was Elsie’s smart reply. ‘But there’s a farmer over Harwood way who’s the same road out, and he copes. It just depends. The food you eat has to balance with the insulin you put into your body. It can be a bit hit and miss at times, but he’ll get there, love. See, there’s a fair whack more to it than the food you put in, because if you work harder than you did yesterday, you’ll burn more off. They always have to carry sugar or sweets or a biscuit. He . . . er . . . he won’t be a fighter pilot, Gill. But I reckon he’ll make a good dad. You’ll have to keep an eye on him, though.’

  Jay, who had eaten a bit of toast, decided it was time to speak up. They were all talking as if he wasn’t here, and . . . Yes, sometimes he was here but not here. There was definitely something up, and it needed sorting.

  Gill burst into tears, though she laughed through the fear. ‘Look at the cut of him,’ she sobbed. ‘He even steals my big moment when I find out I’m going to be a mam. Elsie, Collie, I’d like you two here at the birth. Not for me, I can manage, I’m sure. But you’ll have to hang about and catch this bugger when he keels over.’ She knelt on the floor and hugged her husband. ‘A baby, Jay. We’ve done it.’

  Jay, whose blood was now better balanced, realized that his head was no longer full of Spitfires and Lancasters. There were times when he got fixated and angry, and there were occasions when he forgot the simplest things: a word, a name, a task that ought to have been automatic. ‘I don’t think I should drink black beer,’ he told Gill. ‘It turns me into a fighter pilot.’

  She kissed his cheek. ‘We’ll get you right, lad. Me, Collie, Keith and Elsie, we’ll see if somebody can find a spare brain for you.’

  Jay blinked. ‘What’s wrong with me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she answered. ‘You’re just mad, that’s all. Join the club.’

  Keith was by himself, because his usual assistant, one Jay Collins of Willows Gate House, Willows, Near Bolton, had gone to hospital with his wife, the vet and a collie dog. The dog would be left in the car, but Jay and Gill would be examined, one for diabetes, the other for pregnancy. Collie had expressed to Keith the private opinion that Jay would be kept in so that his condition could be monitored. ‘He’s probably got more sugar in him than you’d find in a pound of dolly mixtures,’ the vet had said. ‘And when it burns off, he turns into a rag doll. But don’t sack him, please. We have to look out for each other.’

  Keith had no intention of sacking anyone, because Willows folk looked after Willows folk; it was their eleventh commandment. At least he knew now why Jay sometimes lost the plot. Furthermore, the lad shouldn’t be driving the car until he got straightened out, because what Collie termed a hypo could become the cause of death for several people. So Keith had to take over the chauffeuring job as well. He hoped Gill would be all right. She’d waited years to get pregnant, and she needed an easy time.

  There were four bedrooms in the big house, all a decent size. Neil’s wife was coming in later, as she had washed bedlinen and towels, but Keith was in charge of furniture. Miss Pickavance, a very thorough type, had sent a rough drawing of the upstairs, so he knew how to allocate each room. The two slightly smaller ones were for herself and Mrs Kennedy, mother of Eileen, grandmother to the three boys. The lads were to occupy the largest front bedroom, while the second biggest was for Eileen and her daughter, who would visit whenever possible.

  The beds were built, thank goodness. He and Jay had put them together yesterday, so today was mattresses, sheets and blankets. Wardrobes, dressing tables and drawers were all clean and in place, and a fire would be lit in every room, since the house, long neglected, had not been aired in years. Roofers had begun work on cottages and farms, as the new owner wanted every tenant to be warm and dry this winter. For too long, the estate had been an orchestra with no conductor, but she would tune them up and give out the sheet music. Whatever she undertook, she would throw herself in and do her level best, and Keith had known that after sitting with her for no more than a few minutes.

  Apart from the war, life was looking up. But there was one other niggling worry: the timbre of Eileen’s letters had changed slightly. It was almost as if she had placed a sheet of frosted glass over the messages, creating a small distance between herself and him. She wrote a great deal about Crosby and Blundellsands, about the old woman with whom she and Mel would be lodging, and about a family named Bingley. The husband was a doctor, the wife a homely type who ran the local WVS, and both children were pupils at Merchants. Eileen, too, was going to help occasionally with a different arm of the Women’s Voluntary Service, because Tom had introduced her to some committee or other in town. Tom. The name seemed to jump out from the page every time he looked at it. She mentioned him so casually; too casually.

  He sat on the bed that would be Eileen and Mel’s. She would sleep here,
breathe here, dream here. Would she dream about Tom with the homely wife, the qualifications, the good job? Was she about to offer herself to a married man? If Keith could feel a pang of jealousy at the thought that these windows might have the privilege of misting over with the exhalations from a mouth he needed to kiss, hating Tom Bingley was going to be a very easy task. He was being silly, and he knew it. Eileen Watson was a virtual stranger, yet he was allowing himself to become tangled up in thoughts of her that would probably take him nowhere.

  Jean Dyson arrived. She stood in the doorway, hands on hips, mouth set in a grim line. ‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘And why was my Neil left out of it? He sat in that pub waiting for someone to tell him what the hell was going on, but he never found out, did he?’

  Keith rose to his feet. ‘It was Jay’s show, not mine. I wasn’t doing the choreography. Collie Crawford and Elsie Openshaw confirmed that Gill is pregnant, then Elsie decided that Jay has diabetes. So they’re all at the infirmary, dog included, which leaves just you and me to get this place ready. And now you know as much as I do.’

  It was Jean’s turn to sit down, though she used the dressing table stool. ‘Bloody hell. No aeroplanes for him, then.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can he work?’

  ‘Probably. Whatever happens, I think Miss Pickavance will look after him. She’s not the type to penalize somebody for getting ill. She’s too decent for that.’

  ‘I hope so. For long enough, it’s been me and Neil at Home Farm, Jay and Gill at the gatehouse, you down on the Edge. Gill’s supposed to be housekeeper when the house is up and running, but can she do it with a passenger? She wasn’t supposed to be able to have kids.’

  Keith shrugged. With Jean and Neil, with Gill and Jay, there was no holding back, none of the social awkwardness that often existed between the sexes. Pregnancy and other delicate matters didn’t belong in the public domain but, between friends, all was fair. ‘She could carry well, Jean. Conception was the problem, but she might not have a bad time while she carries. There’s no way of knowing, is there?’

  Jean studied her companion for a few moments. ‘I’m amazed you never got wed. You’ve a lovely nature, Keith Greenhalgh, and I reckon some poor girl’s missed out on a happy life.’

  ‘Set in my ways. A bit of a bore most of the time. I have my breakfast, work, get a snack, do my crossword, work, light a fire, have my tea and read the rest of the paper. Floors get swept twice a week, and I flick a duster round on Sundays, wash the kitchen floor, get—’

  ‘Give over. You left one thing out.’

  ‘What?’

  She smiled. ‘You read your letters from that young woman me and Neil never saw, the one who came with Miss Pickavance.’

  Keith laughed. ‘Just a friend who likes writing. I enjoy writing letters, too.’ He swallowed. ‘In fact, I think she might have met someone in Liverpool, so you can cross that name off the non-existent list.’

  ‘Aw. I am sorry, lad.’

  He was sorry, too, but he mustn’t let it show. He had to check on the kitchen, the woodshed, the coal. There were brass and silver to be polished, crockery to be rinsed of dust, furniture to be rescued from the imprisonment of protective coverings. Normally, he would be working in a supervisory capacity only, but with Jay and Gill at the hospital, he and the home farmer’s wife had been forced to step into their roles. They made up all the beds, and Keith laid a fire in each room. ‘Right,’ he told his companion. ‘And that, as they say, is that. Time for a break, love.’

  When they sat down in the kitchen for a well-deserved cup of tea, Jean asked Keith whether he would be taking an evacuee. ‘I might,’ he said. ‘If there’s one on his own. But the three lads up here are going to need a firm hand from what I’ve heard. If any of them starts bother, I’ll move him in with me. Are you getting one?’

  ‘A girl,’ she said. ‘With already having the two girls, we’re more used to females.’ She stood up. ‘Right, I’ve a meal to do. Will you be eating with us tonight? You’ll be very welcome.’

  He shook his head. ‘Thanks, but no. I’ve a few things to do.’

  Alone once more, he allowed a long, sad sigh to surface. Thoughts of Eileen had been keeping him going. He couldn’t return to Cora Appleyard for sustenance or relief, because he was fixated. Again. And there was no one with whom he might share his thoughts and fears, since most would see his weakness rather than the strength of his feelings. Should he stop writing to her? Was a clean break less painful than an extended goodbye? And anyway, this foolishness could be part of an overactive imagination. Eileen and Tom might be no more than friends . . .

  He went out to talk to the horses. His favourites, the large cart-pullers, were out in the field acting daft. A carthorse at play was a magnificent sight, owning the same silliness as an untrained polo pony but carrying about his person the weight of a small steam engine. The sight of four feathered feet waving in the air while an equine giant rolled in the grass was one to be treasured.

  Keith whistled, and they stopped their foolishness to follow him into the yard. Behind them trotted a little palomino. Keith had plans for Pedro. The youngest of Eileen’s boys liked horses, and he would be taught to ride. There was still a chance. If he could tame her sons, he might just get her to look at him again. And life at Willows needed to be as easy as possible for Miss Pickavance, so the management of those children was of prime importance.

  He settled the horses and returned to the house, surprised when he found Gill sorting out cupboards and crockery. ‘How did it go?’ he asked. ‘Has Collie gone home?’ He had not expected to see her, but she told him that the ward sister had ordered her home, as Jay needed to settle. ‘I have to take pyjamas and stuff tomorrow, because he’ll need them.’

  ‘And Collie brought you back?’

  ‘Yes, he’s gone. He’s a couple of cows need attention over at Pear Tree. And I’m pregnant, and Jay’s having blood tests, but they’re ninety per cent sure it’s diabetes. So that’s his dream of being a pilot finished. He can fly a kite, but that’s about it.’

  ‘And you’re upset, but you’re hiding it.’

  She nodded and carried on wiping saucers. ‘I’m not upset about having a baby, because it’s what I’ve always wanted. It’s Jay. They gave me a booklet, and on one page it warns about heart attacks and blindness while further on it tells a diabetic to carry on as normal. So it’s not just Stephenson that’s mad; it looks like the whole medical profession could do with a fortnight in Blackpool for rest and recuperation.’

  ‘They’ll be keeping Jay in for a while, then?’

  ‘Yes. They have to get his food points to balance with his insulin, then try to calculate how much work he does in a day, multiply the points, adjust the insulin accordingly, then go back to the number they first thought of. It’s like some warped game. They’ve no idea what they’re doing, and I’ll have to pick up the pieces when their guesswork goes wrong. I’ll be following him around all day.’

  ‘I’ll help. You know I’ll do anything I can, Gill. So will Neil and Jean. Do you want to sleep at Home Farm tonight? I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘No, no. I’m all right.’ She wasn’t. She didn’t want to sleep at Jean’s house, but she wasn’t all right. There was the worry about Jay, for a start. Bolton Royal Infirmary seemed not to know whether to starve him or feed him, and she was afraid in case the little one in her belly might never see its dad. But there was a bigger anxiety, and he was standing very near to her. Gill had no idea how or when it had happened, but she seemed to have grown rather too fond of the land agent. She hadn’t fallen in love, because that was a sudden thing; she had slid into it smoothly and easily. Trying to climb out was no use; it was like struggling in quicksand, as she seemed to sink further whenever she attempted to free herself.

  ‘What is it, Gill?’

  ‘Tiredness,’ she answered.

  ‘Then go home and rest. I can finish off here.’

  She walked towards
the door, stopped and turned. ‘Why did you never marry, Keith?’

  He raised his shoulders. Everyone kept asking him the same question. ‘No one would have me? Oh, I love too well, Gill. There was a girl, and she died. Her ghost stayed with me for a very long time, and I’m no spring chicken now. But there’s a lot to be said for living alone. I please myself and only myself. I can get away without shaving at weekends, and no one nags me.’

  ‘Do I nag Jay?’

  ‘Yes, of course you do. And Jean nags Neil, because that’s the way it works. Women nag, and men ignore them.’

  She loved Jay. She did, she did. This Keith Greenhalgh business was a flash in the pan, no more than that. It was a bit like when she was at school, and Jimmy Schofield held her hand during long multiplication. At the age of twelve, she’d had her wedding planned; she and Jimmy would marry, get a farm and have four children. It was all connected to hormones, and her hormones belonged to the man she’d married. She had to make herself fall in love with Jay all over again.

  ‘Gill?’

  ‘It’s all right, Keith. I just got a bit fed up with Jay the super-pilot. Not easy living with someone who doesn’t know whether he’s coming, going, or falling on the floor like a sack of logs. I love him, I’m sure, but it’s been hard wondering which one of him would be coming home.’ She paused. ‘The being in love doesn’t last, does it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I expect it lasted for me because I turned her into an angel. The dead are always perfect, but we aren’t. You’ve a lot to face up to. There’s a baby coming, and your man’s ill. Don’t stop loving him because he’s less than perfect. Now’s the time for a deep friendship to be formed. When you locked him out that night and he came to me, he was a sick man. We didn’t know that. We thought he was a natural clown who couldn’t hold his drink. He’s your husband, Gill. In sickness and in health, remember?’

  She smiled. There were many kinds of love. Red hot desire usually burned itself out, and unless replaced by something more substantial it disappeared like steam pouring upwards into the atmosphere. Romantic love that depended on poetry and posturing was not to be trusted, either. Love needed to come from the mind as well as from the soul. Real love was loyalty, laughter, and conversations in which minds met even though they didn’t necessarily agree.