Back at Home Farm, Elsie and Neil were trying to rub some life into the patient’s chilled limbs. Stella and Patty warmed blankets and quilts at the fire, and Elsie piled items on top of Jay until he was almost buried beneath layers of various fabrics. Metal shelves from the oven were wrapped in towels and placed underneath the bundle Jay had become. ‘Faint pulses in both feet,’ announced Elsie. ‘Thank goodness for that.’
‘Why?’ Neil stared at her quizzically before returning to his task.
‘They lose limbs. Diabetics, I mean. He’s lucky, because even at this temperature the blood’s getting through. But he’s still blinking cold, Neil. And I daren’t give him any sugar in case it chokes him. Oh, I wish they’d hurry up with that ambulance. I know we’re a few miles out, but this fellow needs help now. I mean, what more can we do for him?’
‘Is it possible to warm him up too quickly?’ Neil asked. ‘Can we do any damage this way?’
‘I don’t know.’
That was a change, thought Neil. Usually, Elsie knew everything. He went to change his own damp clothes.
Miss Pickavance arrived with Jean. ‘I’ve made a bottle of hot sugar water,’ the older woman said. ‘Just to wet his lips. If any of it does get into his mouth, it will do no harm as long as we don’t overdo it and choke him.’ She knelt on the floor and, with the tip of a finger, began to moisten his lips. He stank of pear drops, and that meant too much insulin, not enough food. ‘Come on, Jay,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t let us down. In a few weeks, you’ll be ratting with Mrs Hourigan’s Jack Russells. Remember? Everyone calls them ’ourigan’s ’orribles? We can’t have the rat-kill without you. The barns will need clearing, and we’ve fencing to mend. We can’t have anything without you to keep us all smiling. You have to get through this, my friend.’
‘She’s upset,’ mouthed Elsie to Jean. ‘Thinks the world of him.’
Neil returned, still pulling a dry jersey over his head. Miss Pickavance was especially fond of Jay, because he never failed to amuse her. And she always calmed him down and made him talk about sensible things like lead for flashings, painting everything green in line with War Office orders, the best wood for replacement fencing. He was almost the son she’d never had.
‘Does Gill know?’ the lady of the manor asked.
‘No,’ Neil replied.
‘She’s not with us,’ opined Elsie. ‘She’s gone AWOL in her head. Well, it needs saying, Neil. No point pussyfooting about. She can’t look after herself at the moment, Miss P. And she loses patience with all his clowning. I came here to ask if I could borrow that Land Army girl, the one who hasn’t took to the job in the fields. I thought she might be put to better use helping with the baby and seeing that Jay eats properly.’
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ said Hilda Pickavance. ‘From what I’ve heard, the girl’s no use where she is. However, back to the point. Jay’s wife needs to be told.’
Nobody moved. Then Neil spoke up. ‘She won’t go with him in the ambulance because she refuses to leave the baby with anyone. And she’ll not take her to the hospital; she thinks Maisie’ll catch something. We’ll tell her. After he’s gone to the hospital. To be honest, I don’t think she’ll notice he’s gone; she’s been shutting him out of her mind for months.’
‘He drives her mad,’ Elsie commented. ‘That’s the top and bottom of it. She got sensible and he stayed daft.’
‘That’s as may be,’ Neil replied. ‘Me and my Jeanie have got on one another’s nerves for many a year, but we don’t turn our backs on each other. Gill’s not well herself. She’s been like a cat on hot bricks ever since that baby was born. I just feel that news like this could tip her further over the edge. She doesn’t say much, so we’ve no idea what’s going on in her head.’
Elsie voiced her agreement that Gill wouldn’t notice Jay’s absence. ‘He’s got to have warmed up a bit by now. Give him another drop of that sugar water, Miss Pickavance. Get us your balaclava, Neil. Even his head’s cold.’
The ambulance people arrived and started all over again with Jay. By the time they had finished with him, he resembled a clean version of something that had been pulled from a pyramid and lifted out of a fancy coffin. ‘Will he be all right?’ Hilda Pickavance asked repeatedly. The men and their nurse assured her that Jay would receive the best treatment available, and invited her to accompany her son to the infirmary.
‘He’s not my son,’ she replied, regret colouring her tone. ‘And I have an evacuee at home, so I must go. I have to fetch him from the vet’s, where he’s been helping out.’
‘Right-o.’ They lifted the patient and his stretcher towards the door.
‘I’ll go with him,’ sighed Neil resignedly. ‘I don’t know how or when I’ll get back, but I’ll try to phone you, Miss Pickavance. Jean, you or Elsie can go over to the gatehouse and tell Gill. She has to be informed. God knows what she might do if he just went missing.’
The door closed behind the patient, his companions and Hilda, who was on her way to pick up Bertie from the vet’s surgery.
Elsie and Jean looked at each other. ‘We get some great jobs,’ Elsie said. ‘We’ll both go. That way, we can share the blame and the grief. And I might stay the night with her. I put a note on my door earlier, but Miss P has Nellie’s key if anyone needs anything. Nellie’s not back, is she? God knows how she’ll carry on over there. People say Liverpool’s took a few batterings.’
‘I don’t know. It’s as if the whole world’s falling to bits, Elsie.’
Once again, they donned their outer clothing before stepping into the unforgiving frost of late December. In three days, it would be Christmas Eve. And poor Jay Collins might not wake to enjoy it.
Tom Bingley knocked gingerly on the back door of Miss Morrison’s house. Having been dismissed by the owner and given a black eye by her latest visitor, he was not expecting the warmest of welcomes, though Nellie Kennedy seemed to understand him better now. Nor was he in a good mood. The proposed encounter promised not to be too happy, because his boy was missing, and he knew who had led him astray. At four o’clock on the afternoon of 21 December 1940 it was already dark. The sirens had sounded, so the Germans were probably planning an early visit, and, although Liverpool was seven miles south, planes could be heard and fires were visible in the distance. Eileen opened the door. ‘Tom? Where is she?’
‘My question exactly,’ was his reply. ‘And where’s my son? Legend led us to believe that he was playing chess with a boy from school, but the boy from school is visiting grandparents with his mother. We checked.’ Peter was a decent boy, and this piece of gross dishonesty would be the fault of Eileen Watson’s daughter. She had her mother’s looks and her mother’s wiles; she could probably ruin his son’s life before it had even started. ‘This is not at all like Peter. We have had no behavioural problems with him until very recently.’
‘Oh.’ She widened the door. ‘Come in. My husband’s just making a pot of tea.’ She must not appear worried. She must not allow herself to think the worst of her daughter. ‘Peter isn’t here,’ she said. ‘We’ve not seen him today.’
‘And your daughter?’
Eileen swallowed. The situation could not be concealed, especially now. It was dark, and the Luftwaffe was getting frisky. ‘We thought she was with Gloria. She said something about wrapping gifts and swapping clothes.’ The enemy didn’t usually arrive two nights in a row. ‘Germany isn’t playing fair,’ she said in a weak attempt to lighten the atmosphere. ‘No warning, not even a postcard.’
He frowned. The woman was prettier than ever. Pregnancy clearly suited her. ‘She is not with Gloria. Marie is almost out of her mind. It was bad enough when the bombs fell here and the wardens wouldn’t let us come round the corner to see if our twins had survived. But this is worse, because neither you nor I know where our children are. One thing is certain: they are together.’
‘Sit down, Tom,’ said Keith. ‘Eileen, tell him what you know.’
Eileen perched on t
he edge of a ladder-back chair. ‘They’re fourteen going on forty,’ she said. ‘Mel has a key to Miss Pickavance’s house in Rachel Street. She goes down from time to time in daylight, and she writes and tells Miss Pickavance what she sees. Oh, and she keeps the house as clean as she can. It was a promise.’ Her voice died. ‘Dear God,’ she whispered as a thud reached her ears. Often, the wind blew the sound of falling bombs all the way up the coast. ‘I thought I heard a couple earlier on, but that one was a definite.’
‘My son may die because of your daughter.’
‘I could say the same in reverse,’ she said.
‘Oh, stop this.’ Keith slammed the teapot onto its stand. ‘We all know what happened. You fell for Eileen and went a bit crazy; now history seems to be repeating itself in the young ones. You know the strength of such feelings, and you must realize, as a doctor, that young people fall in love at the drop of a hairpin, never mind a hat.’
Tom glared at the man who had once been a rival. His glance roved across to Eileen, and he nodded knowingly. ‘You and your daughter cast spells without knowing what you are doing.’ Eileen was lovely, but she was not a gentlewoman; Marie was infinitely superior to this divine, delectable creature. ‘Your daughter is the one with the key to that house. If they are in Rachel Street, there can be no doubt that she has told Peter about the key. Any sexual activity will have been at her instigation.’
Before Keith could react, Eileen had jumped up and raked her nails down Dr Tom Bingley’s cheek. She remembered. Even if it ends, it will never be over. She hated him. ‘You monster!’ she screamed. ‘I’ll kill you, I will, I will. Mel’s a good girl, too sensible to ruin her future for your precious little mother’s boy of a son. As for him, he’s far too effeminate to be of interest to my daughter. Put him in a frock, and you’d have twin girls.’
Keith lifted his wife and placed her none too gently on the draining board among pans and various utensils. ‘Stay,’ he snapped in the manner of one addressing a dog in training.
She stayed.
Keith mopped at his wife’s handiwork with cotton wool and diluted Dettol. ‘You’ll live,’ he pronounced. ‘Sorry. She gets a bit worked up, I’m afraid, especially when she’s worried.’
Nellie entered the arena. ‘Who did that to him? They’re bombing Liverpool – can you hear it? Where’s our Mel? Are the blackouts all up? Our Phil’s drawing a picture of our Rob. He says it’s the first time Rob’s sat still for five minutes. What’s the matter? Have I missed something? Were you shouting, Eileen? Why are you sitting on the sink? Did you scratch him?’
‘Shut up,’ called Eileen and Keith in unison.
But Nellie wasn’t as easy as her daughter. Keith was running out of draining boards on which he might park his difficult women, and he was busy disinfecting the victim of one of them, so he allowed Nellie the floor. ‘Sorry,’ he said to the doctor. ‘They aren’t easy to handle, but they’re worth the bother. In fact, they can be quite entertaining occasionally.’ Nellie was ranting at Eileen, thereby allowing Keith a private moment with Tom. ‘We’ll go to Liverpool,’ he said quietly. ‘You and me. But first, these two Amazons have to be safe.’ He put away the first aid box.
‘I was down there last night, Keith. It’s a bloody nightmare.’
Keith turned to his pair of malcontents. ‘Right. Under the table; I’m putting the cage on.’
‘I’m not going in no cage,’ Nellie announced.
Eileen hopped down from her perch and ordered her mother to do as she was told. When both women were safe, Keith fetched Phil and Rob from upstairs; they were to spend the evening, and possibly the night, in the back garden Anderson shelter. ‘No messing,’ he told them. ‘Remember, you’re bound over and you could go to that place in Derbyshire if you don’t shape. In fact, I’ll drive you there myself if necessary. With a whip.’
Outside at last, the two men breathed a sigh of relief, though it didn’t last long, because Eileen shot out of the door.
‘I’ll padlock that cage,’ Keith threatened.
‘Don’t get killed,’ she begged, her voice trembling with fear.
‘I won’t.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Get back in there. I love you so much, I’ll crawl home whatever happens. Go on. I’ve a daughter to find, and he has a son to crucify.’ He kissed her. An embarrassed Tom Bingley climbed into his car. The kiss was like something choreographed by an over-enthusiastic Hollywood director. It was lengthy and passionate. But Tom wasn’t jealous. He had a wife in full working order, and Keith was welcome to his lively little bride. Wasn’t he? ‘Is it always like that?’ he asked when Keith was sitting beside him.
‘No,’ Keith answered. ‘Sometimes it’s as boring as the next house. And sometimes Eileen’s in a bad mood. That wasn’t a bad mood; it was the orchestra tuning up. And when Nellie’s in a temper, I live in the shed. As for Eileen, she’s perfect for me. I was a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor who needed livening up a bit. She’s given me plenty to live for, and I’m going to be a dad. What more could a man want?’
Tom began the journey down Liverpool Road. Anyone with a vehicle and sense would have been driving in the opposite direction, but the need to find offspring had blurred the edges of reason. ‘Into the valley of death,’ he said wryly. ‘And if they’re not in that house, they’ll be the proverbial needle and the haystack might well be burning.’
They had eventually decided on law. Anyone overhearing their discussions would think they were listening to eighteen-year-olds. Peter Bingley wanted to become a barrister, and he would ‘prat about in a daft wig and a teacher’s gown’, according to the girl who, in ten years, would be Mel Bingley. She was more interested in the coalface, in people and in the preparation of briefs, but both she and Peter were attracted to criminal law rather than the pedantic and predictable side of legal work. The knowledge that she would do the real job while he ‘pratted’ about was a great source of amusement for both. ‘You do the acting, and I’ll write your scripts,’ she reminded him on a regular basis. ‘I’ll be the brains, and you can be the muscle.’
A small fire flickered in Miss Pickavance’s grate. On the hearthrug, two beautiful children lay, clothes piled on nearby chairs, bodies calmer and appeased after their carefully constructed games. The decision not to indulge in the full act had been taken, and each had pledged to steer clear of such dangerous behaviour until they were much older. Every cell might scream for fulfilment, but such noises would not be heeded, because the future mattered. But Peter was suddenly quiet. He valued Mel, admired her. But . . . But what? He was confused. I love her, I do, I do—
A siren sounded. This was a din they dared not ignore. Like a perfectly oiled machine, they responded immediately, clothes first, then a pre-planned pattern of behaviour. Peter doused the fire with water while Mel removed evidence of their feast: greaseproof paper, a pop bottle and a few slices of mousetrap cheese. ‘Cheddar?’ she said to herself. ‘More like soap.’
‘I think we made a mistake.’ Peter straightened the rug. ‘It was rash to think the Germans would take the night off. They seem to be becoming obsessed with the idea of wiping Liverpool off the face of the earth.’
Both stood still in the middle of the room. It was nowhere near four o’clock, and the first wave was already on its way; a dull drone was just about audible above the sound of running feet. People were clearly rushing towards shelters.
‘We’ll be all right,’ Mel said reassuringly. ‘You know we’ll be fine.’ With the certainty possessed by all young animals, Mel and Peter remained firm in the knowledge that they could not die. Other people would lose their lives, but the youthful, the beautiful and the gifted were untouchable. And they’d already had their bomb in Miss Morrison’s house.
Shielded by love and faith, they walked round the outside of the house, opened the rear gate and took their bikes from the yard. Incendiaries floated gracefully through the evening air, landing almost soundlessly on roofs. By some strange, almost osmoti
c process, these quiet killers disappeared under slates to start deadly fires. The only hope for anyone in a fire-bombed house lay with fire-watchers, ordinary folk who worked during the day and patrolled a sector at night. Flares and firebombs were useful tools for the Luftwaffe, because they turned night to day and made the destruction of Liverpool much easier.
‘We won’t make it back to Crosby,’ Peter said as they crossed the main road. ‘Let’s find a shelter. If we follow all those people, they’ll lead us to safety.’
‘No, I have to get home. Mam will be worried sick, and she’ll kill me.’
‘Mel, if we don’t take shelter—’
And it happened. The house in which they had so recently lain was sliced off the end of the terrace. Peter threw his companion against a wall and covered her body with his. The noise was deafening. Some instinct informed him that the recessed porch of a shop doorway was nearby, so he edged his way to the right inch by inch, Mel clasped tightly against him. Debris landed on him, and he felt a series of sharp pains in his back. The air was thick and hot. His throat almost screamed for water.
‘Don’t touch my back,’ he whispered loudly into her ear. ‘I have glass in it. Pretty large pieces, I think. So we must stay calm, then I shall bleed more slowly. Well, I think so, anyway. Please don’t worry. And we mustn’t pull the glass out. My dad would tell us not to pull the glass out.’
Reality crashed into Mel’s brain. They weren’t magic. No angel protected them just because they were young and beautiful and clever. Like everyone else, they were flesh, blood and bone; they were vulnerable. ‘Peter, don’t die. Cambridge. Chambers at one of the Inns, me nearby in the city robbing the rich so I can buy their innocence. Professional liars, you and I are going to be.’ She didn’t know what to do. The bomb that had taken Miss Pickavance’s house had been followed by others, and the very building in which she and Peter sheltered could be the next victim. ‘Peter?’
That Liverpool Girl Page 26