That Liverpool Girl

by Ruth Hamilton

  Mel folded her arms and stared hard at the head of her family. ‘No we won’t. She’ll carry on complaining about this that these and those, but she won’t lose her baby.’ Mel’s mother had her share of faults, but she believed implicitly in the rights of the unborn.

  Nellie had forgotten to mention the other bit of the tale. ‘It’s babies, not baby. She’s having a couple of them. Whether it’s a matching pair or two separates, we don’t know. She never had a minute’s trouble carrying or birthing the four of you, so this must be on account of its being twins.’ She didn’t mention Dr Tom Bingley and his part in today’s drama, though Keith had furnished her with the facts during the journey from Willows.

  Mel groaned. ‘It could be two more boys, Gran. Doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  ‘Yes, but we want them alive whatever they are. Keith’s a lovely, special man, Mel. She loves the bones of him. If I’d picked him for her myself, I couldn’t be better pleased. They’re his children, Mel. In his forties and expecting twins, he’ll be setting a lot of store by this pregnancy.’

  Mel pondered for a few seconds. Gran was right, because Mam was happier than she’d been in years. It was as if she suddenly had all she wanted. Keith was a wonderful man, and these twins were his first hope of true fatherhood. ‘Is Miss Morrison’s davenport still in there with Mam?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Right. I’ll do my homework at the davenport, and that’ll give you both a break. If she puts an eyelid wrong, I’ll clout her with the big frying pan.’

  ‘And that’ll show her how much you love her, eh?’

  They were both laughing when the doorbell sounded. Nellie admitted a short man with a Victorian moustache, a large doctor’s bag and wire-rimmed spectacles. He introduced himself as Mr Barr, specialist attached to Mrs Greenhalgh. ‘We’re all attached to her,’ was Nellie’s reply. ‘You’ll find her very lovable, but without much patience when it comes to lying there and doing nothing. She’s behind that second door along.’

  He disappeared for the better part of half an hour. While he, Eileen and Keith were closeted in Miss Morrison’s reassembled downstairs bedroom, Mel and Nellie started the task of turning five ounces of minced meat into a cottage pie for four plus dog. This involved many potatoes, a bit of leftover cabbage and a pinch of imagination. ‘It’ll have a bubble and squeak roof, this cottage,’ Mel said.

  ‘Shut up and keep peeling. There’s folk in London, Liverpool and all over the place who’ll never eat cottage pie again, because they’re dead.’ Nellie paused. ‘That feller’s a long time in there, isn’t he?’

  Mel said nothing; she’d been ordered to shut up and peel.

  They heard the front door opening and closing before Keith joined them. Both fixed their eyes on him, and he was smiling, a very waggy-tailed Spoodle in his arms.

  ‘Well?’ Mel breathed.

  Keith placed the dog on the floor and crossed his fingers as he joined them at the table. ‘According to that chap, who seems to know his job, she’s not in too bad a state. He’s seen it all before. It’s not uncommon for women to lose that oper-whatever plug thing days or even weeks before the kick-off, but with this being twins Eileen will have to stay in bed. The flat on her back business is a precaution for now, though she should be able to sit up for a few hours soon. We’ve got all his phone numbers, and he will deliver the babies himself. Because they’re . . . what did he say? Disparate, I think. One’s big and one’s small, so he insists on a section in about ten weeks.’

  ‘Did he mean desperate?’

  ‘No, Nellie. He meant their sizes don’t match. He says they’re not identical as far as he can tell, and he’s usually right. He didn’t want to poke around too much, but he thinks the neck of her womb’s tight enough for now.’

  ‘But she mustn’t walk?’

  ‘That’s right. She’s still calling herself bedpan Bertha.’

  Mel dashed to her mother’s side, or almost-side, as she stayed out of the cage.

  ‘Are you all right, Mam?’

  ‘Am I buggery. I’ve got to stay flat for a few days, and that means my big baby’s pressing on my little one. It’s all wrong. The poor tiny thing’ll be squashed flat by the other hulking great heavyweight boxer. Seriously, I’m fine, Mel. What will be will be. But when I look in Keith’s eyes, a bit of the shine’s gone. He’s terrified.’

  Mel disagreed. ‘He’s fine. As long as you do as you’re told, he’ll carry on being fine.’ She wanted to tell Mam about Peter, about his fears and his confusion, but this wasn’t the best time. She’d always confided in Mam. Well, almost always. The messing about with Peter in Rachel Street had been an exception, but even that had come out in the end. ‘If Miss Morrison hadn’t died, and if we hadn’t got so badly upset about losing her, and if there hadn’t been papers to sign and the will to deal with, you’d have gone to Willows weeks ago. That doctor up there is rubbish, and you’d have lost the babies, Mam. The wind always brings some good, doesn’t it?’ Though the wind had brought no good to London in December . . .

  Lying in bed had clearly failed to suppress Eileen’s powers of deduction. ‘Have you been pulled through a hedge backwards, or is this the new haute couture style? You’re crumpled. What happened?’

  ‘Erm . . . chasing about in the park on our way home.’

  Eileen delivered a hard stare. Merchants girls did not chase about in the park on their way home, and she said so. ‘Try again, madam.’

  Mel knew she had to tell the truth. There came a point when everybody ran out of imagination, and a certain look in her mother’s eyes often marked the edge of Mel’s territory. ‘Peter,’ she said. ‘Don’t you dare sit up, Mam.’

  ‘But isn’t he supposed to be the other way?’ The tone was dropped when the last three words were spoken.

  ‘He is the other way, and you’re the only one who knows apart from me, so say nothing to anyone. But he has plans to fool some poor girl into taking up with him so that he’ll look as if he’s not. Every girl at school wants him. He’s good at sports, clever in the classroom, and he has a gorgeous face. But he’s basically honest. I was the only one he trusted enough to be given the full story. And in his way, he loves me. But I’m not spending time pretending to be his girlfriend. He talks about us getting married and having children. I told him a wife and children are not there to be a safety curtain while he runs round being whatever he needs to be.’

  ‘Quite right, too,’ Eileen said. ‘And when he goes to prison, the poor woman will be left there having to explain to her kids why their dad’s done a disappearing act. You’re well out of it.’

  Mel pondered for a moment. ‘I do care about him. I do think it’s terrible that people like Peter get sent to jail just because they aren’t attracted to the opposite sex. Who are they harming?’

  ‘Women and children. They get wed, have kids, then bugger off to prison or with another man.’

  ‘And the law sends them in those directions. It wants changing. It’s going to change – I’m with him on that one.’

  ‘So it’s like the ten-day week you were going to invent?’

  ‘No. This one’s doable. Anyway, it’s not your worry. Just concentrate on hanging on to these babies, even if they are going to be boys.’

  ‘The big one’s a girl, according to Dr Ryan. I wanted to know how she knows, and she said she doesn’t know how she knows, but she knows.’

  ‘You sound like Gran.’

  A huge sigh was followed by, ‘I know. I don’t know how I know, but—’

  ‘Stop right there, Mam.’

  ‘But it comes to all of us.’

  ‘We all end up sounding like Gran?’

  Eileen laughed while her daughter left the room. But seriousness returned quickly. Why were her babies threatened? Had Tom Bingley upset her to the point where Keith’s children might be hurt? Yet Mel was right; had Eileen moved to Willows, where the doctor was daft, this might have happened without any persecution by Tom. Had Miss Morrison’s
death had an adverse effect, had yesterday’s sardines been all right, was the little baby giving up and trying to get out past the big one? Was the big one healthy? Eileen had known plenty of large people whose health had been less than perfect.

  Mel returned. ‘Gloria just phoned, Mam. Her dad’s going away because of nervous exhaustion. Apparently, it’s people who don’t seem nervous or exhausted that get nervous exhaustion. So how does his doctor know he’s got it? I mean if it doesn’t show, how do they know? How does he know?’

  Eileen swallowed. ‘You’re sounding like my mother now. It’ll show in his work and in his general behaviour.’ He’s going away because of me. No, she couldn’t say that out loud, could she? He thinks enough of me to stop his life for a while and take himself off. Or had Dr Ryan put him up to this? Elizabeth Ryan could be fierce if she set her mind to it.

  ‘Gloria’s upset.’

  ‘She will be; he’s her father.’

  ‘It’s the war,’ Mel declared. ‘He’s been doing too much. A lot of people are doing too much.’ She carried some books to the davenport. ‘I’m in charge of you while I do homework, so behave: it’s moral philosophy.’

  ‘Is that religion?’

  ‘Debatable. Mam?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know when they sort of got back together again – Dr and Mrs Bingley, I mean.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, it stopped. They’re still in the same bed, but all the giggling’s finished.’

  ‘Nervous exhaustion.’

  Had circumstances been different, Mel might have asked the question, but she didn’t dare. Was Gloria’s dad still carrying a torch for Mel’s mother? Did nervous exhaustion translate into a broken heart? This was not the time for such research, so she stuck with moral philosophy which was, on the whole, much easier.

  Marie was not happy. Her husband’s doctor had declared him unfit for work, and he was to be admitted to a private nursing home in Southport. According to Liz Ryan, Tom had been overdoing things for some time, and he needed a long rest in order to recuperate before too much damage occurred.

  So this was the reason for his neglect of her, was it? After the treatment in Rodney Street, a honeymoon had ensued, and Marie was now the one who missed being loved. Sometimes, she caught him looking at her with longing in his eyes, though he seldom made an effort in her direction. There was another woman. But no, there couldn’t be. Had he fallen in love with someone, he wouldn’t have been so . . . happy wasn’t the word; he wouldn’t have been so complacent about going off to stay in Southport. According to Tom, Southport was suitable only for retirement, death and seagulls. Thus he had been known to dismiss an elegant and much loved seaside town, and he now intended to reside there for the foreseeable future.

  The suitcase was half filled and on the bed when he lost his complacency. He turned the case over and emptied its contents on the quilt. Who the hell did Liz Ryan think she was? Eileen’s threatened miscarriage was nothing to do with him, and he was being forced to enter a low-key psychiatric facility because of it? He sat down. ‘Marie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not going. She can’t make me go, because I’m not certifiable.’

  Marie sat next to him. ‘What’s happening to you . . . to us? We were fine. Do you think more hypnosis would help? We were doing so well, both of us—’

  ‘No.’ He didn’t want to open up again. He didn’t want to admit to anyone that he was almost completely defeated by love. And how the hell could he love someone attached to a Liverpool accent? And to another man? ‘It wouldn’t help the exhaustion, Marie, but a few weeks off work might. I don’t need to go to Southport. There’s a beach here I can exercise on as long as I don’t fall over a dragon’s tooth and land in the barbed wire. Exercise helps with these symptoms. You’re here. My children are here. There’s a dog I can walk. And have you seen the state of Gloria? She doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going.’

  Marie had seen the state of Gloria.

  ‘I refuse to leave her, so I need to get this sorted out immediately, if not sooner. Back in twenty minutes.’ Tom kissed the top of his wife’s head and walked out. Straightening his spine, he began the short walk to his doctor’s surgery. He was going to see Liz Ryan. She needed to be put straight, and he was the man to do it.

  ‘I am not and never have been Eileen Greenhalgh’s doctor. You can’t lose me my job. I shall stay away from my surgery as advised, because I admit to being very tired. I’ll rest and exercise until I feel better, then it’ll be back to work. No convalescent home for me, Liz.’ He stood tall at the other side of the desk. Liz, seated, felt small, and she knew that his intention had been to dominate the situation physically, mentally and through sheer dogged determination. He feared no one. She should have remembered that.

  She glared at her patient. They both knew she wouldn’t report him; they both knew he was a good doctor who needed respite. ‘Stay away from two things. Liverpool, and Eileen Greenhalgh. You are putting yourself at risk in Liverpool. And you are putting her at risk here. It isn’t love, Tom. It’s obsession.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Liz sighed heavily. He didn’t know how close he was to emotional collapse. People in such a state were often unaware of their true situation. ‘If you go anywhere near that poor woman’s house, I shall make it my personal duty to separate you from medicine. I know she’s never been your patient, and she would have managed you and your idiocy had she not been pregnant. But if her health worsens because of you, I shall report you. So.’ She picked up a pen. ‘A letter witnessed by my lawyer will be delivered to you, and you will sign the delivery sheet. My copy will be kept safe. Go near her after this written warning from your doctor and hers, go near her while an injunction forbids it, and you’ll be in next Christmas’s mincemeat.’

  ‘There’s no need for all that,’ he blustered.

  ‘Oh, but there is. She went to pieces earlier in this very room. “He won’t leave me alone” and “I’ll never get away from him” were her words. There is need. Where she is concerned, you are a predator. You are not the Tom Bingley I know. You’re on the verge of emotional collapse and you may lose control of your behaviour.’

  ‘But I’m not on the verge of anything, Liz.’ Eileen was frightened not of him, but of herself. There was hope.

  Liz tapped the table with her pen. Cupid was careless with his arrows. Never in a month of Sundays would she have expected Tom to fall for someone like Eileen Greenhalgh. She was extraordinarily pretty, but she was not Tom Bingley’s type. There again, that was often how it happened. An intelligent and relatively sane man would come across someone who was nothing like his wife, and the arrow went into his chest and stayed there. The same applied to women.

  ‘Eileen was drawn to me. It didn’t happen in one direction only.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you? Look, I don’t want to shock you, but she wasn’t putty in my hands – she was magma, red hot lava. And I did the right thing, stayed where I was, got help for my frigid wife, carried on working, rescued people and so on. Let no one say I didn’t fight for the status quo.’

  The helpless doctor could hear the change in her patient’s tone. Certification was not a possibility, because he wasn’t mad, and other medics wouldn’t support such a drastic step. Liz and Tom had worked in tandem for years, each helping the other when the workload became too great. Because she knew him, she was acutely aware of the changes in him. Other people might not see what she saw. He was utterly sane, miserably so. But the emotional seesaw he rode might tip at any time, and another patient of hers could suffer when he finally snapped. ‘Go away,’ she ordered. ‘And I wasn’t kidding about the law. You will receive a copy soon.’

  The look he awarded her might have turned a lesser woman to water, but Liz maintained her solid state. It was going to be just a matter of time; he had better wait until after those babies had been delivered safely, God willing. But what if the births weakened Eil
een? What if he started hanging about on the bombed playing field behind Eileen’s house? What if . . . ? There was no point in what iffing. The bloody man had gone anyway.

  A few weeks later, Elsie Openshaw arrived in Crosby. She was driven across by Mr Marchant, friend of Miss Pickavance, art tutor to Philip Watson. Elsie had seldom travelled in a car, so she was round-eyed when she reached St Michael’s Road. ‘But . . . I mean . . . there’s all kinds of . . . I saw . . . what the blood and sand have they done to Liverpool?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ Nellie replied with all the nonchalance she could muster. ‘They’ll not kill this city, Elsie. The folk down there are tougher than shoe leather.’

  ‘And they all talk funny. They’re neither for’ards nor back’ards.’ Elsie went through to visit the patient. Nellie looked at Keith, Keith looked at Nellie. ‘Can laughing cause a miscarriage?’ he asked.

  ‘I doubt it. She’s far enough gone, lad. The twins’d be in with a good chance if they got born now.’

  Two eavesdroppers stood in the hall. They knew that Elsie was hilarious, and that she was completely unaware of the fact.

  Her strident tones, complete with broad, flat vowels, made its way out of Eileen’s retreat. ‘Your wife’s trapped,’ Nellie mouthed. Keith nodded his agreement.

  Elsie was in full flood. ‘You do. Just you think on. You do know who I mean. He was there the day you came with Miss Pickavance. His wife’s got a caliper – one leg shorter than t’other. He’s a long, lanky thing with a hernia, called Malcolm. His daughter lives in the Edge near us, lost all her teeth in an accident, got a spiral staircase fitted just to be different. I wouldn’t care – she doesn’t even own the bloody house. Spiral staircase, indeed. She’d have been a sight better cleaning up her doorstep – it’s not seen donkey stone in years, hasn’t that.’

  ‘Oh, Elsie,’ moaned Eileen. ‘I’m so glad you came. You cheer me up.’