Meet Me at the Pier Head

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Oh yes,’ Theo reassured her. ‘She has her own little apartment because she can listen to her music and do her school work without being interrupted by low-flying objects. Our sons are lively.’

  ‘I know,’ Izzy replied tartly. ‘Joan, Jack and I looked after them for six weeks. I came close to putting them up for adoption.’

  Tia chewed and swallowed. ‘Could he lay claim to her?’

  ‘She’s not left luggage,’ Theo said. ‘She’s our daughter. Because of her age, adoption should be a breeze as long as she wants us as official adoptive parents. There’s nothing about a father on her birth certificate. I’ll ask her.’

  ‘Turner will still be out there somewhere.’ Tia waved a hand towards the window. ‘And another point, Teddy – she has the right to know him.’

  Isadora squared her shoulders. ‘Very well, let’s find him. Get your search done at school, Theo. But remember that Sadie was twenty when she had Rosie, so Frank Turner might well be someone she met after leaving school.’ She pondered for a few moments. ‘The elderly in the Lady Streets may prove helpful. And I’ll search my flat again, because there could be more information hidden by poor Maggie.’ She looked up at the ceiling. ‘Oh, Maggie, why didn’t you tell us?’

  They all knew the answer to that one. A line used frequently by Maggie was ‘If it’s not broke, don’t mend it’. She had wanted the best for her granddaughter and, in Maggie’s book, the Quinns were the best. ‘I’d bet a dollar to a dime that Maggie found him. If the man wasn’t good enough in Maggie’s opinion . . .’ Theo’s voice was suddenly strangled.

  ‘Don’t cry, sweetheart.’ Tia grabbed his hand.

  ‘We can’t lose her,’ he managed. ‘And I’m not crying. Well, not really.’

  ‘OK, so stop not-really-ing. You’ve dripped on your shirt.’

  ‘That’s water, Portia.’

  ‘Of course it is. You’re a drip.’

  He wiped his face with a table napkin.

  Michael entered with his guitar and a grim expression. ‘I need longer fingers,’ he grumbled before making his way towards the hall. ‘I’ll put this away,’ he announced. ‘I’m not going to guitar classes any more; I want to learn the trumpet.’

  ‘God help us,’ Theo muttered. ‘We’ll need to be soundproofed.’

  Tia went to fetch her younger son’s meal. ‘Wash your hands,’ she yelled.

  David fell in through the door. ‘Ten-nil, ten-nil, ten-nil, ten-nil,’ he sang tunelessly.

  After placing Michael’s food on the table, Tia glared at her older son. ‘Why are you wearing a field?’ she asked. ‘And is that a bird’s nest or your hair?’

  ‘There was that thunderstorm while we were at school. The playing field was a bit flooded,’ was his reply.

  Tia pointed to the hall. ‘Get in the bath,’ she ordered, ‘and this time, use soap, sponge and loofah.’ She followed him into the hallway. ‘Neck and ears,’ she called, ‘and find the nail brush. I don’t want to see black under your nails.’ She turned. Her husband and her mother were sniggering at her. ‘What?’ she growled.

  ‘You’re beautiful when you’re angry – isn’t she, Ma?’

  ‘She arrived angry, Theo. She screamed for eighteen months, and her first word was NO! It arrived fully furnished in capital letters with an exclamation mark. But she was precious and interesting and wilful. Adorable.’

  ‘She’s still all of those, plus stubborn as a mule.’

  Tia sat. ‘Shut up,’ she ordered, ‘and stop talking as if I’m not here. Ma, pick up the photograph. Theo, you must have wiped up some blue chalk with that handkerchief – it’s all over your face. I’m going to check on the hellion.’ She left the room.

  Izzy and Theo listened while she dealt with David. ‘That’s a mud bath,’ she shouted. ‘Get out and start again. How do you expect me to get your kit clean? As for the boots in the porch – deal with them yourself.’

  Theo raised his shoulders. He could cope with hundreds of children, but Isadora’s daughter was beyond repair, thank goodness. ‘I love that woman,’ he mouthed at his mother-in-law.

  ‘I know you do, Theo. And she loves you.’

  ‘But of course she does.’ He grinned. ‘I’m very lovable.’

  Michael was shovelling food as if he hadn’t been fed for months. ‘Slow down,’ Izzy said. ‘What’s the hurry?’

  ‘I’ve got a book about dinosaurs. Did you know that birds are their nearest relatives?’

  ‘You’ll ruin your digestive system,’ Theo admonished.

  The boy paused for a few seconds. ‘You’d think it would be alligators and crocodiles, but it’s birds. They must have come from pterodactyls. They could fly. I wonder if they had feathers.’

  ‘Good question,’ Theo replied. ‘Some say yes, some say no. They were reptiles that glided from one place to another. Look it up in your encyclopedia.’

  ‘May I leave the table, Dad?’

  ‘Oh, go on, before you get to elephants and the like.’

  Michael fled while the going was good. This was a toss-up between shepherd’s pie and tyrannosaurus rex. It was no contest.

  Isadora crossed the road between Brooklands and Crompton Villa. The lights were on upstairs, because days were becoming shorter, and the tang of autumn hung in the air. ‘They’re at home. No time like the present,’ she mumbled under her breath before walking up the side of the house to ring the bell.

  Jack answered. ‘Hello, Izzy. Come in; we were just choosing wallpaper for the sitting room. Joan’s making a brew, so you can have a cuppa with us.’ He followed her up the stairs.

  Over the cup that cheers, the married couple forgot wallpaper and listened while Isadora outlined the story. She begged Jack to talk to elderly people in the Lady Streets.

  ‘They don’t need to be elderly,’ was his response. ‘Though I admit the over-sixties remember best. But Rosie’s only fifteen.’ He pondered. ‘Sadie left the area when Rosie was born. She came back with Rosie and Tunstall, and . . . well, we all know what went on after that. Turner,’ he said almost under his breath. ‘The only Turner I heard of painted pictures of ships. I’ll put the word out, Izzy.’

  He sat back and rooted about in his memory. No, Jack. You do remember, you do, and it’s nothing to do with a painter. I wish these two would shut up for a few minutes while I get me head straight. Shoplifters. Pickpockets. It was a number twenty-seven on the door, but which bloody street? They all look the same, them streets, if I remember right. There was an Alec with buck teeth; he was better natured than the rest. Was there a Frank? There were five or six of them. No girls. Their mam was a barmaid at night and a waitress during the day. I never saw the dad. He was supposed to have been lost at sea, but weren’t there rumours about him knocking about with an usherette from the Odeon in town? Didn’t they move to Gateacre? Was there a Frank? Think, man, think!

  Joan’s skin, always pale, turned ashen. ‘Could he take her away from us? She’s happy here; she has parents, brothers, us. Three households look out for her and keep her safe, Izzy. Leave it alone, please.’

  Izzy tried to reassure her friend. ‘She’s fifteen, Joan. No court would attempt to force her to do anything.’

  ‘But she doesn’t need the disturbance it would bring,’ Joan insisted.

  Her husband jumped to his feet so suddenly that his chair fell over backwards. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered, his eyes fixed to the photograph on the table.

  ‘What?’ the two women asked simultaneously.

  ‘I can’t tell you yet,’ he replied. ‘But I’m going for Theo. I may be wrong, so I’m saying nothing.’ He grabbed his jacket and left.

  Izzy and Joan stared at each other. ‘What happened there?’ Izzy asked. ‘He seems to have upstaged both of us.’

  ‘No idea,’ was the reply. ‘We’re supposed to be unpredictable because we’re women, but Jack’s like a flea on a dog sometimes, leaping about without warning. I think he just had what people call an epiphany. With angina, epiphanies a
re not necessarily a good thing.’

  ‘So an idea dropped into his mind without warning?’

  Joan nodded. ‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty of space for it in his head.’

  They laughed, though the sound arrived strained.

  ‘I couldn’t bear to lose him,’ Joan admitted.

  ‘He’ll be fine; he has you to live for.’

  They heard Theo’s car starting up. The beloved MGs were still parked in a large garage behind the house, though the Quinns frequently used a family car since the children had arrived. Izzy dashed to the window. ‘Jack’s with Theo. Ah, they’re gone. Shall we ask Portia what’s afoot? Oh, hang on; here comes Rosie, so we must stay where we are.’

  They had to wait. Izzy, who had practised calming through yoga in many dressing rooms, sat down and managed to contain herself. Joan began to pace about. ‘Oh, God,’ she muttered at least five times.

  ‘Joan?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Go and wash dishes, clean the oven, paint a ceiling or whatever.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Forgiven. But go away.’

  Joan went away.

  Alone, Izzy closed her eyes and aimed for calm, but she never quite got there. Frank Turner. Who and where the hell was he?

  ‘Where are we going?’ Theo asked. ‘Tia believes I’ve left home.’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ was Jack’s reply. ‘We’ll kick off down the Dingle. I’ll find out whether they’ve moved.’ I need to remember. Come on, Jack Peake, wake up. Was I courting a girl in the Dingle? What was her name?

  Theo applied the brakes. ‘I know you have your thinking head on, but I must ask you this – whether who’s moved? What the hell in a wagon is going on?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Look, it’s just a thought and I could be wrong. The photo made me wonder, that’s all. I don’t want to say anything in case I’m at the mucky end of the stick. Just drive while I try to remember stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘Stuff I’ll remember better if you shut up. I had enough in the flat with Joan and Izzy nattering on like bloody market traders. That’s it. One of them had a stall on Paddy’s Market when he grew up.’

  ‘One of which or what or whom?’

  ‘Button it, Mr Quinn. I’m sixty-five and I’m looking for number twenty-seven with no idea of the street. Just drop me when I say, then come back in an hour.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Please don’t talk.’

  ‘OK, keep your hair on. You can’t afford to lose any more.’

  Jack sat back and stared through the windscreen, hoping against hope that something would catch his eye – a clue, a hint, a— ‘Stop,’ he yelled.

  The car squealed to a halt. ‘Jeez,’ Theo breathed. ‘You made me jump, and you’re doing no good for my tyres.’

  ‘Come back for me in an hour,’ Jack begged. ‘I’m going to find some Turners. Go into the flat and make sure my Joanie’s all right. She frets.’

  ‘Turners?’ Theo raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  ‘They may be the wrong ones.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘No, wrong ones.’

  Theo groaned. ‘Jack?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get lost; I’ll see you later.’

  When Theo had driven away, Jack got busy wandering up and down streets that all looked the same, one door, one window, another door, another window, the smell of rancid fat emanating from the chip shop on the corner. It was the shop that had given him a clue, because its door cut across the corner of the terrace. But he discovered that several of the streets had a shop with a similar entrance, so . . .

  He pulled himself together and knocked on a door that was not twenty-seven; it was twenty-four. In his experience of terraced-house living, neighbours across the way often knew more about those living opposite than they did about adjacent families.

  An old woman with a splendid moustache answered. ‘What do you want? I’m listening to me programme.’ She fiddled with her hearing aid.

  ‘Do you know any Turners?’

  ‘What? Speak up, me battery’s playing the fool again, bloody rubbish.’

  ‘Do you know any Turners?’ He separated every syllable.

  ‘Turners?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Him at number eighteen works a lathe. He’s a turner, goes across on the ferry every day, ironworks in Birkenhead.’ She closed the door.

  Jack covered four streets. His feet ached, his head ached, and most parts between these extremes were unhappy. Theo would be back soon.

  On street five, he hit what Theo would call pay dirt, gold among dry earth and rocks. There was something here, on this spot, a memory, a picture of two boys running from police and into a house, into this house. He recalled sending the cops in the wrong direction, thereby letting the lads get away with whatever they’d done, because they were poor. Yet the place looked the same as all the others, so why did he recognize it?

  ‘Here goes,’ he muttered. For a reason he still didn’t fully understand, Jack knocked at the door. It was number twenty-seven in a warren of streets he hadn’t visited since God alone knew when.

  A man opened the door. He was in his mid to late thirties, dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a blue shirt. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  Jack cleared his throat. ‘I’m looking for the Turner family,’ he said.

  ‘I’m a Turner,’ the man said, stepping aside. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Jack Peake.’

  Mr Turner smiled. ‘I remember you. You never grassed on us when the coppers were on our tail years back. You were going out with that Lucas girl – what was her name? Eileen. Eileen Lucas. Come in.’

  Jack swallowed hard and went into the house. No longer dirty and smelly, the place was cheerful, clean and decently furnished. He perched on the edge of a small armchair. ‘Have you always lived here?’ There was a whiff of new paint in the air, so the house had been decorated recently.

  ‘No, I moved to Seaforth and came back here just about a month ago. It’s nearer to the station, you see. I’m a fireman.’

  Hoping that Theo would wait for him, Jack began to ask his questions.

  Theo and Tia joined Joan and Isadora in the first-floor apartment. Rosie had been appointed to cope with the boys’ bedtime, as she was well capable of dealing with her younger brothers.

  ‘So you just left Jack there?’ Joan’s tone was almost accusatory.

  Theo shrugged. ‘He practically told me to bugger off, so off I buggered.’

  ‘Is it safe?’ Izzy asked.

  ‘You should have parked and waited,’ was Tia’s contribution.

  The other two nodded in agreement.

  ‘It’s safe enough. I saw no Comanche, no Sioux or Apache,’ Theo told them. ‘Jack needed to be alone to think. Every time I asked him what was going on, he ordered me to shut up. He’s not a child, ladies, though I must admit that he made little sense. Anyway, stop apportioning blame. One of my closest friends asked me to come home, and I did just that.’ Ah, here they go with the tea ceremony. Three of them in the kitchen just to make one pot of tea. Tea is always the panacea on these small islands.

  What the hell are you up to, Jack? I’ve three distressed females here, and a fourth across the street who may well become distressed very soon. I’m her father, Tia’s her mother, Izzy-gran is Izzy-gran, and Joan and you are aunt and uncle. She has another aunt and uncle in Juliet and Simon, and two further aunts are Delia and Elaine. No one can take her away from us after all this time. She’s inherited my Portia’s stubborn streak, because nurture won over nature, and she’s a brilliant student because of us. No matter what, she’ll stay here. Don’t find him, Jack.

  We taught her at Myrtle Street, though we sent the boys to a different school, because they never lived in the Lady Streets. Ashburner School is almost as good as mine, and we fill in any minor gaps at home. Just a few minutes to wait now, and I can go fetch him. And I’m drinking no more tea in case
I drown in the stuff.

  The women returned with tea and biscuits.

  ‘He’s thinking,’ Tia announced. ‘The frown gives him away every time.’

  Theo scowled at his wife.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’re always talking about me as if I’m elsewhere.’

  ‘That’s because although you’re with us in body, your mind has a habit of wandering off.’ He jumped up. ‘No more tea for me. If I drink any more, I’ll start to look Chinese or Indian.’

  Tia grinned. ‘What about your octoroonship?’

  ‘That ship has sailed,’ he answered tersely.

  ‘Our children are sixteeneroons,’ she answered smartly.

  He nodded. ‘Sometimes, I manage to see that there is a strong case for the application of corporal punishment.’

  Tia folded her arms. ‘Oh yeah? Try it, mister.’

  He startled her by crossing the room and planting a sloppy kiss on her forehead. ‘I’m going for Jack.’

  ‘Good.’

  Theo left.

  Joan heaved a sigh. ‘Do they have a disease, I wonder? Some kind of genetic flaw that makes them talk rubbish and wander off like lost dogs?’

  Tia burst out laughing. ‘You don’t sound in the least like my Nanny Reynolds. If you mean men, yes. It’s testosterone. They start off in their teens with a surfeit of it that drives them demented and, as they get slightly older, it starts to come and go without warning. So you’re living with a cross between a sex-crazed lunatic and a moonbeam who starts criticizing your sewing.’

  Joan’s cheeks coloured slightly while Izzy howled with laughter. ‘When does the wandering start?’ Joan asked.

  ‘When they crawl,’ was Tia’s quick answer. ‘And you know they’re completely past it when they get attached to slippers and one chair. No one else must sit in that chair. Thus far, my Teddy is retarded – still a teenager. I have to wear running shoes when the children are out. But I’m lucky, I suppose.’

  Izzy shook her head. ‘You’re still a naughty girl, Portia.’

  ‘Good. Ah, we have a visitor. I’ll get the door, Ma. I hope it’s not Rosie.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Joan,’ Izzy advised quietly. ‘He’ll be back.’