Meet Me at the Pier Head

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘She’s known no other life beyond a few hours in a shop and looking after her brother,’ Izzy had said before sending her daughter and Theo to the flat. ‘She needs us now. Oh, save his last pair of shoes. He hung on to them for years.’

  Tom and Nancy Atherton had been given the task of escorting Martha to Chaddington Green for a holiday at Rose Cottage. Their luggage had been sent on before them, and they would travel tomorrow, the day after Harry’s funeral.

  Another item was on the agenda, as Theo and Jack had news to impart. Only Isadora, Portia and Joan would hear full the truth. Yes, the time had come. Tomorrow, the tale would be told.

  After the compulsory making and drinking of tea, Isadora and Joan seated themselves on the sofa in the ground-floor flat, while Tia occupied an armchair that faced them.

  ‘I wonder what they’re going to tell us?’ Izzy mused, almost to herself.

  Tia, believing that she had worked out the answer, decided to offer no opinion in the matter. She might be wrong, and not for the first time. Frank Turner was Rosie’s father, and he was either dead or in jail. If he was alive, Rosie should probably be told. Let him be dead, God. We can’t lose her now, and she can’t lose us because she’s already lost more than enough. Is it wrong to wish an unknown person dead? And for her sake, let her not be disturbed by any more unwelcome news.

  Jack and Theo arrived, and the latter acted as main spokesman. He stood in front of the fireplace. ‘You’ve waited long enough. We don’t want you to worry any longer, so there’ll be no rigmarole and I’ll cut to the end, the last line on the page. Harry killed Miles Tunstall. Miles Tunstall was Rosie’s father.’

  Even Tia hadn’t expected this. ‘Are you sure he was her father?’ she asked eventually, a hand held to her throat.

  ‘Oh, yes. Sadie was wild, but not as bad as people seemed to think.’ Theo swallowed. ‘According to Tunstall’s brother, Rosie is a child born of rape. Frank’s five brothers turned on him and beat the shit out of him when they found her half dressed and in tears, so he left the neighbourhood and changed his name by deed poll as soon as he came of age.’ He shook his head sadly.

  ‘Andy Turner is a decent fellow, a fireman. They were all troublemakers in their youth, shoplifting, stealing and fighting. They were fatherless. Mr Turner left the family, and Mrs Turner worked two jobs to keep the wolf from the door. But the real wolf was at the wrong side of that door. He was a resident in the house.’

  Jack butted in. ‘He turned Sadie Stone into a prostitute by getting her hooked on drink. Andy didn’t even go to his brother’s funeral; none of the family did. The police spoke to the Turner men after Tunstall’s death, as they were aware of the name change, but the Turners knew nothing about the murder, though they weren’t surprised by it. Andy had no idea where Frank – or Miles – was. Andy and his wife moved back to the Dingle just weeks ago to be nearer to his work, and he happens to rent the family’s old house. That was where I found him.’

  A short silence followed. Then Tia asked, ‘Did Maggie know about the change of name?’

  ‘I imagine so,’ was Theo’s ready answer. ‘The police questioned her, because Sadie was drunk then brain-damaged, so Maggie had to speak for her.’

  ‘So Maggie probably knew that Tunstall was Rosie’s father?’ Izzy asked.

  Theo nodded.

  ‘More than likely,’ Jack said.

  ‘But he isn’t on the birth certificate,’ Joan stated, her voice shrill. ‘He was trying to adopt her. I’m glad PC Twist didn’t tell Rosie the truth. That’s one good woman.’

  Jack intervened again. ‘Sadie got away from him towards the end of her pregnancy, because she was always covered in cuts, bumps and bruises. When she registered Rosie, she said the father was unknown. But Tunstall, when he found Sadie, would see the child as his property to do with as he wished. Our Rosie’s real father locked her up and knocked her about. So we can’t tell her. She’s never asked about a father, and she wouldn’t recognize him from that photograph, because he put on a lot of weight.’

  ‘She might recognize the resemblance to herself,’ Tia whispered.

  ‘The photo should be destroyed,’ Izzy pronounced. ‘Rosie is a bright girl with a good imagination. Why should she be tainted? Why should she worry about having Tunstall’s bad blood?’

  Theo sighed. ‘The brothers agree – the Turner men. They will forgo the pleasure of meeting their niece. That’s for Rosie’s own sake. Good men, they are. There’s a fireman, a market trader, a motor mechanic and two who’ve opened a pet shop over the water – Wallasey, I think. They’re ashamed of Frank.’

  Tia’s head was in her hands. If she must find out, Lord, let it happen when she’s older with her character and her career fully developed. She raised her face. ‘Nothing’s changed,’ she said. ‘He was always her father, and Maggie probably knew it. Her decision not to tell Rosie is completely understandable. We must carry on regardless. Come along, Teddy, we have young to feed.’

  While she cooked the meal, Tia thought about her own father, a man with values that had been somewhat Victorian. Like many heads of families during those sixty glorious years, Richard Bellamy had played away from home while trying to keep a stranglehold on his daughters. He had changed eventually, and was now a sweeter man who enjoyed his duties at Bartle Hall.

  Might Tunstall have changed had he lived? No, she decided. He would have looked at Rosie now and might have put her to work. She’s so beautiful, perfect skin, that wonderful fall of long, dark brown hair, less curly now since the length and weight caused it to be smooth and lustrous. She might have made his fortune. Then why am I smiling? Yes, because I’m sure she would have given him advice on urination and travel. And I dare say Maggie might have done what poor Harry was moved to do. I wonder how he did it? The police will have those details.

  She jumped when a pair of arms crept round her waist.

  ‘It’s only me,’ Theo said.

  ‘Good. I thought it might be the milkman again.’

  ‘Ah, the milkman. I thought the mailman was the problem.’

  ‘It’s both.’

  ‘I see. Well, I can’t say I blame them.’

  She turned in his embrace. ‘You don’t care who handles me, do you?’

  ‘Oh, Portia,’ he whispered before kissing her hard. They regained their composure, and he continued. ‘You’re not just my ball and chain, honey, you’re my safe haven, my heart’s home.’

  She smiled. Underneath it all, Teddy was an incurable romantic.

  POST SCRIPTUM

  Christmas 1968,

  Kent, England

  Nancy, Tom and Martha had remained in the south since September. The Athertons’ old bones were treated with better respect by the warmer winter, and they had settled nicely in Rose Cottage, moving into Lilac Cottage only when Richard, his wife and their son left to spend Christmas in London with friends.

  Theo had expressed the opinion that Martha would probably remain in Kent for the rest of her life, as she spent most of her time in Bartle Hall with the children. She was a born carer, and she had found people who appreciated her. A natural listener, too, she drew the children out and got them to talk to her.

  The rest of the clan were to travel down in Theo’s Bedford Dormobile, a vehicle into which they could all fit with room to spare, as there were relatively few of them. David had to sit near a window. Michael had to sit near a window because David would be sitting near a window. Rosie didn’t care where she sat as long as it wasn’t anywhere near either of her brothers. She loved them, but preferred to love them from a safe distance. Michael had no idea when it came to sitting still, while David had a tendency to chatter before becoming travel sick, so most people avoided close contact with him during a journey of any length.

  This time, there were just six travellers, as Joan and Jack had chosen to stay at home and have a quiet Christmas with Tyger as their only visitor. So David and Michael got their windows, Rosie sat at the rear of the van away from her bro
thers, and Izzy placed herself behind Tia, who would share the driving with Theo.

  Theo climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘Does David have a bucket?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tia replied, managing to endow the single syllable with patience, impatience and do-you-think-I-came-down-the-Mersey-in-a-tin-bath-yesterday?

  Rosie addressed her parents and Izzy-gran. ‘We could put the bucket on Michael’s head until David feels sick. That way, we won’t have to sit through a running commentary about how many animals he sees between here and Kent.’

  Both boys ran to the back of the vehicle and threw themselves at the girl who would soon be their real adopted sister. She screamed and brushed them off, threatening dire punishment including Chinese burns to their arms, a clout round their ear ’oles and no help with their holiday homework.

  Tia and Theo exchanged grins. It was all so normal, wasn’t it? Their young sons depended on this grown-up sister, loved her, disliked her, and admired her even though she was ‘only a girl’.

  Izzy took charge. ‘Rosie, ignore them. If you fight back, they’ll hang around like a bad smell on the landing. Michael, sit. David, get back to your seat and try not to kick the bucket.’ She tried not to grin while delivering the deliberate double entendre. His bucket was metal, and he often attempted to get a tune out of it before needing it for its true purpose.

  Again, Theo and Tia Quinn exchanged smiles. They were the perfect imperfect family whose offspring fought, laughed with, cried with and helped each other. Rosie had even assisted Mum and Izzy at Michael’s birth, as he had arrived early, quickly and screaming like a banshee. Five years later, there was little improvement, as he was always too early, especially when mealtimes came round, and he continued to be loud.

  ‘Have you left your keys with Joan?’ Izzy asked.

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  ‘Did you turn everything off, Portia?’

  ‘Yes, Ma.’

  ‘Is the MG garage locked?’

  Tia glared at her mother. ‘Yes, Ma.’

  David turned his bucket upside down and stood on it. ‘Let’s see how far we get before I fall off.’

  Izzy raised her eyes upward as if begging for heaven’s help. ‘Do you plan to spend Christmas in hospital, David?’ she asked.

  ‘I know how to fall, Gran.’

  ‘I’m not thinking about a fall,’ she answered. ‘I’m talking about grievous bodily harm inflicted by me.’

  He jumped down, righted the bucket, folded his arms, sat down and glowered. Fun was off the menu. ‘He’s breathing,’ he announced.

  ‘Good,’ Izzy said. ‘Let’s hope we’re all taking in oxygen.’

  ‘He’s breathing on the window and drawing pictures in his breath. Dad said we aren’t meant to do that.’

  Rosie sang, ‘Tell-tale tit, his mother had a fit, gave him a clout, locked him out, tell-tale tit.’

  It was Michael’s turn to sulk. His brother had grassed on him just for drawing a snowman.

  With exaggerated patience, Theo turned and gazed at his children. ‘We haven’t left home yet, and you’re fighting. Your mother and I have to go, because we’re covering for staff who went home for Christmas. I’m sure Joan and Jack won’t mind babysitting while we’re away.’

  ‘No!’ the boys shouted in unison.

  Theo started the engine and reversed into the road. It was seven in the morning, and it was going to be a long journey with stops for food and drink, for David’s car-sickness and for the relief of Michael’s small bladder. He spoke to his wife. ‘Shall we take them or leave them?’ he asked.

  ‘Take them,’ she replied, ‘because it’s the Christian thing to do. We shouldn’t inflict them on anyone, especially on Joan and Jack. They deserve some peace.’

  Two personae non gratae bowed their heads in pretended shame.

  ‘That’s better,’ Izzy said.

  Rosie chuckled softly. The quiet would last for five minutes at best, though Izzy-gran was currently riveting them to their seats with very cold eyes. Rosie put cotton wool in her ears, donned earmuffs and carried on reading Silas Marner. Silas had just found Eppie, and the little orphan would probably improve his life beyond measure, for such was the purpose of orphans. Wasn’t it?

  It was nearing pitch black by the time they reached Chaddington Green. Rosie ran off towards Lilac Cottage to visit Martha, Nancy and Tom. Theo gripped his two sons by the scruffs of their necks to prevent them from following her. ‘Bed,’ he growled.

  ‘Why can she do what she wants and we can’t?’ Michael whined.

  ‘Because she’s three times your age, and almost twice your brother’s age.’

  David worked that out. ‘Dad’s right,’ he said. ‘She’s three times five and nearly two times eight.’

  Tia had had enough. ‘Get in the house,’ she snapped. Children were great in large numbers, though they weren’t really suitable for domestic situations. As for shopping . . . oh, she couldn’t bear to think about it. ‘Do as your father says, but clean your teeth and wash your hands and faces before going to bed. Baths will have to wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘He smells of sick,’ Michael complained.

  ‘Do you want a birthday party?’ Theo asked his younger boy.

  ‘Yes, when I’m six.’

  ‘And you want to live until you’re six? Get him up the stairs now, David.’

  Both boys fled. From tomorrow night, they would sleep in a dormitory in the hall, and their parents would occupy a teacher’s flat. Isadora might help at the school, visit friends in the village, or spend time with Nancy, Tom and Martha. More importantly, she would have Rose Cottage, her bolt-hole for many years, all to herself.

  The three adults flopped onto the cottage suite. Theo was the first to find words. ‘Why is it that I can manage a school, but my own boys are impossible?’

  ‘Different hat, different costume,’ Izzy answered. ‘At home, you’re a daddy; at school you’re Blackbird. It’s all a play, as Shakespeare said. We have our work selves and our home selves. Simple. Each and every one of us is an actor. And it’s a well-circulated rumour that teachers and nurses make the worst parents. Doctors are in a similar league, but it’s probably nonsense.’

  Tia expressed the opinion that Dr Simon Heilberg was an excellent father, as was Nurse Juliet, his wife.

  ‘It must be just teachers, then.’ Izzy yawned behind a hand. ‘I’m going to wedge myself into that cupboard of a third bedroom.’

  ‘Just for one night, Ma.’

  ‘I know.’ She smiled at them. ‘You are excellent parents, and you know it. Goodnight, sweet prince and princess. I’d do a grand exit, but my legs are aching.’

  They stared at healthy flames born of a fire set earlier in the evening by Martha or Nancy or Tom. Cuddling up to each other, they dozed. Tia had a nightmare about trying to buy shoes for Michael, who hated the process; Theo dreamt of a summer’s day in the back garden at home, a picnic with his children, Tia, Izzy, Joan and Jack. Tia had made ice-cold lemonade, the real deal brewed from fruit and sugar with slices of lemon floating about in it.

  They endured a rude awakening by Rosie accompanied by a gust of cool air that was a pale imitation of weather further north, though it wore the scent of a December night. ‘Mum?’ she called. ‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t know you were asleep.’

  The couple could see that she was bursting with news. ‘Out with it,’ Theo said sleepily.

  ‘Martha’s going on a course if the board agrees. The headmaster’s thinking of taking in a couple of handicapped boys if you and Izzy-gran’ll allow it. Martha would be a great help, and she’s happy to study for her certificate.’

  ‘Interesting idea,’ Theo mumbled. ‘Trust Pete Wray to come up with it. I sometimes think our headmaster is on a mission to save the world.’

  ‘A bit like you, then,’ was Rosie’s pert answer. ‘And there’s something else – well, somebody else and something else. He’s a surprise.’

  ‘Wheel him in,’ Tia ordered.

  And
in he came, all six feet of him, a grand-looking young man with brownish-reddish hair, twinkling eyes and decent clothes.

  Theo blinked. ‘Colin?’

  The visitor grinned. ‘Was you in the war, Sir? Did you come over before all the other Yanks, like? Did you kill Germans?’

  Tiredness forgotten, Theo leapt up and hugged one of his star pupils. ‘How’s life?’ he asked.

  Colin Duckworth shrugged. ‘It’s OK as long as I ignore the public school lunatics. They’re not right, you know, not right in the head. I’m managing to keep up with them well enough, and they find my accent charming. I wish they didn’t. Sometimes, I feel like a pet animal or some rare exhibit in a museum – caveman, Neolithic man, then Scouser.’

  ‘I’m sure you manage to confound them.’

  The younger man laughed. ‘Well, I’ve won two debates on the nature of socialism and one on the rehabilitation of recidivists.’

  ‘How did you find us?’ Tia asked.

  Rosie blushed. ‘We write to each other,’ she admitted.

  Both parents remained stock still and silent for several seconds. ‘So you’re penfriends?’ Tia asked at last.

  Rosie stared down at the floor. ‘We like each other.’ The chin rose not in defiance, but in respect for her parents. ‘A lot. We like each other a lot.’

  Colin took Rosie’s hand. ‘Don’t worry, Mr and Mrs Quinn. I know she’s only fifteen, so nothing untoward will happen.’

  Theo grinned. ‘This isn’t the football all over again, is it, Colin? Sleepwalking, tearing the downspout off a prefab and telling me a load of hogwash?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘And where are you staying?’

  ‘With Mam and Dad at the Punch Bowl. Everybody else is at Auntie Bertha’s. It’s terrible at Auntie Bertha’s. I think she peels her sprouts in September and boils them for a couple of months. But Mam, Dad and I have read so much about what you’ve achieved here that we decided to see for ourselves.’