Rosie chipped in. ‘Is it OK if they come to Christmas lunch at Bartle Hall, Dad?’
‘Fine,’ Theo replied. ‘They’re great people.’
‘It’s all right,’ Colin advised them, ‘I’ve taught them knives and forks and spoons, and they’re nearly up to toothpicks and finger bowls. They’re past the chip butty stage, and Dad doesn’t wipe his mouth on the tablecloth any more. He even goes to the bathroom to break wind these days – limbering up to come here, you see.’
Rosie dug him in the ribs. ‘Go and get it.’
‘No, you go and get it before it gets too cold.’
‘It’s your present as well, so you fetch it, Col.’
‘Bossy boots,’ he muttered before leaving the house.
Tia took the chance to grab her daughter’s hand. ‘Don’t get serious, sweetie. Be young. It’s too early for steady boyfriends. Grab your youth and enjoy it.’
‘We’re not steady. We just like each other and we both love writing letters about how silly and sad life is.’
Colin returned with a basket. ‘We decided – Mam, Dad, Rosie and I – that it was about time to get you one of these. She’s eight weeks old, and her ears haven’t decided what to do with themselves yet, but she’s a little cracker and her mother was best of breed at that Crufts dog show.’
Theo raised the lid and lifted out the baby Alsatian. ‘Welcome back, Mickle,’ he said, his voice unsteady. ‘Welcome home.’ And for some reason he couldn’t explain even to himself, he suddenly knew that Rosie was safe with Colin.
It was chaos. Worse still, it was chaos in a very small house.
Izzy had stalked off in the direction of Lilac Cottage after declaring her intention to take a bath among civilized people. Theo was cleaning up puppy mess, Tia was battling with her hair, muttering darkly about having it cut short, Rosie was playing with Harriet, whose name she had chosen in honour of Harry, while the boys were at war in the bath.
Theo waved a mop in his wife’s direction. ‘Do not cut off your hair without a papal dispensation from me. I’d have nothing to wipe my nose on in bed, and I don’t want to be forced to soil the sheets. Harriet is leaving enough deposits to open a savings account, and that bath will come through the ceiling if those two don’t stop fighting.’
Tia walked to the foot of the stairs. ‘I want the pair of you dry, dressed and down here in ten minutes, or you’ll have to sleep in the flat with me and Dad tonight.’ She turned her attention on Rosie. ‘Get yourself dressed, missy, and put away the folding bed.’
‘At least I won’t have to sleep in the same room as those two tonight,’ Rosie said. ‘David talks even in his sleep, and Michael snores.’
Tia sighed. ‘He’ll be better once his tonsils and adenoids are gone, but there’s nothing we can do about David, I’m afraid. Give Harriet to me, please.’
Introduced to Tia’s mane of hair, the pup started to chew it. Rosie’s footfalls echoed from the stairwell, the boys were running about in the second bedroom, and Theo washed his hands in preparation for making breakfast. ‘Glad we have a big house?’ he called.
She placed the puppy in her basket and walked through the kitchen and into the dining area. ‘Sometimes, I think this must have been a quieter place when the pigs lived here.’
‘I agree,’ he said.
‘And pigs are cleaner than boys.’
Theo took the hairbrush and pins from the pocket of his wife’s robe. Like a true expert, he shaped her hair into a chignon. ‘You’ll do,’ he pronounced. ‘Go sort out our litter of piglets while I cook the eggs.’
A lecture was delivered by Dad at the breakfast table. ‘This is a dog, not a toy. You may stroke her and help train her on a leash, but do not fight over her, do not chase her while she’s a pup, and do not stand on her or slap her. She is a sentient creature, so she feels pain and reacts to it. Michael, put the salt down – there is enough salt in the food on your plate, and too much salt can kill.’
The parents shared a glance that teetered on the brink of despair.
‘She’s young,’ Theo continued, ‘and she needs a lot of sleep, just like a human baby. If you are rough with her, she may grow up nasty, because this breed is endowed with huge intelligence and Alsatians will deal with you the way you deal with them. She will learn from us. Listen to me, Michael!’
The younger boy switched on his I-am-attentive expression.
‘If humanity hurts her, she will hurt humanity and the police will have her put down. Bad dogs are not born bad; they are made bad by bad people. We are good people. Finish your breakfast, then go play somewhere. Preferably outside and beyond earshot.’
The boys bolted their food and left.
‘We shouldn’t have bought her,’ Rosie said sadly. ‘I forgot about the daft duo.’
But Theo’s thinking in the matter was miles away from Rosie’s. ‘The pup will make them grow up, you’ll see. They have a little, four-legged and furry baby sister. Remember Mickle and how you became responsible for her? Take Harriet outside and stay with her until she performs.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ She went into the back garden with the puppy in her arms.
Both parents slumped into a relaxed state once all the young ones were out of the house. They drank more coffee and sat in welcome peace for a few precious minutes. Sometimes, however rarely the chance arrived, it felt good to be child-free and carefree lovers.
Tia broke the spell. ‘I wonder what they’re up to out there?’
Theo walked to the window. ‘Perhaps they’re playing with razor blades on the railway lines.’ He paused. ‘Come look,’ he said after a moment or two.
And there they were, all three of them with their new puppy. Rosie was teaching them how to stroke the little dog, showing them how Harriet’s ears would look when she was older, how to praise good behaviour. ‘I’ve never seen Michael so still,’ Tia said. ‘Even asleep, he wriggles like a fish on a hook.’
‘We must enjoy them, Portia. They will grow and go, because that’s how it works. Come on. We are going to be late for school.’
The residential school was beautiful, since much thought and a great deal of money had gone into its creation. Attics had been reinforced to contain two dormitories, plus accommodation for some staff and four fire exits which, though hardly things of beauty, ran down the sides and the back of the building.
The first floor was mainly for residential staff, and two student flats had been created, one at each end of the level. Older pupils could win a place in a flat, thus gaining the ability to live in a smaller commune where social and life skills might improve of their own accord. It didn’t always work out, though Pete Wray had taught staff and students to be forever hopeful.
The ground floor boasted a music room, a science lab, a domestic science kitchen, a library and a large art department. Small study rooms were used for individual tutorials for older children. Wood- and metalwork classes took place in large sheds at the back of the house, and Portia indulged her love for carpentry every time she visited.
Within days of opening, the place was full. Until further notice, only thirty places existed at Bartle Hall, though that number would probably increase in time. There were just three home rooms, as the classrooms had been named. Since there were just thirty children, the homes were labelled Infant, Junior and Senior. Each home room held roughly ten pupils, so individual attention was easier for every home-based teacher, and all three were residential with staggered weekends off.
There were day staff who came in to teach their specialist subjects for a few hours, but the three deputies had been chosen by Theo Quinn and Pete Wray, a rotund, excitable little man with a positive attitude and a great sense of humour. Homers, as Pete named them, had to be a near-impossible cross between parent and educator.
He hugged every member of the Quinn family, Theo included. ‘You’re looking so well, all of you. Isadora’s upstairs wearing a curtain as a cloak and giving a lesson in acting. I left her to it – she can be quite fie
rce with adults.’
‘We know,’ chimed the Quinn parents.
‘And with kids,’ Michael muttered. ‘She was going to do grieving bodily harm on David because he stood on his bucket.’
Tia looked at the ceiling. ‘Pete, don’t ask.’
He didn’t ask. ‘I’ve given you Tommy Gallagher’s flat. He’s gone home to Ireland to do war with a cousin about a racehorse. As you just said, don’t ask.’
‘OK. What about Rosie?’
‘She can have the guest room next door to Tommy’s flat.’
He led them to the grand ballroom, which was partitioned into three home rooms for much of the time. Now, the partitions had been drawn back, and a fire blazed in each of the two fireplaces. Magnificent Christmas trees covered in decorations stood a few paces away from each of the log fires.
‘Wonderful,’ Tia said, remembering her own Christmases in this massive room. She ‘saw’ Ma dressed as Fairy Clodhopper in a beautiful dress, all floaty and graceful, a sparkling tiara in her hair, twinkling wings on her back and black Wellington boots on her feet. ‘I fell out of my tree,’ she had moaned, throwing glitter dust over her girls.
Pa had been Santa with a cushion stuck under his clothes, while Portia and her sisters were often elves. This was a house for magic, and Tia hoped with all her heart that the residents would enjoy it.
‘You heard about the idea for a couple of disabled students?’ Pete asked.
‘Yes. Once certificated, Martha Foster would be a boon. Are the disabled kids affected only physically?’
‘Indeed they are. One has an IQ at genius level. They need some help; they also need a future. Their families abandoned them.’
Theo nodded. ‘Go ahead. There will be no discrimination in Isadora’s school. And remember, we must all remain colour blind. By the way, the basket Rosie is carrying contains a very young and totally incontinent puppy.’
Pete took it all in his stride. ‘Our boys and girls will help clean up after it.’ He smiled broadly, causing his eyes to disappear in his round, plump face. ‘Very little fazes pupils here, since they’ve been through so much before they came to us. Go and sort out your accommodation while I find a couple of dozen children. They’re out walking with Miss Stephenson; botany’s her speciality.’
And so Christmas at Bartle Hall was about to begin.
By Christmas Eve, when all the children were in bed, though not necessarily asleep, the ballroom looked like fairyland. The vast ceiling was covered in floating strings of silver, some long, some short, and a few that stretched for yards. A huge table that was really several pushed together was dressed in red cloth with silver runners down the centre. There were crackers and napkins and place names; a bran tub sat next to each tree, while balloons filled with fairy dust hovered in the air. Tomorrow, after the meal, Theo would burst them all with a long stick, and the children would be covered in fairy dust.
A few of the older pupils joined in with preparations. Too mature to believe in Santa, they were happy to create the illusion for younger residents. Among these helpers, Rosie found her niche. Because she was of their peer group, they talked to her after she spoke about her life as a small child. She was one of them, and this was where she would work. ‘I’ll stick with my chosen subjects,’ she told her mother, ‘but I’d like to be a homer here.’
Tia said nothing; Rosie was at the age where ambitions changed as often as the British weather. Instead, she begged a favour. ‘Rosie, we’ve put you next to a girl called Eileen. She hasn’t said much yet, but her infancy reads like a horror story. Eileen’s very thin, and she often refuses food. She was poisoned after scavenging from dustbins. Look after her, darling.’
‘Of course.’
A baby Alsatian tumbled past them; she was covered in shreds of silver known as lametta, to which she’d accidentally become attached while investigating Christmas decoration boxes. Rosie grinned. ‘Don’t say it, Mum. I’ll take her outside.’
The boys had joined in the search for holly – bushes at Holly Cottage would be denuded by now. Tia sat down suddenly. Cottages. What about deprived children who still had one loving parent? What about a mother trying to protect her children from an abusive father? There would be fathers whose wives had died, good dads who could no longer work because of their children. She wrote a note in her head. Prefabricated cottages? There was enough land, for heaven’s sake. Like Topsy, this place would grow and grow . . . But would the rejected be upset by some day pupils having a home and a parent?
Ma was up to something. She’d been buzzing about all day, and a piano had been moved into the ballroom. Hmm. What was Isadora planning? Music hall, probably. She’d do the one about a boy in the gallery, then the woman chasing through London with a caged bird as she tried to catch up with the removals van, Tipperary, knees up, plus a few she’d invented herself. Pete Wray would play the piano, Rosie would probably sing, too . . .
Tom, Nancy and Martha were happily busy with place settings. Martha looked years younger, slimmer, fitter and almost confident. Nancy was without her knitting bag – things were looking up.
This evening, Jules and Simon would arrive with Abigail and Stephen, their delightful offspring. Delia and Elaine, too, were on their way. Family. It was about family. And now, all these extra children were members of the clan.
A hand touched her shoulder. ‘Portia?’
‘Yes, Theodore?’ She noticed that he was carrying the pup’s basket.
‘Get upstairs,’ he ordered. ‘There’s cleaving to be done.’
They’re drifting past, coming, going,
Hurrying, thinking, talking, walking,
Frowning, blinking, finding, seeking
The start of their Liverpool day.
Perhaps one will see me, free me.
My city, where’s Pity? Is she here?
So pretty, so knowing, cheeks glowing
With anger boiling, soiling the air.
She stood tall in the hall for me, just for me,
While I hid in the back, concealed but not free
Cos they’re coming for the Brat, little cat.
(Marks on his face from brawling before crawling
Home, where I waited, agitated. The man who can
Beat me, defeat me, destroy me, annoy me
By being alive).
Just a girl. Curl into myself on a shelf in my head
Waiting. Will she buy me, untie me, put me to bed
In a new place? Shelter. Helter-skelter, I return to the rails
Might she come? The hum of traffic behind me. Please find me.
Portia. Her name, a game played by her father, who would rather
Pick heroes from Shakespeare, a writer long dead. She said,
‘I’ll be there half past eight, you must wait and bring nothing.’
So I’ve No Thing from then, though now hasn’t started.
Are we parted already? Liver’s time, tick tock, ten o’clock.
‘Pier Head,’ she said. Led me back to my chair, touched my hair
‘Sit there.’ I sat and was proud, my heart in my ears
The fears will go. That’s what she told me.
Last thing she said? ‘Go to the Pier Head.’
‘A fighter, little blighter, an urchin, needs birching,’
He said, waving his jerry can. The American
Didn’t speak, stared at the freak, then at me
Grabbed my hand, made me stand near his door
Where I lingered, light-fingered. ‘She steals!’
Yes, I did, needed meals.
Then the man from New York brought a fork
And his dinner. ‘You’re thinner,’ he said.
Sad eyes, deep frown, black gown, Headmaster
Striding faster
Crossed the floor, closed his door and swore.
He swore, and the word rhymes with luck.
Please don’t tell. I’m eating his tuck.
I await my fate, half past eight
Lon
g gone. Will she come?
Angry river makes me shiver
Dread and tears mingle
Fingers tingle.
Is this a cruel game?
Did somebody shout my name?
Meet Me at the Pier Head
Ruth Hamilton is the bestselling author of numerous novels, including Mulligan’s Yard, The Reading Room, Mersey View, That Liverpool Girl, Lights of Liverpool, A Liverpool Song and A Mersey Mile. She has become one of the north-west of England’s most popular writers. She was born in Bolton, which is the setting for many of her novels, and has spent most of her life in Lancashire. She now lives in Liverpool.
By Ruth Hamilton
A Whisper to the Living
With Love From Ma Maguire
Nest of Sorrows
Billy London’s Girls
Spinning Jenny
The September Starlings
A Crooked Mile
Paradise Lane
The Bells of Scotland Road
The Dream Sellers
The Corner House
Miss Honoria West
Mulligan’s Yard
Saturday’s Child
Matthew & Son
Chandler’s Green
The Bell House
Dorothy’s War
A Parallel Life
Sugar and Spice
The Judge’s Daughter
The Reading Room
Mersey View
That Liverpool Girl
Lights of Liverpool
A Liverpool Song
A Mersey Mile
Meet Me at the Pier Head
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The usual suspects – my family and friends, my care-givers and my animals.
PC Greenwood, probably no longer with us, thank you for ending the nightmare.
First published 2015 by Macmillan
Meet Me at the Pier Head Page 43