After the War is Over (42 page)

Dorothy stopped. ‘We thought you’d left us altogether,’ she said. ‘That we’d never see you again. This is punishment.’

‘You won’t see me again if you don’t stop twisting my ears.’ They both stopped.

‘Do you mean that?’ Clare looked as if she might cry.

‘Of course I don’t mean it, no,’ William said good-naturedly, ‘but you really are making me feel ill.’

Iris came into the room. ‘Leave William alone, girls. You’re behaving like little children.’

They slid off his knees and leaned against him instead. ‘We’ve missed you,’ Clare sighed. ‘We thought you’d given up being our brother and would never come back again.’

‘I have been back a few times.’

Dorothy poked him. ‘But not when we were in. If we’d known you were coming we would have been in, wouldn’t we, Clare?’

‘Of course. In fact, if we’d known you were coming, we’d have baked a cake.’

‘Ha, ha, very funny.’ William heard the front door open and close. Someone had come in, probably Tom. He’d heard Iris phone him earlier. ‘William’s here,’ she’d hissed.

‘Hello there, son.’ Tom beamed at him. ‘How’s the world of politics?’

‘It’s pretty fine,’ William said, ‘though I’m thinking of making a move soon. I’ve been long enough in my present job.’

‘That’s probably true.’ Tom sat opposite him and Iris and the girls went into the kitchen to prepare lunch. ‘Good to get as much experience as you can while you’re young. You can’t hop about changing jobs once you’re in your thirties.’

‘That’s right,’ William agreed. ‘I’m just not sure which way to go next.’

‘I suppose,’ Tom mused, frowning thoughtfully, ‘you could always work for a Tory for a while, see what it’s like on the other side of the fence sort of thing. Or what about that magazine you wrote the article for about a year ago? Did you do any more?’

‘About half a dozen or so. They bought them all.’

‘Maybe they would take you on their permanent staff. Or you could submit articles on a freelance basis to the press in general. I understand they pay quite well.’

That was three ideas in the space of just three minutes. William was glad he’d come.

A month later, William went to work as bag-carrier, speech-writer, secretary and chauffeur to Sir Roland White, a gentle, old-fashioned Tory whose father and grandfather before him had held the same seat in Devon for more than sixty years. His salary doubled, though Auntie Kath reminded him he couldn’t have the flat in Lambeth for ever. He bought a guitar and signed up for a course of lessons.

Meanwhile, as he gradually settled into his new job and practised the guitar, Christmas approached. He would be spending half the time with Nell in Waterloo and the other half with Iris and Tom in Bootle. He had been invited to Devon for a few days with Sir Roland and his family – he had a real cracker of a granddaughter called Sophie – but perhaps another time.

Life was turning out to be pretty good again. He knew where he stood, though not exactly what he wanted from the future. But that would come with time.

New Year’s Eve, another year gone, people exclaimed in surprise. Nineteen seventy was a matter of hours away. The Grants, including William, Dorothy and Clare, sat down to a dinner of bits and pieces left over from Christmas. A chicken pie that had been frozen, a tin of ham, Brussels sprouts, the last of the stuffing, dates, a giant trifle, half a Christmas pudding, some crumbling Christmas cake and a Yule log that nobody liked.

‘Well, I’m glad we got rid of that lot,’ Iris said when the meal was over. The Yule log could go out for the birds. She would never buy one again.

The dishes washed, the family settled in front of the television to watch a film. Tom started to fall asleep, but was startled awake by the sound of a car hooting its horn repeatedly outside.

‘Is that someone calling on us?’ Iris muttered.

William got to his feet and went to look out of the window, following by the girls. A white Hillman Imp was parked outside and people were climbing out; two women, he noted, one carrying a baby.

‘It’s our Louise!’ Clare squeaked. ‘And she’s brought the baby.’

The other young woman, the driver, William noted, was Grace Kaminski. She opened the car boot and began to remove suitcases. Dorothy and Clare were already running down the path to greet them, screaming mightily and disturbing the peace on what was an unusually quiet day in Balliol Road.

Iris was beside herself. All her children, a baby, and her husband together under one roof on New Year’s Eve! Although it was many years since she and Tom had been proper man and wife, it seemed only right that he be there. The house had rarely been so noisy and full of happiness and high spirits.

Louise was describing how they’d managed to leave Boston with George. ‘Both parents are supposed to sign an application for their child’s passport. Grace asked a friend to pretend to be Gary and he forged his signature, otherwise I would never have got away.’

At this, Tom was both shocked and worried. ‘But that’s a crime, love. You could get into serious trouble.’

‘Only in the States, Mr Grant,’ Grace Kaminski pointed out. ‘And I’m sure the Dixons wouldn’t go to court or anything like that. It would look very bad on the family.’

Iris watched Louise and William with their heads together, obviously really pleased to see each other. She remembered when they were little, less than a year apart in age, inseparable, and Louise at about five declaring that she wanted to marry her big brother when she grew up. Iris and Tom had laughed, though it actually was a possibility. Her heart quickened. Once Louise was divorced – she intended to start proceedings in the New Year – she would be free to marry again, and William was already free. She couldn’t think of a single thing more wonderful than the two of them getting married.

Hints would have to be dropped, the truth about William’s birth revealed – if he agreed, of course – and Iris would have what had suddenly become her heart’s desire.

Chapter 19

The first event of any importance to take place in the new year was the death of Paddy O’Neill. He had drunk to excess ever since his beloved wife had died at such a relatively young age, and everyone considered it was a miracle he had lasted as long as he had.

It was hard to be sad at the funeral, where so many jokes were told about Paddy’s drinking prowess, the Finnegan Brothers played all his favourite Irish tunes and the mourners danced a mad jig and became pleasantly drunk themselves.

William felt obliged to attend; after all, Paddy had been his father, even if he’d never known. He didn’t like attending these Catholic rituals, where he felt desperately out of place, and unable to reveal his true relationship to the likes of Ryan O’Neill, his half-brother, whom he liked instantly, and Bridie, his half-sister, a little mousy woman who seemed a bit stuck up if the truth be known. According to Maggie she was twenty-eight, but she looked more like a teenager.

Auntie Kath made a speech, astonishing everyone by announcing that she would retire from Parliament before the next election so that someone younger could take her place.

‘You’re little more than a slip of a girl, Kathleen,’ someone shouted.

‘Yes, lad, but I’ve got things to do. As soon as I stand down, I’m getting married, but I’ll remain in gainful employment. I’ll be working for a charity. I decided I needed a change.’

A voice came from the back of the room, a woman’s voice, loud and determined; a voice that demanded respect. ‘I’d like to declare meself a prospective parliamentary candidate to stand for the seat of Bootle Docklands,’ it declared. ‘The constituency needs an heir to Kathleen who will fight as she did for the rights of the people, the trade unions, the weak and the poor, the sick and the old.’

There was a burst of applause and the speaker turned out to be Bridie O’Neill, who no one had thought would say boo to a goose, but who was obviously very different when it came to politics.

‘Who’s Auntie Kath marrying?’ Maggie demanded of William. ‘I didn’t know she had that sort of relationship with a man.’

‘Neither did I.’ William claimed total surprise. ‘They must be doing their courting in secret.’

They all had such a good time that it was hard to feel sorry about Paddy having died.

‘Well, that’s the way it should be,’ Jack said later to Maggie, who complained she hadn’t cried once at the funeral. ‘We should be celebrating the person’s life, not weeping and wailing.’

‘I’ll never stop weeping and wailing if you die before me,’ Maggie said soberly.

‘Don’t be daft, darling.’ He stroked her hair. ‘You’re a fighter. You’ll soon get over losing me.’

‘No I won’t,’ Maggie shook her head. ‘In fact I hope I’m the one who dies first, so
you
can jolly well get over
me
.’

At Easter, Holly Kaminski married Dennis Walker. The winter had been harsh, but the weather obligingly improved in time for the occasion and the day was sunny and warm. Maggie hadn’t gone as mad as she would have liked with the arrangements. Holly’s wedding dress had been made by a local dressmaker, Grace had bought her pretty cotton bridesmaid’s dress at John Lewis, and Maggie’s smart ice-blue outfit came from Marks & Spencer. There was a buffet rather than a sit-down meal, served in a marquee in the garden.

It had seemed wrong to waste money on a slap-up wedding that the young couple didn’t want. Maggie hoped that when Grace was married, it’d be an opportunity to go to town with a really grand affair. On the other hand, Grace, who’d been living at home since returning from Boston with Louise and her baby after getting up to all sorts of shenanigans – taking the baby out of the country illegally, from what she could gather – was quite likely to get married, if she ever did, wearing jeans and halfway up a mountain somewhere like Nepal. Her mum and dad wouldn’t even know until they received a telegram afterwards.

Maggie circulated among the guests, shaking hands or kissing cheeks, whichever was appropriate. She hugged Nell, who looked lovely in pale green, a touch of grey already in her smooth brown hair.

‘Your Quinn or Kev are likely to be the next to get married,’ Maggie said. Grace had insisted on inviting them, but Holly had refused to let them play.

‘There’ll be no rowdy Irish jigs at
my
wedding, if you don’t mind,’ she had said in the hoity-toity voice that nowadays she used virtually all the time.

Maggie sat beside her friend. ‘I’ll be glad when all this is over,’ she whispered. ‘I must be getting old. There was a time when I used to love this sort of thing.’ Both she and Nell would be forty-five that year.

‘You’d enjoy it if it was someone else’s wedding,’ Nell advised. ‘As it is, you feel responsible for everyone else having a good time and nothing going wrong.’

‘Oh Nell,’ Maggie said fervently. ‘I wish you lived here. I’m forever getting meself in a state when there’s no need to. Jack’s always telling me to calm down.’

Nell smiled. ‘Well, if you’ve got Jack to tell you, why do you need me?’

‘Because I don’t take any notice of him, but I do of you.’

A week later, in Liverpool, Iris Grant was telling Matthew Williams yet again that she couldn’t see him any more. Her life was too full for an affair. She would have given up her job in Owen Owen’s had she not needed the money. Tom was incredibly generous, but she felt obliged to contribute something to the household expenses.

The trouble with her job was that Matthew knew exactly where to find her on Friday and Saturday nights and he refused to listen when she tried to tell him their affair was over.

‘Things have changed,’ she would explain. ‘I have so much to do nowadays. My daughter has a baby to look after and she needs help, and my son comes home most weekends. I feel obliged to be there.’ She
wanted
to be there. When William was home, Iris didn’t want to be anywhere else. And because he was there as well as Louise and George, Tom was coming round more often. The house was full of noise, laughter and the sound of a baby. It was exactly what Iris had hoped for back in those quiet, empty years when she’d longed for a baby of her own.

‘But I love you,’ Matthew would say tetchily, as if that was all that mattered.

Iris would insist on going home when she came out of work, but find herself agreeing to see him one afternoon in the Temple the following week. Today, though, she was determined to finish it. It was Wednesday, and he was driving her back to Balliol Road from the hotel in his Jaguar when she told him the relationship must definitely end.

He became angry. ‘Are you saying our affair merely helped fill in the time before your daughter came home?’

‘No, no, of course not. I loved you.’ She realised her mistake straight away.

‘Loved!’ he snapped. ‘
Loved!
Are you saying you no longer do?’

‘In a way. All good things come to an end,’ she said weakly.

He stopped the car, braking sharply. They were barely halfway home. ‘Get out,’ he hissed. ‘Get out. I never want to see you again.’

‘Matthew . . . let’s not finish like this,’ she protested.

He leaned across and opened the passenger door. ‘Get
out
!’

It wasn’t the end. Next day, he phoned and pleaded for forgiveness. ‘I was upset, I’m sorry. Let’s meet again, please.’

Iris flatly refused. Last night she’d had to get the bus home from where he’d ordered her out of his car. ‘No, Matthew,’ she said firmly.

He lost his temper, calling her a bitch, saying she was wicked to have led him on. She was reminded of the time more than twenty years ago when he’d tried to blackmail her. She put down the receiver. He phoned again a few days later. This time he cried and she listened, feeling miserable, because she really had loved him for a while.

‘Matthew, darling,’ she whispered. ‘It really is over.’ She held on until he stopped crying and had replaced the receiver without saying another word. Then she hung up and started to cry too.

A general election in June that year saw a Conservative government returned to power and the genial Edward Heath became prime minister.

Auntie Kath retired from politics and Bridget O’Neill was elected the Member for Bootle Docklands. Over the course of the last few months, Bridie the mouse had become Bridget the lion.