That Liverpool Girl (30 page)

Gloria insisted that Mel had no real problem, because Eileen and Keith would soon be replaced by her grandmother, who was hardly likely to start running around with a man. ‘We’re stuck with it,’ she grumbled.

‘Would you rather they split up?’ Mel asked. ‘Because people do separate, you know.’

‘Separate?’ shouted Gloria. ‘Separate? We’d need a fireman’s hose to keep our two apart. Where did we go wrong? We brought them up as best we could, didn’t we, bro?’

Peter shook his head. ‘I blame it on saccharine and Pasha. Mum was far better on real sugar, and Dad hates those Turkish cigarettes. But I think we should try to—’

The earthquake happened then. Although the siren had sounded, no one had bothered to go to the Anderson. People were becoming too blasé, too careless. Heinkels were suddenly overhead, that sick phut-phut sound of accompanying fighters making a backbeat for the bombers’ continuous drone. The three youngsters dived under the kitchen table. And they heard it, picked out easily the bomb that bore their names. It whistled happily, the pitch changing as it neared the target. ‘Mam!’ Mel screamed. ‘Get under something.’ She held on to Gloria’s hand. It occurred to her that she hadn’t finished her geography homework, that she might never finish it . . .

It landed eventually. The blast rippled through the house, and Peter threw himself on top of the two girls. Dad had told him about blast victims. They were lifted out unscathed, not a mark, not a drop of blood. But inside, major organs had been battered and broken through being shaken about, and Peter didn’t want that to happen to Fal-Lal or the beautiful one. All air was sucked from the room. With it travelled pots, pans and cutlery, every item following shards of glass from the over-sink window. When air returned, it brought with it dust, bits of plaster and debris that made breathing a near impossibility.

Peter crawled out, stood up, and dragged the two girls to the door. He doused all lights before depositing both in the garden. For a moment, he listened to the disappearing aircraft and watched a blood-red sky. Liverpool was burning. In fact, it was nearer, so it was probably Bootle. Nearer still, a newly released missile was doing its job. It had hit a house in the next avenue, was burning fiercely, and people were screaming. The bomb meant for St Michael’s Road had left a huge crater in the playing fields behind Miss Morrison’s house.

A believer in Christ, Peter bit back a prayer and replaced it with a curse. ‘God damn you for all eternity,’ he whispered. ‘May you rot in pieces.’ He ran into the house. Miss Morrison, dusty but unhurt, demanded a cup of tea. He explained that she might have to wait, because the kitchen needed checking for safety, especially where town gas was concerned.

Upstairs, Eileen and Keith emerged from a huge Victorian wardrobe that looked hearty enough to survive Armageddon. ‘Mel?’ Eileen asked Peter as he entered the room.

‘Outside.’ Peter sat on the floor, his legs suddenly frail. ‘We were in the kitchen and it caught the back-blast from a bomb in the field. The girls are all right, though they might be getting a bit cold. Kitchen’s a mess, and a bungalow at the other side of the playing field took a direct hit. I’ve turned the gas off at the mains just in case, and Miss Morrison wants a cup of tea.’

Keith muttered about a paraffin stove in the shed before going to check on the girls.

‘Are you sure my Mel’s all right, Peter?’

‘I put them in the fresh air. There was dust and stuff all over the place. I was all right. I was fine till now. There was no air, so I put Mel and Gloria on the path. Go and see them, Mrs Watson – I mean Greenhalgh.’

‘I’ll send Keith to help you down the stairs. You’re in shock, love.’

Alone, the fourteen-year-old crawled out to the staircase and finally allowed his tears to break free. He was at a strange place in life, neither man nor boy, a slave to hormonal invasion, insanely in love with Mel, not old enough for that, not young enough to be satisfied with a googly or a six at the crease. And his parents going all doolally wasn’t making life any easier. He knew what they were up to; the whole of St Andrew’s Road probably knew and, while Peter was glad that the separate rooms thing was over, he wondered why they had to keep reminding him that the only fun he could have was solitary, untidy and slightly embarrassing?

‘Peter?’

Through silly, girlish tears, he saw her looming over him. Although a couple of stairs lower, she was standing, and he felt small, mostly because he was sobbing. ‘Mel. There’s grit in my eyes.’

‘Yes.’ She squeezed in next to him and gave him a cuddle. ‘You may have saved our lives.’

‘Doubt it.’ Sometimes, she seemed almost glacial, but this was not one of those times. She cradled his head; he could hear her heartbeat behind the rise and fall of her breasts. ‘Mel . . .’

‘I know. We’re too young, beautiful boy. Just make your way to Cambridge. You’ll be right up there, top of my list after I’ve invented the ten-day week.’

‘The what?’

‘Ignore. It’s a joke between me and Mam. If we told anyone we have feelings for each other, we’d be laughed out of court. My mother would throw an apoplectic fit, and yours would need morphine. Keith and your dad might well be pistols at dawn on the beach or in Sniggery Woods, and the war would become a side issue. Even Gloria doesn’t know how I feel about you. I wasn’t sure myself until recently, because you got on my nerves something shocking till I stopped being thirteen.’

Peter swallowed painfully. It was an audible gulp, and he wished he could bite it back, because it imitated some dire digestive ailment, and he needed to be perfect. ‘Can’t we be together sometimes?’ he managed. He had to know, had to find out about . . . And he loved her – he did!

Mel grinned. ‘Of course we can; there’s a war on, so there’s rationing enough without cutting out all the fun. As a racy girl in the sixth form told me, we can have the overture, two movements and an interval, but no intercourse.’ She was being a clever clogs again, but that was fine, since she was talking to another clever clogs. ‘And no telling Gloria, or I shall remove all privileges with a very sharp knife.’

She was just like her mother, unusual, funny, occasionally inscrutable and chilly, always beautiful. She was so . . . so adult, so clever. He didn’t know what to say to her. Just now, he was a small boy aching into the soft comfort of a female form. Top of the class at school, he was retarded while on the stairs with a princess who had half promised to become his companion in naughtiness and joy. ‘Thanks,’ he achieved finally.

‘What for?’

‘For being you, Mel.’

Eileen found them like that. ‘Has he stopped trembling?’

‘Yes.’ Mel ruffled his hair and sat him up. ‘My hero,’ she said. ‘Covered in dust, but still a hero.’

The three went downstairs. One thing was clear to Eileen; she and Keith could not go back to Willows Edge until the kitchen had been made safe for Miss Morrison and her carers. Help was promised already. A local builder, who had arrived to check damage in several houses, intended to return and pump concrete under the floor. The gas supply was intact, as were water pipes and drains. Miss Morrison had her cup of tea, so all was well with the world for now.

No. All was nearly well. Eileen studied her daughter. Something was going on between her and Peter Bingley. Could Nellie manage this? Mel was clever, the lad was clever, and they were both fourteen. Gifted kids matured early and got into all kinds of scrapes. Mel must remain untouched, because she had a dream that could not include children, not for some considerable time.

The all-clear sounded, and the Bingleys set off for home. Eileen dragged her daughter into the hallway. ‘No,’ she said, a finger wagging an inch from Mel’s nose. ‘Don’t start. Not with him, not with anybody. With a promising future, you don’t want to be throwing yourself away, do you? You could have a baby.’ Eileen remembered her own youth. Raging hormones plagued everyone, not just this younger and slightly more outspoken generation. And Mel, like Eileen, was bold and direct.

‘Not if I don’t get pregnant. Actually, fifteen or sixteen is the ideal age from a physical point of view. Society made it wrong, so too many of us have trouble delivering later in life. But I shall not let you down.’

‘Promise me, sweetheart.’

‘Honestly, I won’t let you down. More to the point, I’ve no intention of letting me down.’ She chuckled. ‘He is delicious, though, isn’t he?’

‘Mel, I—’

‘You’re the motherly one, come in number five. Gloria and Peter are going through a terrible time, because their parents have revived their relationship. They’re living in a den of iniquity. We’ve all heard of Jack the Ripper, now we’ve got Keith the Kisser. Three impressionable young people living in unwholesome atmospheres.’ Mel giggled.

Eileen smiled in spite of herself. ‘There’s nothing unwholesome as long as there’s a marriage certificate and a wedding ring.’

‘And you’ve never been tempted?’

In her head, Eileen heard the voice of Tom Bingley.
Even if it ends, it will never be over.
And
I’ll lick the butter from your fingers.
‘Yes, I’ve been tempted. I always swore I’d tell all of you the truth unless a lie might do some good.’ But the whole truth in this instance? Could she speak about Peter’s father? No. ‘Yes,’ she repeated slowly. ‘I’ve carried the devil with me, and listened to Satan’s whispered promises. But I never gave in.’

Mel sat on the bottom stair. ‘You should write, Mam. While you’re pregnant, do some writing.’

Eileen shrugged. Writing? ‘How can I write when I’m worried about everything and everybody?’

‘Write about being worried about everything and everybody. After the war, as long as we win, people will want to know about what it all meant to real folk. There’ll be medals and speeches, fireworks and flag-waving, pompous figures strutting up and down the Mall. What about cooking for your children, clothing families when everything’s rationed, watching your city burn? What about Kitty? And our two loonies making a break for Liverpool? Mam? Why are you smiling?’

‘Not sure.’ But she was sure. That nice little woman from St Andrew’s Road had her husband back. Dr Tom Bingley had finally learned to count his blessings. The smile faded. ‘Mel, you’re so young. I need to lay this on with a trowel. Stay safe.’

‘I shall. Get back to Keith the Cuddle before he fades away for lack of nourishment.’

Head shaking, Eileen walked out of the hall. Her firstborn had spoken in short sentences before walking properly, had fed herself early, had raced through junior school like the Flying Scotsman, and now seemed to have fitted herself with a forty-horsepower engine. Mel was speeding through life at a terrifying rate, and nothing could be done to halt her, nor would she be slowed. There was always a price to pay when a special child was involved.

Keith found her. ‘Are you all right, darling? Miss Morrison’s on her second cup of tea, this time topped up with a dash of Scotch.’

Eileen sat down on the living room sofa. ‘Mel’s fourteen going on forty, Keith. The trouble with having a daughter like my Amelia Anne is that she leaves you behind. Don’t get me wrong, babe, because I had sexual urges at her age, but I wasn’t so old in the head. She’s after Tom Bingley’s son.’

‘Tonight’s brown-eyed blond?’

‘That’s the chap. They were sitting on the stairs together and . . . oh, God.’

‘Don’t cry, love.’

Eileen dashed the wetness from her cheeks. ‘This is going to sound so daft you’ll want me locked up.’

‘Only if I have visiting privileges.’

She pondered for a while, took time to shunt her thoughts into some kind of order. After that, she needed to find the words. ‘A premonition,’ she said finally. ‘It’s daft, I know. But I looked at them; she had an arm round him and his face was on her chest. They were both covered in muck, but so very beautiful. It was like something done by Michelangelo. And while the sensible side of my mind was horrified, some part of me felt not happy, but all right. As if I could see them sitting like that forever, as if they belong together.’

‘You’re right, you need to see a doctor. Did you have your cod liver oil and malt?’

Eileen tutted. The trouble with men was that they had the imagination of dead reptiles. A woman looked at the sky and saw eternity; a man saw blue and wondered where the nearest pub might be. ‘Vive la bloody difference,’ she muttered.

‘Eh?’

‘Nothing. Just a saying of our Mel’s. Drink your tea, we’ve things to do.’

There was more wrong with Frances Morrison’s house than had met the eye of a builder speculating in the dark after the bombing was over. Several homes had been disturbed, while the old couple in the bungalow had both perished. Work continued during daylight hours, and all available men toiled to stabilize the buildings. Liverpool already had many homeless families, so labourers battled to hang on to as many homes as possible.

A system developed almost of its own accord. While fuel lines and water pipes were checked and restored where necessary, neighbours who were unaffected did the cooking. It finally reached the stage where no one knew whose crockery was whose, so items were piled up until someone ran out of plates or cups and came to reclaim her property. The someone would arrive, find her displaced items, and stop for a chat.

All of this suited Frances Morrison down to the ground. Eileen became make-up artist, dresser and manicurist, while the old woman bucked up no end during this supposedly dark time. She had visitors almost daily. Some had exciting tales to tell, and she lapped them up like a thirsty cat with a bowl of milk. One neighbour spoke about her son who, at sixteen, was already a volunteer fire-fighter. The rules regarding age had been bent, and that young man was happy to stand with two others and hold on to a massive hose through which many pounds of pressure flowed. ‘If they let go, it would kill their comrades.’