That Liverpool Girl (49 page)

Nellie went upstairs to pack her bag. While she was gone, Hilda phoned Keith. He was so grateful that he almost wept. If anyone could keep his Eileen under control, it was Nellie. He had petrol, a neighbour would stay with Eileen, and he would be at Willows in just over an hour.

He replaced the receiver and went into the once more ex-dining room. ‘Your mother’s coming,’ he advised the patient. ‘I’m going for her. Mrs Anderson or Mrs Wrigley will sit with you.’

Eileen eyed him balefully. ‘One condition.’

‘All right.’

‘Mam can be the keeper of the royal bedpan.’

Keith opened the cage door and stood over her. ‘When I said there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, I meant it. But yes, Nellie can be chief bum-wiper. I’m going now to get a babysitter. Don’t move. Oh, and I’m doing the rest of the looking-after bit. Your mother will have enough chores.’

She blinked rapidly, because she’d cried enough for now. This was a man who cared deeply. Every day he did or said something precious; every day he proved himself. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘You’re beyond wonderful.’

‘I know.’ He sighed in an exaggerated fashion. ‘And so modest with it. Mr Perfect, that’s me.’

‘Bugger off.’

He kissed her forehead and buggered off.

Elizabeth Ryan was often described as a woman not to be trifled with. She was straight all the way up and all the way down, no discernible waist, no bustline, no hips. During the war, she rode a bicycle whenever possible, because fuel was scarce and because she wanted to stay fit for her favourite pastime, which was golf. In spite of her slender frame, she had donated to the world two attractive, clever children and enough tournament trophies to crowd a mantelpiece. Like the Watson/Kennedy/Greenhalgh women, she was determined, strong and feisty; she was also quietly angry.

When Bingley’s receptionist left, Elizabeth walked into his empty waiting room and tapped on the surgery door.

‘Come.’

She went in. ‘A word or several,’ she said.

Tom looked up. God, what a sight this was. She looked like something that had miraculously survived six months on a desert island, starved body, skin like thin paper, a shadow of moustache threatening the upper lip. ‘Liz,’ he said, rising to his feet.

‘Oh, sit down. You’ll need that chair in a minute, Tom. I have a whole kipper full of bones to pick with you. Eileen Greenhalgh. Do I need to say more?’

He felt the heat in his face. ‘What about her?’

‘Sensible woman, pretty as a picture, decent husband.’ She leaned forward and lowered her tone. ‘While you were declaring undying love for her on Moor Lane, she was almost in labour.’

Tom’s jaw dropped. ‘She should have told me.’

‘She didn’t know. I examined her and found the dislocated operculum. I surely don’t need to remind you of the implications. She now has to lie flat for weeks on end, her husband can’t return to his proper job, and she is terrified. Of you.’

He closed his mouth with an audible click. ‘God,’ he groaned.

‘Now, listen to me, you fool. There are two babies. One is large and reasonably well developed, the other is smaller. Both deserve a chance. By making her stand there while you carried on like a love-sick teenager, you may have cost them their lives. Even the bigger twin needs to stay where she is. The smaller one might not survive anyway – we all know twins do battle before birth, and the weaker one may not make it into the world. All that aside, my patient is taking legal advice, because you have plagued her for well over a year. Should you disobey a court injunction, you would lose everything – your practice, your family, perhaps your liberty and, of course, your precious position in local society. Stay away from her. You know me, Tom. No threat I make is empty.’

He swallowed noisily. ‘I was just . . . talking to her. There’s nothing going on. There never has been anything—’

‘Only because she has your measure.’ She leaned even closer. ‘Miss Morrison knew the lot – Dockers’ Word, Mrs Kennedy’s attack on you. And we all know why those things happened. Eileen doesn’t want you. She wants to go back to Keith’s home and live the country life.’

He gave up. ‘I know.’

‘Then why, Tom?’ Her anger melted. The man was vulnerable.

He steepled his fingers and placed his chin on the apex. ‘It’s ridiculous. I just met her and loved her, fought like hell for my marriage, tried to stay away, told myself it was just sex. But it isn’t. And it isn’t going away, Liz.’

‘Willpower?’

‘Where she’s concerned, I have none.’

‘Then we have a problem.’

They sat in silence for several minutes, at the end of which Tom Bingley conceded defeat. He would not see her again, would not telephone the house, would distance himself from the whole family. The daughters of the two houses were best friends, and Marie had grown close to Eileen, but Tom needed not interfere with any of that.

Liz studied him while he spoke. He was edgy, uncertain and terribly unhappy. She was one of his doctors, and she wasn’t liking what she saw. She asked about sleep pattern and, as she feared, he displayed symptoms of both anxiety and clinical depression. Because he was a medic, he knew the implications, and the expression in his eyes screamed for help. ‘You’re no candidate for electro-convulsive or insulin coma therapy, Tom. Emotionally, you were quite well organized till Eileen came along. The woman in Rodney Street – do you think she could help?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m too tired to try. Eileen has taken me over body and soul.’

‘I can’t move her to that village, and you know why. I’m putting her with Barr, and she’ll deliver in Parkside if she doesn’t miscarry. What the hell am I supposed to do? Prescribe bromide for you?’

Again, he raised his shoulders.

‘Are you still intimate with Marie?’

‘Sometimes, yes.’

‘Bloody hell, man. You spent a fortune—’

‘I spent a fortune to prove I was desirable even to Marie. It’s always been about me, me, me.’

‘You hate you.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s depression.’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you self-medicated? What’s your poison?’

‘Anything I can get my hands on in the evenings when I’m at home. Spirits, wine, beer if there’s nothing else. The drinking’s not yet out of control, but I’m afraid it may become so. And all because of a little woman from Scotland Road.’

Elizabeth Ryan was at a loss. Here sat a patient with full insight into his condition and its implications. He was intelligent, capable, and a darned good physician. And he had fallen in love. This was not a sin, but she had long recognized that it could become an illness. For most people, the disease righted itself, couples settled down, remained close and were cured. Or they parted, recovered and looked elsewhere. But the unrequited version was potentially deadly. ‘I have a theory that testosterone kills off brain cells,’ she muttered, almost to herself. ‘Women suffer less. I don’t know why, but there it is.’

‘Oh, God.’ He made a pillow with his arms and placed his head on it.

Liz had to make a decision. ‘Tom, I can’t certify you, because you’re sane. You will have to volunteer. I’m naming it nervous exhaustion. We all know you’ve been dashing down to town to help after running two or three surgery sessions a day.’

His head shot up. ‘We’ve lawyers down there who work full office hours before going out to act as firemen. Why am I different?’

‘You just are. I’m going to talk to Marie. There is help. Naturally, I will not mention Eileen Greenhalgh to your wife. But you must go away from here, my friend. Please, allow me to help.’

Tom nodded his agreement. Unless something happened, he might go right under and be unfit for work. Liz Ryan, while not a gentle deliverer of bad news, always knew her onions. He was unbelievably tired, and she saw that. He wasn’t eating properly, was getting very little sleep, and alcoholism lay in his path. But there might be a fork in the road. He couldn’t yet see it, but someone else might spot it and get him to change direction.

‘Tom?’

He looked up and, just for a moment, caught a glimpse of the reason why her handsome husband was so devoted to her. She cared, and her eyes were pretty. ‘What?’

‘You’ll be all right. I promise you.
Nil desperandum.
’

‘That’s what Eileen calls the coal man. But she altered it slightly to Neil Desperado. He fancies her as well.’

‘Is Neil his name?’

He shook his head. ‘No. See what I mean? She makes it up as she goes along, and she carries every colour of the rainbow in her palette. My head’s full of her. When I wake at five in the morning, she’s there. When I try to fall asleep at night, she’s sitting on a draining board with three cups and a pan. Just a game she plays. With him.’

‘He’s a good man.’

‘I know. This is obsession.’

Outside, Elizabeth dried her eyes. Detachment was vital in a doctor, but she was temporarily defeated. Tom Bingley was not a bad person; he was just a man who had suffered an accident. He was one of those who had fallen in love a little late in life. He had married, children had been born, and the love of his life had fallen into his path when he was over the age of forty. There could be no quick cure; he was already teetering on the edge. Such a bloody shame. Not for the first time in her career, she felt powerless. Broken bodies showed and could often be dealt with. But fractured hearts and souls were beyond her reach. He had to go away.

While Dr Ryan was dealing with one Bingley, Mel had her hands full with another of that clan. In truth, the reverse was nearer the mark, because Peter had handfuls of her. He had pushed her against a massive oak in Coronation Park, and his upper limbs were on the move. She was the only one. He had done his best to stay away thanks to the damage attempted by his sister, but that was all mended and forgotten now, so might they get together again? Secretly, of course. He wanted to prove that he wasn’t homosexual, but Mel had sense enough to know that she could not be part of that process.

‘Mel?’

‘No.’ The syllable emerged loudly and angrily. ‘I can’t live that kind of life. Mam’s pregnant and not at her best, because it’s a big baby and she’s tired.’ While Peter was weak, selfish and terrified.

‘But Mel—’

‘No.’ She pushed him away and battered him with her school satchel. When her arm grew tired, she spoke to him in a quieter tone. ‘Even if our relationship survived until we got to twenty, I couldn’t exist like that. When my mother’s back to normal, it’ll still be impossible. There’s no future for us. I may be a couple of months short of fifteen, but I’ve sense enough to know it couldn’t work. I’d try to change you. I’d worry every time you left the house. In the end, I’d probably murder you, because you worry about no one but yourself.’

He sat on a park bench, and she joined him. ‘Look, Pete. I feel really honoured that you talked to me, that you turned to me. But it wasn’t love, and we both know that. It was mechanics. It was something everyone has to go through.’

‘You said you’d always be there,’ he said petulantly. ‘Me a barrister, you a solicitor, one of the Inns, a house somewhere nice like Wimbledon.’

She turned to face him. ‘Look. I’ve read about it, and it’s against the law. The person who marries you will be a shield. But I will always, always be your friend.’

‘That’s why it has to be you. I can love you. We could be normal, have children, holidays, a good life. I know I can do that with you, and only you.’

Mel wanted to tell him that she wanted much, much more, that a life conducted behind closed doors was not for her. ‘I know a little bit about homosexuality,’ she told him quietly. ‘Miss Pickavance’s uncle was the same, and he kept on the move all the time, always aware that he could be arrested at any point. I can’t be your lace curtain, wouldn’t want to be.’

He stared at the ground. ‘What’s going to happen to me? It’s so . . . lonely. You’re the only one I could tell.’

Mel feared for him. She’d come across the poem written in France by Oscar Wilde after his release from Reading Gaol. Hard labour, hour after hour on a treadmill, just because he was different. ‘The only thing you can do, Peter, is to remain a bachelor, because no woman will be right. We’re not just wives and daughters and mothers; we’re people. When I went through that silly phase I thought I’d pay any price, because you’re so beautiful. Then I got angry when you tried to throw me out of the house – remember? I wiped the floor with your lovely mother. Women aren’t here just for men. That’s all finished. Why did you grab me just now? I’m not what you want.’

He didn’t weep, but his voice was unsteady as he tried to explain his feelings not only to her, but also to himself. He didn’t want to be like this, hadn’t asked to be born an outcast. Concentration was becoming difficult, and he was afraid of falling behind at school. ‘The law exists to strangle people into submission,’ he declared. ‘I’m not sure I want to be a part of that.’

She’d been reading about the subject, of course. ‘Greeks did it. Tribes who’ve scarcely been touched by civilization do it. Lions, porpoises – all kinds of animals behave in a homosexual manner even when opportunities with the opposite sex exist. You have to fight from within. You get to the top of your profession, Peter, then find a way of attacking the law. You walk on the Wilde side – the Oscar Wilde side – but not on a treadmill.’