Read That Liverpool Girl Online
Authors: Ruth Hamilton
‘So am I, Elsie. I had to take a break from work. There’s been a lot of pressure and stress. Not just my job, but the raids in town. It’s been a bitter time.’
She wasn’t surprised, and she told him so. The noises at night, bumps and thumps and bangs were enough to send anybody pots for rags. ‘I thought I were going to be dead at first. Nellie explained things to me, but it’s still only seven or eight miles away, so I’m a bit feared, cos we never see nothing up yon where I come from. Best excitement we get is tupping, and Jay Collins falling off a ladder when his sugar’s low. Even that doesn’t happen a lot now.’
‘Diabetic chap?’
‘Aye. Here comes trouble.’ Two filthy little floor mops with legs arrived. The pups were breathless and covered in the muddy sand that gets dredged up by a tidal river. ‘What the blood and dolly mixtures are we supposed to do now?’ Elsie asked.
‘My house,’ Tom replied. ‘Nearer than Nellie’s. A quick rub down for the dogs, pot of tea for us, and a cake of sorts. Marie does her best, but I’ve ordered some chickens, then we can have our own eggs. And I’ve turned over the back garden for vegetables.’
‘Aye, well keep your hens off that lot. Inquisitive little buggers, they are, so watch your veg. And if you fancy a chicken supper, I’ll do the deed for you.’
Tom hadn’t thought that far ahead. Eggs were one thing, murder was another. He swallowed.
‘You make me laugh, you townies,’ said Elsie. ‘It’s all right for the butcher to kill, but you’ll not dirty your hands, eh? And you a doctor, and all.’
They walked back to St Andrew’s Road, a feat for which they deserved medals, since the two pups decided to take up French knitting, and their leads became intertwined in a pattern that might have been pleasing had there been no mud involved. By the time they reached Tom’s house, all four members of the posse were as black as sweeps.
Tom dealt with the spoodles while Elsie cleaned herself up and made tea. But the best laid plans often fell apart in the presence of Pandora and her brother. Within minutes, the whole house was marked. They didn’t like the bath. They didn’t like Lux Flakes, green soap, or human shampoo. They ran muddy, slightly muddy, damp and wet through across beds, rugs, chairs and sofas. They skidded into the kitchen, banged into Elsie’s lisle-stockinged legs, turned, ran on the spot because their feet found no purchase on the slick floor, and were finally returned to the bathroom by an angry Boltonian female. ‘Didn’t you close the door, you daft bugger?’
‘I didn’t think,’ he answered weakly.
‘Out,’ she commanded. ‘Make the tea. And may God have mercy on your soul when the missus gets back.’ But he wasn’t going anywhere. Nothing on earth could persuade him to abandon Elsie to the machinations of two canine lunatics. He sent her away.
The missus, when she returned, thought the situation was hilarious. She staggered through the house with mops and cloths, pausing at the bathroom door to listen to her beleaguered husband. His voice rose above loud splashes and unhappy yelps. ‘There has to be a tranquillizer for dogs,’ he shouted. ‘Put the bloody sponge down. No, we do not eat loofahs or pumice stones.’
Marie slid her body into the room, taking care not to open the door to its full width. Tackling one pup each, they managed the task, but only just. Wet through and laughing, they sat side by side on a flooded floor, clothes sodden, towels dripping, two very wet spoodles shaking water from their curls and up the walls. ‘Bit of a mess,’ she managed, tears dampening further the soggy atmosphere.
Tom pressed a hand against his aching stomach. ‘Can you imagine a Great Dane or an Irish wolfhound?’ he howled.
She hit him with a wet washcloth. ‘Shut up.’
The door opened and Elsie stood in the gap, arms folded, head shaking sadly. A pair of soggy dogs shot past her and down the stairs. ‘Hello, Mrs Bingley. I’ve found some big towels. You two had better sort yourselves out while I look for them two buggers and dry them off. Then I’ll light a fire.’ She wandered off, muttering quietly about daft Scousers, stupid dogs and the bloody muck in the bloody Mersey.
‘That was fun,’ Tom said seriously. ‘Fun is what we lack.’ He stood up, locked the door and made love to his wife in a dirty, waterlogged space alongside the bath. There was a near-stranger downstairs, and their surroundings were rather less than perfect, but it was glorious. Except for one thing. When he reached the point of no return, for one exquisite moment, he thought of Eileen.
* * *
Dear all,
I have been remiss. So many letters from Mel, but I find myself quite caught up in life – who said it was quiet, peaceful and/or boring in the country? The new greenhouses have been erected on Willows land, while the planting at Home Farm was achieved in record-breaking time, since Neil Dyson now has an assistant, one Robin Watson – be proud of him, Eileen.
While his greenhouses are primarily for tomatoes, Robin intends to grow exotic flowers after the war. He is tender with blooms, and he says that brides should have more than just roses in their bouquets and sprays. So, like his older brother, he seems to have an artistic eye, though he says he’ll get a female to front the wedding business. At that point, several others jumped on the bandwagon to offer hairdressing, wedding cakes and bridal attire, so perhaps we shall rename the hamlet Weddings Ltd.
But a great deal of my time has been invested in Philip, who blossoms like one of the rare orchids his brother might grow. Mr Marchant and I arranged a show for him, and we sold everything! Yes, even in wartime, he is valued. People who invest in him now will reap the benefit in later life, because Philip’s talent is unique.
Which leaves just Bertie, your baby for the moment, Eileen. That boy can calm a horse from a distance, can break one for riding in under a week, and now has paid work in two stables where staff have gone to war. He rides daily, and is becoming accomplished.
I asked him once about his long-term future. He declared his intention to serve the King at any of the palaces. The King’s horses deserve the best, and he is the self-proclaimed greatest horseman ever born, so there you have it.
The most touching thing happened. When Philip sold his paintings, he gave some of the money to Bertie for riding boots, jodhpurs, coat and hard hat. Bertie, very solemn-faced, took the money and bought the things he needed. As he chose second-hand except for boots, he was able to give back change. ‘For paint and stuff,’ he said. Philip took the change and used it well. They are all good friends, and I believe their move to the country was for the best.
Appreciation of life here is widespread. Many of the other Scotland Roaders have settled well, but their parents have mixed feelings. When they visit their offspring, they often come to me almost wringing their hands because their So-and-So doesn’t fancy going home when the war ends. God alone knows what lies ahead, but I think we are in for fun and games when hostilities cease – as long as we are victorious, of course. Like your three boys, most of the evacuees are at impressionable ages, since country folk took children who were old enough to be useful. They are useful; they are also falling in love with a way of life.
Eileen, I am so glad that you have come this far with your twins. I can scarcely wait for you all to come home. Nellie and Elsie, our two wise women, are missed, as is Keith. By the way, I am learning to drive and have bought a little Austin, so don’t worry about keeping the car. Your need is greater than ours, because you are so near to Liverpool and so close to giving birth, and that vehicle might get you out of all kinds of difficulty.
The six willows are thriving, the land is healthy, and our best bull has been in great demand lately. We are taking no fees. Instead, we get produce, poultry and piglets. The Ministry has accepted the idea for the duration.
Eileen smiled when she reached this point. Black market dealings went on, of course, though Miss Pickavance would never allow such information to stain paper.
Please continue to take care of each other. Don’t worry about the boys. They are well behaved, busy and happy. Oh, and Jay’s diabetes is under control, Gill and Maisie are doing well, and the Dyson family continue to cope with the Land Girls. Beautiful blossom in the orchards; all’s well with the world, or it will be when I see those babies.
Love, Hilda.
Smoke and grit often drifted their way along the Mersey to pay a polite visit to Crosby and Blundellsands. Nellie didn’t want to think about it, but Mel kept everybody informed whether they liked it or not. She was like a walking book of statistics: so many houses flattened in Bootle, so many in Liverpool; the number of dead, gravely injured, walking wounded. Dusty gardens and windowsills were evidence enough, but Mel had to make cement and lay everything on with a trowel. Even Elsie told her to shut up, while Keith usually left the battlefield before it became unbearable.
By the end of April, Eileen was sitting in a chair. Every time she wanted to stand, Keith threatened to send for ten big lads and a crane, because she was heavy, and her centre of gravity seemed to have shifted. ‘She’ll disprove the Newton theory soon,’ he pronounced. ‘At least the bloody dog’s got it right now, but Eileen’s a law unto herself.’
‘She always was,’ Nellie would say before going into detail about her daughter’s wilder days. Tales of truancy, unsuitable boyfriends, and visits to Southport when she should have been in church poured in a seemingly endless stream from the mouth of this adoring mother. ‘If her dad had been alive it would have killed him’ or ‘Her father must have been spinning round the cemetery on roller skates’ were typical of her concluding remarks.
Occasionally, the voice of the accused drifted from the used-to-be-dining room. ‘Shut up, Mam, or I’ll tell Elsie about the time you went three rounds with Bootle Betty and pulled her wig off in Jackson’s chippy’ was one of the many ripostes offered by the expectant mother. She was going into Parkside soon. She was not happy; she was going to be cut open by a man who was five feet tall in his shoes, and she hoped he could reach her babies without a ladder, since she was very tall in the belly area when lying down. She was fed up.
Nellie and Elsie had taken up walking together while Keith minded his wife. They went daily to the beach, calling in at St Andrew’s Road to collect Pandora, and, a few times a week, Tom Bingley came with them. He was working part time; he also went into the city to help in the evenings. Unlike Mel, he produced no information unless asked, thereby proving himself a truly professional man.
Surprisingly, Nellie was becoming very fond of Pandora’s ‘dad’. There was a great deal more to the man than met the naked eye. He talked about the twins with pride in his tone, mentioned his wife frequently, and indulged in lengthy sessions of private thought while gazing out towards the bar, an invisible seam where river became sea. She wondered whether he still longed for Eileen, but was proud of him for maintaining his dignity. In moments while dogs ran free, she frequently glimpsed the edge of his pain when he turned from the Mersey to address his companions. He suffered. Every death, every mutilation stayed with him. The man cared about people, loved Liverpool.
Today, he awarded Elsie Openshaw a broad grin. ‘They won’t know you back at Willows. You must have shed at least three stone.’
The ‘emacicated’ woman laughed. ‘Mel’s took all me clothes in. Eileen couldn’t, cos she’s not allowed to do much. What I want to know is, what happens to all me loose flabby bits?’
He thought about that. ‘Your neck – cover it with a scarf or wear high-necked clothes. My wife has an imitation pearl choker; it’s too big for her. I’ll ask her for it, and you can wear that for posh.’
‘Aw, you’re kind. Isn’t he kind, Nellie?’
For some temporarily obscure reason, Nellie wanted to cry, so she ran off to separate the spoodles from a huge length of seaweed. She’d never had a lad of her own, and wasn’t old enough to be his mother, but he was fast becoming a son. ‘I nearly broke his eye socket,’ she told the pups while trying to relieve them of the slimy brown-green lasso to which they had become emotionally and physically attached. ‘Then I sent the lads in. He’s lovely. So much pain. See, Pandora and loony Spoodle, I know what she saw in him. Ten years younger, and I’d have been tempted meself.’ Tom was hurting badly; he wasn’t ready for patients, wasn’t ready for Liverpool, but even those who battled against the tide had to work while there was a war on. If she and Elsie hung around for much longer, they’d have to work in Crosby for a while, because that was a law imposed by the coalition.
Two seaweedless puppies scampered off in search of more mischief. Nellie turned and saw Tom standing with his arm round Elsie’s shoulder; Elsie was becoming fretful about her wrinkles, and the doctor in him was offering comfort. This was a good man who happened to be a randy bugger and selfish when it came to bodily needs. Clever blokes were like that. They worked hard, played hard and . . . well . . . they needed relief. ‘God forgive me,’ she mumbled. ‘Stood standing here thinking about a man’s private doings. I’m as bad as me mucky-minded daughter.’ Still, she thought as she walked back to her friends, he was exciting.
‘Ah, my other girlfriend,’ he said when Nellie was back in the fold. ‘Let’s go back to my house, see what Marie has to offer by way of food, and we’ll have an orgy.’ He pondered momentarily. ‘No, Elsie can’t have an orgy, because she’s on a diet. That leaves just you and me, Nellie. You look for grapes while I get the togas and massage oils.’