That Liverpool Girl (56 page)

She pushed the writing slope out of the shelter, laid herself down, cuddled Spoodle and courted sleep. But the boom of anti-aircraft guns kept her awake, as did the slight shivering of the land on which the house did its best to stand. It was like a hundred aftershocks following an earthquake; would it ever end? After four hours, the all-clear sounded.

Sighing, Mel drifted towards sleep, Spoodle relocated at her feet. Four hours. How much damage might have been done in that time? Tomorrow would tell, tomorrow would . . . At last, she slept.

The terrible news drifted up the coast along with debris, ash, soot and bombed-out people looking for billets. By about noon, rumour and fact were finally becoming separable. Because of a bright full moon, incendiaries had been rather de trop except when cloud had drifted across the main source of light. Providence had clearly been on the side of the Germans last night, but the city stumbled on.

Bootle, a village nearer than Crosby to Liverpool, had taken a hammering. Flour mills, timber yards, factories, warehouses, shops, houses and arterial roads had been eradicated. Homeless and disorientated people wandered the streets long after sunrise, some carrying a chair, a picture, a cushion – sad little bits and pieces collected from a place they had loved. They searched not only for somewhere to settle their bones, but also for family members, some of whom would never be seen again.

Emergency services in Bootle could not get through the rubble on Southport Road, Stanley Road, Balliol and Knowsley roads. Vehicles were abandoned while teams struggled on foot to reach mounds under which people were buried. Alive or dead, when lifted out, they were covered in the crumbled debris of shelters or of the homes that had provided a lifelong refuge. Nowhere was safe any longer; no one could be certain of seeing tomorrow.

In the city, the Dock Board building had been hit, while the White Star Shipping Line offices were badly affected by fire. The central repository of the diocese of Liverpool was in ruins, and many valuable books, tracts and records had disappeared in the flames. St Michael’s Anglican church was damaged beyond repair, as were many houses and small businesses. All day long, fires smouldered. Rescuers and clearance teams did their best, but behind every hearty word of encouragement, every slap on the back, the dread remained. Tonight would be the same. The strutting, power-crazed leaders of Germany intended to crush a proud city. Liverpool was not especially big, but it boasted the largest docks in the world, and the docks were the real target.

But what the Luftwaffe might never see if the planes flew too quickly or too high was visible all over Liverpool on this Saturday. Cleared pavements bore painted words:
HA, YOU MISSED ME
,
THIS SHOP IS CLOSED PENDING ALTERATIONS
,
HITLER BLEW UP OUR LAV
, and
ME MA SAYS YOU OWE HER SOME NEW TEETH AND A TEAPOT
. An old Jewish man used luminous paint to execute a massive Star of David in the middle of a road on which all buildings had been flattened. ‘Mazel tov, mate,’ called a passing Irish docker. Like their Cockney cousins, this lot never gave up.

Young lads risked life and limb to climb onto ruins already bombed, tying strips of white sheeting to bits of chimneys and gutters in the hope of drawing attention to the already destroyed. With any luck, these derelict piles might get hit again. The number 16 appeared here and there as a reminder to the enemy that this number of German bombers had been shot down last night by the RAF. Ebullient on the outside, determined to the bone, Scousers were intelligent enough to recognize the might of the enemy. But they weren’t going to run away, because this was their city. An old sailors’ tale intimated that residents of Liverpool lived with their backs to the city, their eyes on the sea. But sneak behind their backs, and one way or another they would have your blood. They had pride by the ton; they also owned an anger that was measurable on no man-made scale. And to balance all of the above, they were humorous, cheeky and quick.

On the wireless, the clipped, correct BBC announcer spoke of damage to a northern port. Even the royal family didn’t talk as daft as that. It was like listening to a foreigner, an alien who wasn’t qualified to talk about Liverpool, about England, about the planet. Elsie blamed tight underwear. ‘They all talk as if they’ve been neutralized,’ she said. ‘Their dangly bits is squashed.’

Nellie almost choked on her tea. ‘Do you want to go home, love?’

Elsie bridled. ‘For one, I still haven’t seen them babies, and for two, it’s my war now. No.’ The arms continued tightly folded. ‘I’m going nowhere till Hitler’s been dealt with. Shouldn’t be difficult; they say he’s only got one dangly bit.’ She picked up a carving knife. ‘Let me at him.’

‘Who are we killing now?’ asked Mel as she led Spoodle into the kitchen.

‘Hitler.’ Elsie’s tone was fierce.

‘That’s all right, then. I’m posting a letter, then going to Sniggery Woods with Gloria and Pandora.’ She didn’t want to be near the river, didn’t want to look left in case she saw what she couldn’t bear to see in her city. She left the two older women to their job of putting the world to rights over a pot of tea and a rack of toast.

Outside, an unfamiliar smell hung in the air. It was a bit like the morning after bonfire night, but heavier. Mel rushed round to St Andrew’s Road, waited while Gloria found her dog, and had a word with Dr Bingley. Yes, the twins were born, Mam was safe, and Dad was sleeping on a camp bed when he wasn’t chasing nuns. ‘At least one has fallen in love with him. He parked her in front of a statue of the Sacred Heart last night because she keeps telling Mam to stop breastfeeding.’

‘Because of the section?’

Mel nodded. ‘Caesar mothers aren’t supposed to feed. She won’t listen, so we must hope for the best. But Sister Mary Dominic will carry on shouting haematoma, and Mam will carry on ignoring her. Mrs Bingley’s going to visit today with Elsie.’

His wife would be welcome, but he couldn’t go. Keith Greenhalgh was standing, sitting or lying on guard, and Tom was the enemy. He was also tired, since Liverpool had been lively and deathly last night. The general opinion was that tonight would be the same, so he needed a rest.

The girls walked to the woods, releasing a pair of enthusiastic dogs as soon as they reached the path leading to the trees. Two bundles of black and white curls disappeared in a trice. They loved this place, which housed squirrels, rabbits and, on occasion, Boy Scouts cooking sausages. Today, the dogs’ behaviour was different. They returned to the girls and whined, clearly asking to be followed.

Gloria and Mel found Peter hanging from a tree, movement in his legs proclaiming him to be alive. Without a word, Mel pushed her hand into his pocket, withdrew a jack-knife, climbed upward from bough to bough and severed the thin rope with one cut while Gloria took his weight. Brother and sister crashed to earth; Mel jumped out of the tree.

‘Why?’ sobbed Gloria. ‘What’s the matter with you; what the hell did you think you were doing?’

‘Wrong rope,’ Mel scolded. ‘Washing line’s not up to the job, and part of it was up the side of your face, stupid. You couldn’t hang a picture on a nail, even with a spirit level.’ She was scared to death. She could not imagine life without Peter. But she wasn’t going to baby him – oh, no. The need to hug and comfort him had to be denied, since she could not allow him to continue in self-destructive mode.

Gloria, shocked and terrified, stopped weeping. ‘Mel? This is serious.’

It didn’t look serious. A very attractive boy, spread-eagled on the ground, was being drowned by two spoodles. Wagging happily, they circled him, washing his face, neck and hands, chewing on his hair and breathing heavily into his ears.

Mel folded her arms and tapped a foot. ‘You selfish, spoilt wastrel. Your mother lives in a house filled with drugs, and she might be tempted to follow you into the hereafter when you break her heart. Your sister would be bereft, while your father, a man only just out of depression, could well slip all the way back to a mental hospital.’

He started to cry.

‘Why?’ Gloria screamed again.

Seconds ticked by. ‘Will you tell her, or shall I?’ Mel demanded. ‘Because you owe her an answer.’

‘Tell me what?’ Gloria asked, her voice calmer.

Peter said nothing.

‘Right.’ Mel sat on the stump of a lightning tree that had been struck down years earlier. ‘This isn’t the first sign of your brother’s cowardice, my friend. When we had all that kerfuffle about him and me, he was trying to be my boyfriend so that no one would guess the truth. He used me as a shield. After we’d . . . been together, he confessed all. Your twin prefers boys, and he’s too weak to stay alive and fight for his own rights and for the rights of other people like himself. I had the feeling that he might try something dramatic.’ She recalled the occasions on which she’d watched him walk away, remembered an icy hand tracing a line down her backbone.

Gloria blinked rapidly. ‘He’s queer?’

Mel nodded. ‘He’s terrified of jail, and I understand that. We had a plan. He, I and other open-minded people were going to change the world. But soft lad here can’t cope.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going home. I’ve had enough of him.’

Gloria’s jaw dropped. ‘You’re leaving me here? With him? But what if he goes and . . . what am I supposed to do with him?’

‘He’s your bloody brother. Why the hell would I want to keep company with somebody who’s contemplating suicide? It’s a mortal sin, for a start.’

Gloria, knowing that Mel didn’t believe in mortal sin, realized that her best friend was using reverse psychology. It wasn’t a bad idea. It might not be a particularly good one either, but Gloria could think of nothing better. ‘Hang on while I get this rope, Mel. I’ll come with you.’ She gathered up Peter’s washing line.

‘Stop,’ Peter begged.

‘It speaks.’ Mel glared at him. ‘Well?’

‘Don’t tell them.’

Borrowing her friend’s supposed strength, Gloria approached her twin. ‘I’m not telling anybody anything. Just thank God you made such a pig’s ear of it that your neck’s not too noticeably marked.’ Still shaking, she held her ground. ‘I’m not going to break anyone’s heart for you. Do it yourself when you’re ready.’ She began to walk away, turning after a few steps. ‘It’s not your fault, by the way. You can’t help the way you’re made.’

He lay still.
It’s not your fault. It’s the way you’re made.
Females were always full of glib answers.
While I’m all shit and self-pity.
Why him, though? Why had he come out queer? Apart from the boy who painted lines for lawn tennis and rugby, Peter knew no one in this situation. His parents were normal, as was his sister, but . . .

In his head, Mel spoke.
You’re just a different kind of normal
, she had said weeks earlier. He sat up. There was a war on, and his contribution so far had been worrying about his precious reputation, his own safety, his future, his exit from a world that could not be forced to love him. It was all me, me, me.

Of course, she’d provided an answer to that, as well.
We’re all selfish. It’s an age thing. We go spotty, disobedient and daft. But most of all, we go selfish.
Oh, how he loved her. How could he— ‘Get on with it,’ he hissed between gritted teeth.

Peter Bingley got on with it. He mounted his bike and rode the seven miles. The sky was dark with smoke. People ran when they could, walked round rubble when they had to, dug with shovels and with bare hands, every one of them searching for life below the piles, shouting, shining torches into blackness and debris.

In the heart of Liverpool, Peter dug with the best of them, lifting out injured and dead, young and old, male and female, dogs, cats and a little trembling rabbit. On the end of a rope ten times stronger than the one he had used this morning, he was lowered into a cellar where he found an intact and silent little girl. When they pulled him and the child out, tears streamed and made a clean path down his filthy cheeks. A warden led him away to a shed and forced him to sit and drink sweet tea. ‘Yer all right, lad. You done well. That kiddy was shocked into silence. She could have starved down there. She’s the only one left, because her mam and her brothers were killed, and her dad’s out there somewhere on a ship.’

‘What a bloody mess this is,’ Peter managed.

‘You talk nice, son.’

‘Posh school. Crosby. Merchants.’

‘Well, bloody good luck to you, that’s what I say. What you going to be, like?’

‘A lawyer.’

‘Good. You can start by suing the Dock Board for us. We want the death penalty.’

‘Fine.’ He left the hut and worked for another four hours. As he rode home, his legs could scarcely turn the pedals. Yet he felt . . . good. Because on that third day in May, Peter Bingley grew up. Oh, and he acquired a baby rabbit.

Wabbit was just about old enough for solid food, though he chose to try suckling. Pandora, who took a fancy to the black and white intruder, accepted the circumstance without too much fuss. ‘They match,’ Tom said sleepily. ‘Same colours. And she may produce milk – stranger things have happened.’

Today’s human hero, cleaner after a bath, slept soundly in a rocking chair.

‘I’m proud of Peter,’ Marie said. ‘Somebody took a photograph of him. He could be in the paper. That reminds me, Tom. Did you post the last lot to Phil Watson?’