The Liverpool Trilogy (44 page)

Alan told Richard about his weeks in Easterly Grange, the drying out in solitude, the surgery, Trish. Richard spoke about London and how time had become distorted. ‘I reckon I lost two months somewhere along the line.’

‘But you haven’t lost yourself, doc. You can lose your way without going crackers, you know. I was very odd. Drying out’s no bundle of laughs. But I made it. You’ll get through this. My mam used to say if a bad thing doesn’t kill us, it makes us stronger.’

‘Yes.’

When Alan had gone, Richard took his puppy into the garden. He explained at length about defecation and the need to find a place suitable for the results of this activity. ‘I’m a doctor. I have patients. They don’t want to come to a house stinking of pee and poo, do they?’

The dog wagged a pathetic string of a tail. Already, he knew why he was here. This man had food. He would give food to his dog and, in return, the dog had to work. Henry didn’t know what his specific tasks would be, but he was ready to learn. He skipped sideways in an attempt to show his willingness, fell over dinner-plate paws, and rolled about in a way that was undignified, to say the least of it. But he shook himself and pretended that the move had been intentional.

Richard laughed at the canine clown. He laughed till he cried, and he allowed the tears to flow. In time, he would be all right. The girls could go back to Edinburgh, Simon and Lizzie would return to London, and Richard must begin the process of building himself up again. Moira would want him to be well.

As he dried his face on a tissue this time, he noticed a lonely flake of snow on the dog’s dark fur. ‘Moira,’ he said. ‘I will be all right. So will our children, Lucy, her kids and David. You can stop worrying now.’

Ruth Hamilton is the bestselling author of twenty previous novels set in the north-west of England. She was born in Bolton and now lives in Liverpool, and she writes about both places with realistic insight and dramatic imagery.

For more information on Ruth Hamilton
and her books, see her website at:

www.ruth-hamilton.co.uk

Once again, I dedicate this piece to Avril Cain, my very best friend.

Not only does she live very close to the setting of the book, but she also handles multiple sclerosis like a master. Mentally, she outruns every doctor and therapist who tries to talk down to her. She is, as locals put it, sound as a pound.

On days when she can’t walk, she paints and draws; on days when her hands don’t work, she helps me by giving me ideas, characters and locations for my work.

Some aspects of Moira, one of the lead characters herein, are taken from the soul of Avril Cain, who is an example to all of us. Avril’s secret is that she remains young and laughs at the various stupidities of her ailing body.

Av, you know I love you, hon. Linda/Ruthie xx

To the people of North Liverpool, I apologize for messing about with the map and moving the location of Mersey View to a rather grand promenade of Georgian houses near our marina. Liverpool has been my home for thirty years, so I am now part-Scouser and I hope that allows me a bit of leeway.

I thank my family, whose members urge me on and keep me smiling.

Gill and Billy, you know I couldn’t do any of this without you.

Sadly, I say goodbye to my ex-father-in-law, the best man I ever knew.

Fudge, who is enjoying an Indian summer after a near-brush with death, is now Labrador King of Moorside Park, where he manages and chides all dogs and owners.

Treacle, my baby Lab, you have to lose weight, as must I.

For Billy Guy, who walks my dogs and reads every word I write, though not simultaneously.

If I have shifted things round a bit, forgive me. After thirty-one years in my chosen city, I beg some licence. In this place my forebears arrived from Ireland a hundred years ago. They moved
inland, but I returned here with my sons in 1979. I have never regretted that journey.

God bless Liverpool, and God help my football team.

Ruthie.

PART ONE 1939

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

‘She’s got one. She’s always had one. Her face might favour a stewed prune some of the time, like, and she’s a cut above us lot, but she’s
definitely got one in that there posh front room.’ Nellie Kennedy leaned against the door frame and stared across at number one, Rachel Street. ‘Her mam and dad had it before her, and
I’ll swear Henry Brogan picked up the wotsname to be charged up last week.’

‘Wotsname? Do you mean the battery?’

Nellie awarded Kitty Maguire a withering look. Kitty, at the grand old age of twenty-nine, owned very few teeth, a pale grey face, virtually no flesh on her bones, three kids and a husband who
could take gold if beer drinking ever became an Olympic sport. ‘I’m not asking her,’ Kitty said. ‘She looks at me as if I should get back under a stone. No, I’m not
asking her about nothing. She never talks to nobody.’

‘Neither am I asking her.’ Nellie shook her turbaned head. ‘At a time like this, I think she should come out and tell us what’s been said. It’s like what
you’d call a neighbourly duty in my book. She knows we’re all stood here waiting like cheese at fourpence.’

There was only one wireless in the street, and it belonged to her at the end. Her at the end was a spinster of indeterminate years who had stayed at home to care for her parents, a pair of sad,
colourless people with not much to say for themselves towards the end of their lives. After running a Scotland Road shop for many years, they had eventually retired, shrunk, and dropped like autumn
leaves, but in the middle of winter. Arthur and Sarah Pickavance had shuffled off within days of each other, leaving Miss Pickavance to return to her position as ironer in a Chinese laundry, a
situation that appeared to give her airs, as she never got dirty.

Few could understand why she remained in the Scotland Road area, because she wasn’t a Catholic, wasn’t Irish, and wasn’t poor by most standards in these shabby parts. Her
clothes were always nice, since she got them done at work, and she had proper furniture with a sofa and matching chairs in the parlour. It wasn’t easy to see into her parlour, as thick lace
curtains covered the bottom half of the sash window, while an aspidistra blocked more of the view, but she kept herself nice. And she did have matching furniture. In an area where a proper pair of
boots with laces was a novelty, two brown chairs and a brown sofa were wealth indeed. She was supposed to have carpet squares and a real canteen of knives and forks, plus a proper tea set with
saucers, cups and plates decorated with red roses and a bit of gold on the rims.

Nellie Kennedy, eyes and ears of the world, had been heard to opine on many occasions that Hilda Pickavance thought she was too good for round here. ‘One of these days she’ll have
her nose that far up in the air, she’ll come a cropper under the muck cart, and that’ll be her done.’ But today Nellie wasn’t saying much. Nobody was saying much, because a
heavy, if invisible, weight rested on the shoulders of every man and woman in Britain. Eleven o’clock had come and gone; at approximately eleven fifteen, Chamberlain was going to broadcast.
This was not a good day for anyone of a nervous disposition.

Rumours were rife, and had been developing with increasing speed for a month or more. The chap who sold newspapers door to door said he’d heard that France was joining the anti-Nazi
stance, that Australia, New Zealand and Canada were loading up ships, while America couldn’t make up its mind because it didn’t need to be bothered worrying about Europe. Ernie Bagshaw,
who had just one eye and a limp from the Great War, was going about telling anyone who would listen that the Luftwaffe had already carpet-bombed London, so there’d be no broadcast. But no one
listened to him, as he was just being his usual cheerful self.

‘My Charlie thinks Hitler’ll win,’ announced Kitty. ‘We’ll all be walking daft and talking German by next year, he says.’

‘Hmmph.’ Nellie’s ‘hmmphs’ were legendary. She didn’t need to use words, because Kitty Maguire knew what was going through her next-door neighbour’s
mind. Charlie Maguire was mad and pickled. He was mad enough to have taken a sample of his wife’s urine for testing in order to hide his drinking, and pickled enough to believe the doctor
when told he was the first pregnant man in that particular area of Liverpool. Yes, the ‘hmmph’ was adequate, because Charlie definitely wasn’t.

‘We could have let the kids go on Friday,’ Kitty said. ‘Maybe we should have sent them on the trains, Nellie.’ She left unspoken the reason for the corporate if unspoken
decision not to send the children on the evacuation trains. Asked to provide a change of clothing, pyjamas or nightdresses and extra underwear, the mothers of Scotland Road were stymied, since few
children owned much beyond the rags on their backs. What was more, many from large families carried wildlife about their persons, and a visit to the local bath house would have proved
expensive.

But Nellie agreed with Kitty’s statement. All they had were their kids, and Scottie was near enough to the docks to warrant flattening by Hitler’s airborne machines. ‘I know,
love,’ she sighed wearily. ‘And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. But you’re right, because if London cops it, we’ll be next. No way will Liverpool be left out of
this lot.’ Nellie was old enough to remember the last bit of bother. It had left her widowed, and the intervening twenty years had been beyond hard. Life was still far from easy, because
Nellie shared a house with her daughter, also widowed, and four grandchildren, three of whom were wild, to say the least. Half the time, nobody knew where the lads were, and the other half, Nellie,
her daughter and her granddaughter wished they’d leave the house and get up to whatever they got up to when nobody knew where they were, because of the noise.

‘Did you get the horse back to the carters’ yard?’ Kitty asked.

Nellie sighed heavily. ‘Jimmy Leach came for it. I don’t know what our Bertie was thinking of. A carthorse is a bit big to hide in a back yard.’ She shrugged. ‘He was
going on for days about wanting a horse, and he took one. Thank God it was docile. But getting to the lav wouldn’t have been easy, not with that great big article tied to me mangle.’
She sighed again. ‘Trying to hide a nineteen-hand carthorse between a tin bath and a mangle. I ask you.’ She shrugged.

‘You have to laugh, though,’ said Kitty.

‘Have you? With what’s going on in Germany, I can’t even manage a smile these days. Ooh, look. I don’t believe it.’ The lace curtain in number one had disappeared,
the sash window was being raised, and a wireless had taken the place of the aspidistra. Drawn like bees to pollen, adults and children began to congregate until the small crowd outside number one
was at least four deep and two houses wide. No one said a word; even babies sat silently while waiting for their fate to be decided. Hilda Pickavance fiddled with a knob till she found the right
station. She turned up the volume as high as it would go, then stood next to the instrument, hands folded, head bowed, as if she waited for Holy Communion. The broadcast begin at eleven thirteen
precisely.