The Liverpool Trilogy (64 page)

When Eileen opened the door, he almost dropped her plant. ‘God,’ he muttered before he could check himself. ‘You’re more beautiful than I remembered.’

She just laughed. It was clear that she had grown used to such compliments, and she took all in her stride. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Miss Morrison’s having a nap, so
I’ll put the kettle on and we can sit and chat. It’s good of you to bring Mam over. Oh, she said on the phone that Jay’s diabetic. That’s a shame. We all like him. He even
made Miss Pickavance laugh.’ This was a far better man than Tom Bingley. There would always be Tom Bingleys, but men like Keith were rare. She liked Keith, and liking was important. And she
desired him, which was strange, because most women were one-at-a-time people, but she decided not to think about any of that. Keith Greenhalgh was marriage material, while Tom Bingley was a balloon
on a stick, bound to burst at some stage.

Like a man in a happy dream, he watched while she moved round her domain. She was elegant, graceful, lovely – too lovely to have come from the slum he had seen earlier. The stork had left
a princess in a hovel, and she had thrived in spite of that. Her dress was in a material he thought was named crêpe something-or-other, green, with a square neck and a single imitation
teardrop pearl on a black cord at her throat. Her hair was up, and tempting tendrils caressed the nape of her neck. He imagined lifting those curls and kissing the hollow just below her hairline
and above the cord that held the pearl. He wished he could afford a real pearl. Even a genuine one would be outshone by this wearer.

She turned suddenly. ‘Scone?’ she asked, trying hard not to laugh again. He was lovely. He reminded her of an overgrown teenage boy who was having trouble coping with the onslaught
of puberty. ‘Keith?’ And he was better looking than she remembered. He was certainly more handsome than Dr Ants-in-his-Pants. In fact, he was not far short of bloody gorgeous.

Keith blinked. ‘What?’

‘Do you want a scone with strawberry jam?’

‘Er . . . yes. Please.’

‘Right.’

She brought food and tea on a tray and sat opposite him. ‘I’ve enjoyed your letters,’ she told him.

‘Me, too. I mean I enjoy yours.’

‘Good. How are my boys? The same? Worse? Better?’

Meeting her eyes was difficult, just as it had been all those years ago with Annie. But if he lowered his gaze, he would be staring at her body, and that might be considered bold—

‘Keith?’

‘Oh, yes. They’ve had a job to stop Bertie sleeping with Pedro. He’s learning to groom him, and I’m cobbling together bits and pieces of gear so that I can start teaching
him to ride. I like him.’

Eileen smiled sweetly. ‘Don’t be fooled. He’s just a younger version of the other two. How are they?’ She asked again.

Keith swallowed a mouthful of scone; he must not speak with a full mouth. ‘Erm . . . a bit bored. We got them a bike each, because they’re not interested in horses. I made a bargain
with them. As long as they behave themselves and if I’m free, they’ll get to the cinema every Saturday afternoon.’

‘And my mother?’

‘I shan’t be taking her to the pictures. She’s still all clever comments, but she gets on very well with Miss Pickavance, so she’ll be all right. She’s capturing
Kitty and the wild ones down the road as we speak.’

‘Good.’

The conversation dried. Keith passed the plant and the beads across the table.

‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘You’re a kind man.’

He reached for the parcel. ‘I was . . . I mean after I’d seen about the bikes, I went . . . The boys were wandering about town and . . .’ He gave up trying to talk like an
intelligent person and thrust the package across the table. ‘Cloth,’ he managed. ‘Bolton market. You can buy patterns and pin them on the cloth, then you cut round and make a
dress.’

Eileen was having more trouble keeping her face straight. This man wasn’t frightening or threatening, but he was adorable. He was carrying on an old-fashioned courtship with letters,
poetry and gifts. Pleasing to look at, he possessed an innocence that was rare in modern humankind. He had loved Annie, and Annie had died. Now he thought he had found someone else who fitted his
idea of perfection. She opened the parcel. Inside, several yards of cloth had been folded carefully.

‘They were ends,’ he said. ‘Ends of rolls, so I just had to take what was there. That blue will suit you. And the green. They’re definitely fents, but I looked for flaws
and couldn’t find any.’

‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘And I make my own patterns. The gold colour will be nice for Mel.’ He was rooting in his pockets. What on earth was he up to?

‘Matching thread,’ he announced, slamming at least a dozen reels on the table. Several rolled off, and they both got down on the floor to retrieve the escaping objects. For a brief
second, they came face to face before Keith stood up in a hurry and banged his head on a corner of the table. He was becoming thoroughly annoyed with himself. Always a competent communicator, Keith
Greenhalgh had suddenly been reduced to the mental age of three, give or take a year or two.

She was touching him. She was looking at his scalp to see if there was blood. Oh, hell, she was kissing his injury better. And she was lifting his face, and he wondered whether she was going to
kiss him properly on the lips.

‘You’re not bleeding,’ she informed him. ‘I think you’ll live.’ And he made ten of Tom Wotsisname. Bingley.

‘Good.’ This single syllable emerged from the throat of a fourteen-year-old whose voice still sought its true level. Well, that was progress, because he’d been an infant just
moments earlier. Her face was so dangerously near. ‘I think I love you,’ he said. Had he said it or had he thought it? She was smiling. He had said it, and he was a clown.

‘I know you think you do,’ she replied. ‘And I think I may think the same given time. You’re the best idiot I’ve come across in a while. I collect idiots. My mother
was my first.’

He blinked.

‘You know what I mean, Keith. We’re good friends, you and I. That’s the best basis for everything, isn’t it?’

He wasn’t sure about that. Both times, he had fallen without thinking, and friendship hadn’t figured largely in the recipe during the early days. He’d wanted Annie, and now he
wanted this one. But it was more than the bed stuff; it was sitting together in the evenings, having a meal, going to the pub, visiting friends, laughing, drinking tea and cursing the government.
And it was looking at her, just looking and enjoying what he saw, living with perfection even when it wasn’t perfect, when face cream covered skin, when hair was in curlers, when she was too
tired to be pretty. So friendship was necessary, he supposed. ‘I don’t want to be just your friend,’ he said carefully.

‘What do you want, then?’

‘To be with you.’

‘That’s friendship. Sharing things, being in the same house, talking and laughing – that’s the cake before it gets iced. I worked out that people have to be joined at the
head as well as by other parts. Laz was my best friend in the world. I missed me bezzie mate most of all, Keith. Fancying somebody isn’t enough.’

‘I know,’ he replied. ‘I was taking friendship for granted – it’s in the letters. I already know you and like you. From that, it was a small step.’

‘And you love me?’

He felt silly, stupid, inadequate. ‘It was the same twenty years ago,’ he said lamely. ‘Since then, there’s been nobody who mattered.’

This man would never hurt her. She would never fear turning away, because he wasn’t going to pounce, threaten, mither . . . Tom did all that. Sometimes, he drove past the house several
times in a day, and she often wondered where he was going and whether his journey was really necessary. Petrol was already in short supply and—

‘Eileen?’

‘What?’

‘Is there someone else?’ He could not betray Nellie by mentioning the doctor.

‘No. I can’t fasten myself to anyone because of my three heroes. Bertie’s seven. It’ll be about ten years before I can think about myself. Where we lived, there was no
way of containing them. I won’t inflict them on anybody, because they’re hard work.’

‘I agree that they’re hard work. But they can be improved.’

Eileen noted the challenge in his eyes. ‘You think you can tame them?’

‘I can try.’ He stood up. ‘Is it all right if I borrow a little kiss?’

She folded her arms. ‘And how do you pay back?’

‘With a second one.’

Shakespeare’s sonnets, dried flowers, his soul on paper. A flight of geese, the birth of a foal, the mending of a wall; all these he had given to her. Keith Greenhalgh was a tall, broad
man, yet he was not intimidating. And she responded to his embrace, just as she had with Tom. Was she becoming a nymphomaniac, a trainee whore? She raised her hands and placed them on the back of
his neck, because she didn’t want the kiss to end. Confused was not a strong enough adjective. This was a man she had known forever. ‘You’re adorable,’ she said when the
kiss ended. ‘You owe me another one of those.’

Keith paid his dues. He forced his hands not to wander, and was careful not to push his body against hers. Etiquette had to be observed in most areas of life, and he was determined to be polite
and controlled. His body had other ideas, but he would deny instinct and go slowly. She was too precious to be used for his own satisfaction.

The doorbell sounded, and Eileen broke away from her delightful visitor. ‘Get that, will you? I’ll make sure Miss Morrison’s all right.’

Keith reclaimed his ability to breathe before going to answer the door. He carried with him a slight smile, because Eileen had treated him like a member of the household – you do this,
while I do that.

In the ex-dining room, Eileen found her charge fast asleep. Her hearing was deteriorating along with her heart, so the bell hadn’t disturbed her. Eileen smiled down on the old lady. When
awake, this woman could talk all four legs off a table, but peace continued for now.

Not for long. Two people now occupied the kitchen, and one of them was clearly out of order. ‘Mam? What is it? Whatever’s happened?’

‘You tell her,’ Nellie said to Keith.

He had to hurt her. He had to be the one to say the words. ‘Eileen, your next-door neighbour won’t be coming back to Willows with me and your mother, because—’

‘Because she’s dead,’ Nellie said. He shouldn’t have to do the telling, so she needed to be brave.

Eileen dropped into a chair. ‘Kitty?’

Keith nodded.

‘But the kids?’ Eileen grasped her mother’s hand. ‘The kids, Mam?’

Nellie inhaled unsteadily. ‘She suffocated the poor little buggers. I found them.’ She began to rock backwards and forwards. ‘The smell. The terrible smell. I know the house
stinks anyway, but this was . . . it was different. The police came. I had to answer questions, then they brought me here.’

‘Kitty?’

‘Was hanging in the back bedroom. All black, she was. The only white bits were her bloody teeth. How I got back downstairs I’ll never know. Just sat on her doorstep and screamed and
screamed, I did. The police said it was unusual for a woman to hang herself. They usually swallow poison.’

Keith moved his chair and sat with an arm round Nellie’s shoulders. ‘Come on, love. She wasn’t right. I’ve heard you saying she wasn’t right. Sweetheart,
don’t make yourself ill.’ He turned to Eileen. ‘Get Miss Morrison’s doctor. Your mam wants calming down.’

So the rivals met. Tom, forced to attend a woman who had given him a black eye before causing him to be attacked by a pair of dockers, doled out tablets and suggested that Nellie should not
travel back to Bolton today, as she needed rest and quiet after the shock. Eileen explained the situation to Miss Morrison, who insisted that Nellie should share Eileen’s double bed, while
the young man, whom she had not yet met, could use the small front bedroom, as her larger room was no longer furnished. ‘Terrible,’ the old lady said. ‘The husband barely cold in
the grave, and now those poor, poor children. Feed everyone, dear. I shall meet your mother and Mr Greenhalgh later.’

While Eileen put her mother to bed, the two men stood in the kitchen. ‘So, you’re the land agent.’

‘Steward, yes. I’ve worked at Willows for about half my life. And you’re the one whose daughter’s a friend of Mel’s.’

‘Yes.’

Keith wanted to laugh. This situation put him in mind of childhood, when boys lined up to fight the king of the class. Anyone who beat the king took his invisible crown, and assumed the duty to
defend it. This meant that a monarch fought every day on his way to school, at playtimes and at dinner time; even the homeward journey at the end of the day wasn’t safe. Once battered to
within an inch of his life, he passed on the onerous position to the next lunatic in line. Keith had never been king. In his book, a king was a fool, and Shakespeare had proved that in at least one
of his plays.

‘You have her boys?’ Tom asked.

‘Only on Saturdays. Nellie and Miss Pickavance look after them during the week. The youngest is settling; he has his own pony.’

‘Good, good.’

The doctor was clearly waiting for Eileen. He didn’t want to leave her in the company of Keith, who was fully aware of what was going on. The medic was handsome, married, and probably
self-absorbed. He didn’t love or respect his wife, and he wanted Eileen Watson. ‘I’m staying tonight,’ Keith said. ‘If Nellie’s better, I’ll drive her home
tomorrow.’

Tom lowered his head thoughtfully. ‘Look, I have work to do. Tell Eileen I’ll make sure the Maguires get a decent funeral. There’ll be no difficulty about declaring her of
unsound mind, so she should be able to be buried with her husband. I helped then, too.’

Keith offered no reply. Tom Bingley was letting him know that he was already part of Eileen’s life, that he would control events resulting from three murders and one suicide. He was
important, educated, middle-class and financially comfortable. And married, though he chose not to mention that fact.

‘I’ll . . . er . . . Tell Eileen I’ll see her later,’ Tom said.

Keith stayed exactly where he was while the doctor turned to leave. He knew with absolute certainty that Dr Bingley would leave his wife and family if Eileen said the word. He also knew that
such a creature could never manage Philip and Rob Watson.