The Liverpool Trilogy (68 page)

‘Come on,’ Phil chided. He guessed that his companion’s heart was no longer in this expedition. ‘I don’t want to eat any more of that muck. When we get to Scotland
Road, we’ll find plenty to eat.’

Plenty to eat? Mam had tried her best to make sure there’d been enough, but plenty had started first at Miss Pickavance’s house on Rachel Street, and had continued at Willows. Rob
scarcely dared to ask, yet he managed. ‘Plenty? Who’s going to give us plenty, Phil? We don’t belong to anybody now.’

‘Then we’ll pinch it.’

‘And end up at that school for bad lads?’

Phil threw down his bike and took hold of his companion’s clothing in the neck area. ‘Listen, soft girl. If you want to go back, bugger off and see if you can remember the way.
I’m going home.’

Rob swallowed. ‘Right.’

‘Are you with me? Because I’m telling you now, I could get there a damned sight faster without you holding me back all the while.’

‘I’m with you.’ There was nowhere else to be. Rob wouldn’t find his way to Willows in a month of Sundays, and they both knew it. So they carried on along a rough footpath
that ran parallel with the new road. One way or another, Phil Watson would be home by lunchtime.

Things were changing at a rate of knots in the St Andrew’s Road house. Tom, having been dismissed by Frances Morrison, was no longer able to visit the woman he wanted.
Advised by his daughter that Eileen and the Greenhalgh fellow were enjoying each other’s company, he was not in the best of moods. Then there was Marie. She was floating round with her feet
about six inches off the ground, and she looked different. In fact, both females in the household looked different. Gloria’s skin had improved, her figure had developed in a matter of weeks,
and she suddenly owned visible cheekbones.

Marie’s hair was softer, and it framed a face that seemed to be eliminating pockets of loose flesh at the jaw line. Her eyes appeared larger, waist smaller, legs better than ever. She sang
a lot. He listened carefully when she was on the telephone, because she had a special voice for one caller. The business voice was employed for her WVS coven, but a certain person named Norman made
her giggle and simper like a young girl. She imagined that she was in love. Tom knew Norman, since the chap had owned a few pharmacies, and he was about as interesting as drying paint, but Marie
was clearly impressed by him. He was probably dependable to the point of predictability, and that would please Marie, who wanted life to be the same every day.

Tom no longer felt at home. In fact, he was completely isolated. Marie slept in the spare room, and was not always present at meal times. Never sure where she might be, he spent many evenings
alone, and having once visited the hall in which the WVS met and discovered a locked door and no sound of life from within, he guessed that she was often with her new man friend. Peter and Gloria
lived more or less upstairs, the former sometimes out playing badminton, the latter learning how to preen in front of a mirror. Life had gone crazy.

Driven by loneliness and boredom, he had eavesdropped not only on his wife but also on his daughter and Mel Watson. ‘Stick them out,’ Mel had ordered. ‘You are going to be
gorgeous, girl. Belt as tight as you can bear it, belly in, tits out. If they don’t quite fill the bra, pinch a bit of cotton wool out of your dad’s bag.’

‘That’s cheating.’

‘It’s survival. When you talk to one of the other lot, lower your head a bit and look at him through your eyelashes – no! Not like that; you have to be subtle. Yes,
that’s better. They mustn’t know that you know what you’re doing.’

‘But I don’t know what I’m doing,’ poor Gloria had cried.

‘You’ll learn. And don’t let them get close, always have witnesses. Remember, this is all rooted in survival of the species, so you’re working on their weaknesses, which
are also their strengths, because they have powerful bodies. To get into a girl’s knickers, some would sell their souls. If you learn to manage them, you’re a winner. Make them want
you. It drives them mad, and they start being nice and giving you things.’

Tom smiled to himself. He had given Mel a bike and money for clothes. She understood the game, had probably learned it from her mother. Part of him felt glad that Gloria was showing promise and
that Mel had noticed the improvement. But the loss of innocence was sad. Even so, the father in Tom felt a degree of relief, because if Gloria followed Mel’s rules she might keep herself
safe, at least.

His marriage was burned out. He would not be the one to leave, since he had nowhere to go apart from the flat above the surgery, but it looked as if Marie might be about to break her word for
the first time within his memory. Would she take his children? Of course she would. Perhaps Peter might opt to stay behind, but Gloria would definitely accompany her mother. This was the lowest
point in his life so far. And while Eileen Watson existed, Tom Bingley could not look at another woman.

He drove past the house whenever he could, often going well out of his way in order to have a small chance of seeing that wretched female. The knowledge that he hovered on the brink of obsession
did not sit comfortably in his mind, because he’d attended his fair share of lectures in psychology, but what could he do? He loved the bloody woman, lusted after her, had no outlet for his
frustrations.

It was after midnight when Marie came home. ‘Still up?’ she said brightly.

‘Apparently so. I’m downstairs and awake, so yes, I’m still up.’

Marie removed hat and coat. The man’s sarcasm made her want to shake him, but he was too big for that. But she could shake him in a more permanent way any time she chose. She could leave
him, yes, she could and would. ‘I’ve a meeting in Manchester next week. Top brass coming up to teach backward northerners how to cope with the homeless. I shall probably be away
overnight.’

‘Right. I expect Boring Norman will be away at the same time?’

Marie was ill-equipped for her husband’s games. Unlike him, she had not gone out looking for Norman, had not chosen him, had not even allowed him a kiss. ‘Don’t make the
mistake of judging me by your standards. Norman is a good friend. He plays the piano while we make up parcels and fold slings and knit socks for soldiers. I have been to his house, as have some of
the other ladies, and he has cooked for us.’

‘How nice.’ The use of the word ‘ladies’ was typical of Marie. She never got things quite right, always erring on the side of politeness, usually worrying about how
things looked, and were they correct, and what would people think? ‘What will the community make of you when I sue for divorce and name Norman as co-respondent?’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she replied quickly. ‘But I would advise caution. Norman’s brother’s a barrister. A slander suit would do you no good at all.’
She walked out.

He suddenly found her almost desirable, yet he remembered only too well the non-responsive creature with whom he had shared a bed for years. What was the point? She was not combustible, had been
born without passion at any level. It had taken a declaration of war to enliven her and give her a sense of purpose. Tom shifted in his chair. A doctor had to be careful when it came to putting
himself about, so recent experience was minimal, but it occurred to him, not for the first time, that their failure in the bedroom could be his fault.

It wasn’t a comfortable thought. He was a medical man, so he knew more than most about the mechanics of sex. Foreplay? Marie didn’t like it, so he’d stopped bothering with it.
She’d been a depository, no more than that. Stimulated by other women, he had used her mercilessly, and he was perilously near to the edge of self-hatred. This couldn’t go on.

Tom Bingley walked upstairs and into his wife’s room. She sat on the edge of a narrow bed, her face tear-stained, hands folded in her lap. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘No more.
Because of the children, I won’t scream, but have mercy, I beg you.’

Wearing his doctor face, he sat next to her. ‘It’s all right, dear. I just want to talk. Do you mind talking?’

She shook her head.

‘Did you ever feel anything, Marie? When I touched you, I mean.’

She thought about that. ‘In the early days, before we married, there seemed to be a promise of something, but the only fruit it bore were the twins. The whole business is embarrassing and
untidy.’

He agreed. ‘God has a sense of humour, you see. He put all primary sexual organs in the same area as the unpleasant end of our digestive tract. Then some silly ass came down a mountain
with rules carved in stone, which were also designed to make us uncomfortable. Popes scream to this day about chastity, yet half the priests are indulging in some sort of activity.’ He
paused. ‘Could you consider trying again if I promise to stop when you say so?’

‘It would always be stop.’ Her spine was rigid. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it would always be stop, Tom. It’s something I was born without, I think.’

No one was born without needs and desires. ‘You must have been born with the need for a partner and for children. Even nuns have it, though they dedicate themselves to denying that area of
their lives. This Norman – you are fond of him, I can see that. Is it because you think he will never touch you? Do you desire him?’

With excruciating slowness, she turned to look at him. ‘He’s kind to me, Tom. I have been as dutiful as I could manage. I’ve been tolerant, useful, kind, and a fairly good
mother. But I shall no longer do as I am told. Once upon a time, I did as I was ordered. Yes, Norman is a comfort. But nothing will come of it, because I know I’m frigid.’

‘You did as you were told when you were a child?’

‘Yes.’

Tom sat as still as stone. ‘Did anything happen to you when you were little?’

‘Can’t remember.’ She began to weep noiselessly.

Gently, he laid her on the bed and placed himself beside her. For the first time in many weeks, they were together. Tom and Marie Bingley, fully clothed and on a narrow bed, clung to one another
and cried themselves to sleep.

Freda Pilkington, now the proud owner of two decent pillows and Nellie Kennedy’s best frying pan, was pleased to allow Nellie to use her house. She went out for a stroll
with her children and her husband, who was due to report to training camp in a few days. Freda and her toddlers had been allocated the Willows cottage that should have gone to Kitty Maguire. Since
poor Kitty and her children were to be buried on the coming Tuesday, Freda had moved up the list.

Next week, a charabanc would pick up and carry to Willows several children from the Scotland Road area. They would travel by train to Trinity Street station in Bolton, then would be collected in
the coach and allocated to farmers and villagers for the duration. But two who had already been taken into the safer zone had absented themselves, and Nellie, Eileen and Keith were on the case.
Nellie fastened herself to Freda’s window and waited. They would turn up in this, their own street, sooner or later.

Poor Mel had taken a precious day off school in order to mind Miss Morrison, and these two boys were in a chasm of trouble. No longer fearful for their safety, Nellie felt only anger. She looked
across at the house in which she had lived with her daughter and grandchildren, then moved her eyes until they rested on Kitty’s place. Behind dirty windows, it awaited fumigation, after
which all trace of Kitty and the children would disappear from the planet. Those panes were reminiscent of blind eyes, because Kitty no longer stood there and watched the small slice of life with
which she had been familiar.

Among all this sadness and in spite of the dread of war, Nellie’s two older grandsons had taken off without a word to anyone. They seemed to care for no living soul, and they needed a firm
hand. Yes, they had run wild since the death of their dad, but Nellie had worked five mornings and three evenings each week, while her daughter’s jobs had spanned four full days, because rent
and bills had to be paid, food and clothes cost money, and both women were widows. But this time there was a plan. Thanks to Miss Morrison, the pair of ruffians would soon be too scared to breathe
normally. ‘You’ll get your comeuppance,’ Nellie muttered. ‘Then I’ll nail both pairs of bloody feet to the floor.’

The door crashed inward, and Phil was thrown into the house. Behind him, a furious Keith entered. ‘Don’t you ever speak to your mother like that.’

Rob, his head bowed, followed Keith.

‘Where’s Eileen?’ Nellie asked.

‘She’s giving the bikes to kids who’ll appreciate them.’ He picked up the older boy, stood him against a wall and pushed his face to within an inch of Phil’s.
‘In fact, don’t talk to anyone until you’ve rinsed your mouth. What did Eileen do to deserve an odious little toad like you? You are grounded, boy. One wrong word, one dirty look
out of you, and I’m the one you answer to. What you want doesn’t matter. Your unhappiness is nothing, because you’re just a small speck at the front of a big painting, and that
painting’s a world war. You got taken up yonder so that you won’t get killed by a bomb. You get given a bike, and you run away on it. I can see Rob’s heart wasn’t in all
this, so I am holding you fully responsible for the pain your mam and your gran have gone through. Nasty piece of work. Your father would be ashamed.’

Nellie guessed that this was probably the longest speech the quiet man had ever made. For Eileen, he would do anything, or so it would appear.

He spoke to Rob. ‘When I first went up to Willows Edge, I hated it. Like you, I came from an overcrowded street where everyone was poor. It grows on you, Rob. Give it time, son.’ He
turned and winked at Nellie. They both knew that Rob would settle, because he liked growing his own food. Rob might become a happy soul, but Phil was more rigid. Phil had suffered when his father
died, and it was showing now.

Eileen entered the scene. She stood with her back to the door, arms folded, lips tightened in her pale, tired face. ‘Get the car, Keith,’ she said. ‘I’ll stand
guard.’ She moved to allow Keith to leave.

Phil stayed where he had been put, arms folded, face expressionless. For the rest of their short stay in Freda’s house, not a word was spoken. During this weighty, uncomfortable pause, the
lad began to understand the enormity of what he had done. According to Keith, three police forces were out searching for the Watson boys. Bolton, Manchester and Liverpool were paying men to search
not only for them, but also for other evacuees who had decided that the move from home didn’t suit them. He was eleven. He should have known better. Fear of leaving home was for little boys,
not for the likes of him.