The Liverpool Trilogy (83 page)

‘We have to get the two girls back together, Tom. Gloria’s a steadying, sensible influence, and Mel keeps her optimistic. And I don’t want Marie hurt. I mean, look at the man
she married – isn’t he trouble enough?’ It was her turn to smile.

Mel came in, stopped in her tracks when she saw Tom, recovered quickly, and slammed an envelope on the kitchen table. ‘Virgo intacta,’ she said. ‘And will you tell that daft
daughter of yours that she’s the nearest thing I have to a sister? I’m lumbered with three brothers, and she’s stuck with Peter. I can’t manage without her.’ She
stalked out.

‘Going to be a barrister now,’ Eileen said.

Tom picked up his trilby. ‘It’s enough to make you pity the criminal fraternity,’ he said sadly before leaving the house.

Alone in the kitchen, Eileen found herself chuckling. He was perfectly correct. Mel would go onward and upward as long as nothing stood in her way. If anything did threaten to impede her
progress, she would talk it out of existence. Hilda Pickavance, God bless her, had put away a sum that would support Mel through university. The bank book was to be Mel’s Christmas gift from
that lovely woman. If only the damage Gloria had done could be put right . . . ‘What the—?’ Keith had just entered the house. ‘What’s that?’

‘I told you I’d get you a collar and lead.’

She stared hard at him. Once again, he was acting as daft as a brush. ‘But . . . there’s a dog fastened to all that tack.’

‘Is there? I never noticed.’

‘And what’s our landlady going to say?’

Keith grinned. ‘She’s in on the act.’

A diminutive black and white animal wagged a sad string of tail. ‘What make is it?’ Eileen asked.

‘It’s a spoodle, so it might not shed.’

She refused to ask.

‘I made up the spoodle bit. Cross between a spaniel and a poodle, and she was cross, too, that woman. Her poodle passed its exams for dog shows and the spaniel got at her.’

Eileen could resist no longer. She picked up the pup and held it close to her chest. Keith was complaining about the bloody dog getting the best seat in the house, but his wife scarcely
listened. ‘Your mummy was got at, babe,’ she said. ‘I know how she must have felt, because I’m got at all the time.’ The little animal was a bundle of soft and silky
curls. ‘I never had a dog, Keith.’

‘I know.’

‘Always wanted one.’

‘I know.’

‘Will it be all right with our baby? Will it kill your chickens?’

‘Yes and no. He’s from a farm in Lydiate, and he’s been handled by children since he was five days old. His mother’s very intelligent – all giant poodles are
– and his dad’s a spaniel. Spaniels are daft, clever, soft-hearted and loving. He’ll be fine for both my babies – you and the passenger. As for chickens – he’s
been pecked to buggery and nothing died.’

‘I love you.’

‘I know.’

‘And if you say “I know” again, I’ll hit you.’

‘I know. What’s for tea, love?’

‘Right.’ Sister Pearson intended to teach Jay Collins a sharp lesson very soon. The man would not listen; therefore, he would not learn. He was refusing some of his
food, kept complaining loudly about anything and everything, and was currently making a song and dance about yet another substandard cup of tea. Did he not understand that even a cuppa was part of
the intake that would balance injected insulin? How would she get through to him? This primed and prepared audience might help. She sighed heavily. Anything was worth a try, she supposed.

She folded her arms and tapped an irritated foot on the floor. ‘This delightful patient, ladies, is beyond the pale. He’s been driving me perpendicular, the cleaners round the
U-bend, and even the doctors are having to see a doctor.’ She glared at Jay. ‘Listen, you. There is nothing wrong with that cup of tea. It’s the same as everyone else’s, and
nobody has complained.’

Jay arranged his features to express deep hurt. ‘One look at you, and they daren’t bloody complain. This tastes like somebody’s peed in it.’ He slammed the green cup into
its green saucer. ‘Disgusting.’

‘Oh, I see. So you’re used to the taste of urine, are you?’

‘I work on farms. We see, smell and taste all sorts. Can’t be helped, cos muck gets everywhere. Wouldn’t suit you. You’ve got that ants in the pants illness,
haven’t you? Always scrubbing your hands – no wonder they’re red. Stick a bit of Vaseline on them. You want to slow down, you do.’

Sylvia Pearson addressed her small entourage of cadets, first years, a second year and, bringing up the rear, a man with a bucket. She didn’t know who he was, but she felt marginally
better with a man in tow. If all else failed, he could threaten to hit the impatient patient with said bucket. ‘This is all deliberate and for attention,’ she advised the group.
‘A sure sign of a bored man. He is on the mend after a mere twenty-four hours. Remember, some men are children, and they’re naughty when well.’

‘Yes, sister,’ chorused her minions. The man with the bucket scratched his ear. He had work to do, but he’d been swept up by this crowd somewhere between beds eight and seven.
He’d gone with the flow, because the flow had happened to be going in his direction, but he felt a right fool standing here with his second best bucket while the mickey got taken out of the
bloke in bed three. This woman certainly went on a fair bit. She was opening her mouth to let the next lot of words see the light of day. He wished she’d hurry up, because it was nearly time
for his tea break, and somebody’s mam had sent in a chocolate cake. There’d be very little chocolate and no eggs in it, but it looked a bit like a cake.

‘Why, oh why did you have to get a chronic illness?’ the sister asked. ‘A broken leg, traction, a bit of dysentery – all those things are soon sorted out. But no. You
have to develop something that needs surveillance, and you don’t look after yourself. You’ll be doing the hokey-cokey here for years, in, out, in out. And you’ve been told how to
manage. You’re even one of the first in this country to test the home hypodermic.’

Jay grinned cheekily. ‘Isn’t she lovely when she’s angry? Did anyone ever tell you, Sis, that behind the evil frown there’s a gorgeous, sensuous woman? The staff,
patients and visitors here say you park your broomstick in the bike sheds, but they’re not being fair. And it’s Christmas. You should get treated better at Christmas.’ He was
going home. If he had to steal clothes, drug staff, and walk ten miles north, he would be with Gill and Maisie by Christmas Day. In fact, he might seriously consider murder if it would get him away
from Bolton Royal Infirmary.

Sister Pearson turned to her group of students. ‘Monitor this one while you can,’ she advised. ‘He’s not the first to cause this kind of bother. On paediatrics,
you’ll find similar behaviour in the under tens. The man is emotionally retarded.’

Jay continued unimpressed. ‘So a Christmas kiss is out of the question, then? Or a quick fumble in the linen store?’

She needed to laugh, but she wouldn’t. He would be missed. The man was a nuisance and a troublemaker, but her ward would be as dead as a path lab without him. He was attractive too, and
she was sorry about the diabetes. If he carried on in denial, he would age very suddenly, lose his looks, his sparkle, a limb, a kidney, his life. ‘Mr Collins, if you don’t take your
illness seriously, Maisie will walk up the aisle without you. In fact, she might even start school with just a mother at home. You don’t want to die, not yet.’

She was being serious, Jay decided. Her tone was softer, and she cared enough to warn him. He felt warned.

Sister Pearson was getting a bit bored with the bucket man. He was like a spectator at some tennis match, head moving from side to side whenever she or Jay spoke. ‘What do you want?’
she asked finally. ‘I wasn’t aware that you were a member of my staff.’

‘Hospital maintenance,’ said Bucket Man. ‘I’m on a job when I can get to it.’

‘Oh?’ She looked him up and down. ‘Why, precisely, are you here?’

‘Precisely, Sister, it’s him.’ The bucket was waved in the direction of the patient. ‘He wants me to take the air out of his pipes. Says he’s an
emergency.’

Everyone burst out laughing. Even the poor little cadets in their gingham uniforms had a good giggle.

But Jay didn’t laugh. He fixed Sylvia Pearson with a steely stare. ‘There is nothing more painful than trapped wind. I can’t sleep because of it. He’s come to bleed my
pipes.’

The sister wiped her eyes. ‘Radiator?’ she asked.

Jay nodded. ‘Can’t sleep for the gurgling. Why? What did you think I meant?’

She turned and sailed away, a flotilla of minions behind her. Jay chuckled and thanked Joe for coming up from maintenance. But oh, he was fed up. If he stopped causing traffic jams, arguments
and heart attacks, there’d be nothing at all to laugh at. He was in a cream room with a green floor. The bedspreads were green, curtains green, face of the man opposite green. ‘Grab
your kidney bowl,’ Jay screamed. The walls were two shades of cream, upper pale, lower a shade darker.

All lockers were cream with green tops. The man across the way continued to vomit. Jay pressed his bell. When a nurse appeared, he waved her in the direction of bed four, stomach ulcer, kidney
bowl, face like an oversized bunion. Jay had heard of being browned off, but he was definitely greened and creamed off. It was time to go home, surely? He was warm, dry and conscious, so why was he
here? They were usually glad to kick folk out at Christmas.

He had to think about himself. There was a right way, and a wrong way. The right way could be tedious, but it might stop the hokey-cokey. It would be necessary to stay at home for a while and
trust Phil Watson to do all the jobs in the book Then he would have to start walking, watching himself carefully and being at the ready with sweets. The next step needed to be checking on Phil,
walking a bit further and staying out for a bit longer every day. Finally, he could do a few jobs. But he was never going to feel young and free again. As a married man and a father, perhaps he had
no right to feel free.

The sister was back. Joe with the bucket did a disappearing act; he’d seen and heard enough of Sister Pearson for one day. ‘Mr Collins?’

‘Yes, Sis?’

‘Your wife’s here to take you home. I’ve given her my condolences, and she seemed to understand perfectly. Normally, we’d keep an eye on you for a few more days, but
it’s your baby’s first Christmas.’

Jay leapt from the bed and kissed the sister’s hand. ‘A miracle,’ he cried. ‘I was spark out here a matter of hours ago, and you warmed my cockles, sweetheart. If I
wasn’t married, I’d propose.’

‘And I might scare you to death by saying yes.’

‘Promises.’ Gill was walking towards him. Apart from on their wedding day, she had never looked so lovely. He had a wife, he had a daughter, he had a life. These were special, and he
must start taking care of all three. ‘Why didn’t you tell me I was going home?’ he asked the sister.

‘Because I wanted to see your face when she came for you. And what I did earlier was staged just for you. Well, except for the man with the bucket. Stop the daftness and stay well. Please,
I beg you. Diabetics can have wonderful lives. You just have to be careful, that’s all. No beer.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Denial is normal in the young, so this is the day you grow up, love. Now, you have to take it all on board, and you will need monitoring. Good luck.’

He took the suitcase from Gill, noticing when he hugged her how tense she was. On closer inspection, her face looked drawn, her eyes sad and dark. He had done this. All his larking about and
getting sick had taken its toll on the relatively new mother. What sort of man was he? ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘We’ve got a girl,’ was her reply.

‘Yes, our Maisie.’

‘No, Land Army. Betty. She’s done the house lovely.’

‘I’m glad, sweetheart. I’m glad.’ He claimed his own place in the ward by drawing curtains round his bed. Green curtains, of course. While he dressed, he fixed his mind
on the poor girl who was his unfortunate wife. As he skimmed the surface of recent years, he wondered how the hell she’d put up with him.
Why do I do it? Is it to ward off sadness? Doctors
say diabetes can make you depressed, so maybe my body was telling me I was ill, and I fought it by acting the rubber pig.

Right, he was dressed. Right, he was lucky – bloody lucky. His Gill would always have gone to the ends of the earth to help a person in trouble, while he’d spun round making more
grief for her. It had to stop. His pancreas didn’t work properly, so he needed insulin. Food had to be measured to match the insulin, and any work needed to be done slowly, carefully, and in
the company of sugar and young Phil.

It didn’t mean there’d be no fun; but she mustn’t get tired. She could start giving Maisie National Dried for a kick-off, because breastfeeding took a lot out of her,
especially with a greedy little monkey like Maisie. At almost seven months, the baby was as strong as a carthorse, so she must shape up and wean. Jay would become a good husband. Well, nearly
good.

The dog was a natural born lunatic. Shy for the first hour after his arrival at St Michael’s Road, Spoodle soon changed his ways and went through the house like a
fine-toothed comb in search of lice. He got into small places, demonstrated an uncontrollable urge to eat coal, chew newspapers, slippers and shoes, and finally settled for the company of Mel, who
was fun, because she owned a small, soft rubber ball and he could pick it up with needle-sharp puppy teeth.

Exhausted after chasing Eileen’s Christmas present all over the house, Keith placed himself next to her on the sofa. ‘That Spoodle,’ he moaned. ‘I’m losing the will
to live.’

‘I knew we wouldn’t last,’ she said mournfully. ‘It’s all over, isn’t it? He’s chosen Mel over me.’

He drew her close and buried his face in her hair. ‘He’s moving back to Willows with us, Eileen. Spoodle’s going to be a country dog, lots of walks, coming to work with me,
playing with the boys.’

‘But Mel will miss him.’

He didn’t say anything. As stepfather, he had to edge his way carefully into the established family. The boys still called him Keith, but Mel had started to use ‘Dad’, and that
pleased him no end. Mel, however, was used to bending her mother to her will. She couldn’t manage it with the bigger and more important aspects of life, but she was certainly capable of
keeping the dog. But he refused to put his foot down heavily or too soon. Stepparent was the right title, because stepping softly was essential. If he marched in roaring like a lion, he’d get
a press similar to Cinderella’s ugly relations, so he kept his counsel.