Read The Liverpool Trilogy Online
Authors: Ruth Hamilton
The ARP currently has half a million members nationwide, but Churchill wants that number doubled. We may have won the Battle of Britain, but we are still very unsafe.
America is our greatest hope; why won’t they come? Yes, I know some are here already, as are many from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and other Commonwealth countries, but we need America
to become official. The unofficial Americans tend to be Air Force – they love planes and are technologically advanced, but their President is afraid of unpopularity.
Bob Garnet is ARP. He treated me to a cup of tea in a little hut and said I was a bit young to hear his stories. So I told him I am a Merchants girl working on a project, which is true in
a sense. He said they all have an area to patrol, and that they know the people who live in the houses, so they can tell at a glance who’s missing or in a shelter. They dig and dig and
bring out bits of people, trying to guess who’s who and what’s what. Sometimes organs end up in buckets and guesswork comes into play, but, as Bob said, there’s a war
on.
It’s the children. He can’t carry a dead child without weeping , and he does it openly now, because he’s not the only one. The next worst thing, he says, is the smell of
burning flesh. Well, you told me to be open and honest, didn’t you? Bob’s stomach is no longer strong , and his wife worries. They live in a place called Old Roan, somewhere on the
way to Aintree.
Sighing, Hilda rose and walked to the window. Two typically angry robins were locked in mid-flight deadly combat. So much for the air force, she said inwardly. Cows had begun lowing in the Home
Farm sheds. Cows didn’t have Christmas, unless one counted a few in Bethlehem’s famous stable. Their udders were full, and milking was required. This was just another ordinary day.
Bernie O’Hara got in the wrong queue. He was supposed to be volunteering as a messenger boy, but he found himself with a heavy helmet, leaden boots and a
fireman’s uniform. He explained that he wasn’t quite fourteen, but he was told that these are desperate times, and he must get on with it. So he got on with it.
On his first watch, the bells ‘went down’. That’s what they say when the ringing starts. Poor Bernie found himself on a fire engine rattling its way to Millers Bridge.
His description to me was, ‘The whole world was on fire, and the flames were really tall. I could see Heinkels in the sky.’
They rolled out hoses and fastened them to hydrants. A real fireman took the hose and made Bernie stand behind him. ‘Hold on,’ he ordered, ‘or we all die. There’s
forty to sixty pounds of pressure coming through here in a minute. If we let go, it becomes a giant serpent and kills us all.’
That was just the first battle for Bernie, an ordinary schoolboy. The heat was terrific. They had to cool down other buildings, because brick crumbles at a certain temperature, and some
places caught fire just because they overheated. His face was burning. He couldn’t touch it, because he had the hose. So he shuffled a bit, and some of the water came back at him. His
uniform was steaming. It was wet through, but the flames heated it. Burning timber flew at him, crackling as it travelled. ‘I know hell now,’ he told me. At fourteen, at my age, he
has already seen hell.
The rest of the message was amusing. Hilda found herself chuckling again, because Mel’s palette changed in the blink of an eye, and she used just primary colours when describing her
nearest and dearest.
You could cut the atmosphere here with a blunt knife. They are SO in love, and they play all sorts of games. Keith pretends to be dominant, but he’s about as
threatening as a high tide at Southport, which, in turn, is as rare as hen’s teeth. When he gets fed up with her misbehaviour, he sits her on the draining board and orders her to stay.
They kiss all the time. She says kissing is his main hobby. He is a lovely man and I have started to call him Dad. That pleases him. He says he’s getting her a collar and lead tomorrow
for Christmas, and a voucher for ten lessons at dog training school. I don’t think we’ll be having Christmas – it will be more like Kissmas.
Hilda chuckled; she’d been told about Spoodle via the telephone.
Miss Morrison does some pretend sleeping, but she’s really listening to the sounds of love’s young dream. Her level of deafness alters daily; if there’s
something interesting going on, she hears it. I spend time with her every day. People her age are like living history books, so valuable. She says she’s staying alive until Hitler’s
dead and disposed of and she’s seen television. Nothing would surprise me where Miss Morrison’s concerned. Sometimes I wonder what really went on with that caretaker in the
cellar!
Hilda placed the pages with all the others in a drawer. It was Christmas, and there was much to do. Her protégés, spread as they were around farms and cottages, would each receive
a stocking from her. This house would be packed to the gills, since Jay, Gill and Maisie were expected, as were Neil, Jean and their daughters. The Land Army girls had all managed to get home for a
few days, and that was a relief, or lunchers would have spilled onto the stairs. So it was to be a meal for twelve, though Nellie insisted that she had it all in hand. Thank goodness they lived in
the country and kept poultry.
Elsie was expected for afternoon tea, as were Freda Pilkington and her offspring, but the lunch guests would have left by then. As she combed her hair, Hilda Pickavance found herself smiling at
the ageing figure in the glass. She was no longer lonely; she had a family at last.
‘Well, this is a good start, I must say.’ Keith joined the weeping Mel on the sofa. ‘Happy Christmas. It’s all going very well so far. Your
mother’s in the bath, says she’s staying there till New Year because I bought her some bubbles. Miss Morrison’s had her breakfast courtesy of me, but she said her toast was
overdone, and now you’re carrying on all sad. Come on. Tell your stepdad what’s up.’
Mel pushed documents into his hand. ‘It’s too much,’ she wailed.
Keith looked at the bank book and covering letter, explaining that too much was fine in his opinion. ‘Your mam and I got you clothes – good ones, but second-hand. So this too-much
present evens things out a bit.’
‘I could buy three houses with that, Dad.’
‘I wouldn’t bother, love. Some soft bugger keeps knocking them down or setting light to them.’ Dad. This gorgeous girl was his daughter. ‘Miss Pickavance loves you, baby.
That money will see you through university, because brains are all very well, but they need food, shelter and transport. You’re safe now.’
She grinned. ‘Unless I get bombed.’
Like her mother, Mel was a rainbow when she cried and smiled simultaneously. ‘Get a crowbar, sweetheart, and prise your mam out of that bathroom.’
But no such measure was required, because chaos erupted. Not one but two spoodles shot through the room like bullets from a gun. ‘Did I imagine that?’ Mel asked. ‘Two nutters
merged into one?’
He nodded. ‘A ball with eight legs. It rolled that-a-way.’
They sat and listened as the two pups bounded upstairs. They could go up, but they couldn’t come down. ‘That’ll shift your mam,’ predicted Keith as Gloria walked in.
‘Happy Christmas,’ the visitor said grimly. ‘My dad wants a divorce from Pandora, says two daft women in the house are enough, and he and Peter are now outnumbered.
They’re crying.’
‘Tom and Peter?’ Keith asked innocently.
‘Spoodle and Pandora.’ Mel dried her eyes. ‘They can’t get down,’ she advised her best friend.
‘We know,’ was Gloria’s reply. ‘We found that out at three o’clock this morning. She’s eaten a doormat and a draught excluder. Yours has started on a leg of
the kitchen table.’
‘We know,’ they chorused.
‘You little buggers,’ came a voice from on high. ‘Keith? They’ve got my towel.’
‘You know what?’ Keith rose to his feet. ‘I’m beginning to sympathize with that poodle woman. We are paying for the spaniel’s bad behaviour.’
All three walked upstairs. Eileen, stark naked and laughing, was pulling a large towel to which were attached two pups. She looked at the three new arrivals. ‘You took your
time.’
Dumbstruck, Keith noticed the swelling. That was his and hers, a daughter or son in a beautiful container. While the girls retrieved the towel, he simply gazed into his wife’s eyes. He
could not remember happiness as intense as this.
Eileen covered herself. ‘Drown them,’ she ordered before retreating to her bedroom. Keith followed, locking the door behind him. She was seated on the bed, a huge pair of scissors in
one hand. ‘Why do you have a murder weapon in your bedside cupboard?’ she asked.
‘To cut through all the red tape,’ he answered.
‘What?’
‘Your tarpaulin.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’
‘Happy Christmas.’ He gave her a white silk gown with matching nightdress. ‘Used to be a German parachute, so if you ever need to jump, you just pull the cord
and—’
It was her turn to cut off his words with a kiss. She dragged him back into bed and encouraged nature to take its course. Sometimes, a woman needed to dictate the pace.
Frances Morrison was waiting for them. ‘Thank you for the lovely bedjacket. And the girls asked me to tell you that they’ve taken the spoodles to torment Dr
Bingley. Oh, will you make me some toast, Eileen? Your husband should work at a crematorium.’
When they were alone, she patted her bed, and he sat next to her. ‘Does she know, Keith?’
He nodded. ‘Big-Mouth Bingley told her. She was shocked, but you know how she is. Whatever happens, she puts everything to one side and gets on with what needs doing.’
‘I just wanted her to have something of her own – a house, a place.’
‘Yes.’
‘Make her take it when I’m gone. No selling up and giving the money to charity. She’s a lovely woman.’
‘I know.’
She gripped his hand with more power than should have been allotted to a woman so advanced in years. ‘Look after them all, or I shall haunt you.’
They gave her the new toast and another cup of milky tea. Then they left her. ‘It’s time to prepare Christmas dinner,’ Eileen told her.
Alone in her room, content in a house filled with love, Frances drifted on a bright, white cloud of memories. A school bell, the sounds of girls at play, a handsome, vulgar man in a cellar,
sweet temptation, one stolen kiss in an office populated by filing cabinets, desks and daffodils. He knew she loved spring flowers. She could not marry a janitor; she should have married him.
Never mind. Onward, onward. Forty-three of her girls had gone on via Merchants to Oxbridge. Educate a boy, and you educate one man; educate a girl, and you enlighten generations. Too tired to
call for company, Miss Frances Morrison took a road along which we are all destined to tread. Her last thought was for Spoodle. He could have two bedjackets now.
Marie, in the midst of chaos, snatched at the receiver. ‘Eileen? What? When? Yes, of course I will.’ She paused, a finger pressed against the free ear.
‘Peter’s avoiding us like the plague, so don’t worry about him. Yes, yes. I am so sorry, my dear.’
Two girls and two puppies were running about. Peter was upstairs, stoic in his silence. Tom sat in his little office, an Irish coffee on the desk, an old crossword puzzle spread before him.
‘Where’s Pandora?’ Gloria shouted.
Marie shut herself in the downstairs cloakroom. What the hell did it matter if the sprouts were soggy? The old lady was dead. Were the parsnips in the oven? Did she care? The running and
shouting continued. This was her life; she had to live it.
When she reached the office door again, she paused to watch her husband betraying himself. In his arms, he cradled a happy pup. The newcomer he had dismissed as unclean and germ-ridden was
licking his face. ‘Who’s my beauty-girl, then?’ He used a silly, talking-to-a-baby voice. ‘Who’s had a permanent wave that went wrong? To hell with the spaniel,
I’m your daddy. Yes, I am. Yes, I am.’ He looked up. ‘Marie?’
She entered and closed the door. ‘We have to ask Mel to stay for dinner, Tom. Miss Morrison died.’
He closed his eyes. That wonderful, aggressive, determined suffragette had gone. ‘She was born in 1850,’ he said, his voice unsteady. ‘February next, she would have hit
ninety-one. Her brain was as sharp as the best carving knife, and she never missed a trick.’ But she had missed the end of this bloody war, and she hadn’t lived to see television.
‘How are Keith and Eileen?’
Marie shook her head. ‘Not good. They’re not having Christmas, so they want us to keep Mel for a few hours. Peter won’t come down if she’s here.’
He stood up. ‘Leave it with me, love. Time somebody sorted this lot out. You do your parsnips, I’ll deal with Peter.’
He paused on the landing and stood in the oriel bay. From here he could see Miss Morrison’s house – Mrs Greenhalgh’s now. All curtains were closed. Dr Ryan’s bike leaned
against a gatepost, and the undertaker’s car was parked nearby. A light had gone out today. That remarkable old woman had fought for women’s franchise, and for an end to segregation in
America. That hadn’t happened yet, but she’d tried, had even travelled to the southern states. The slave trade was partly Britain’s fault, and Liverpool had thrived on it. Frances
Morrison had battled for a school of her own, for freedom, for the betterment of women.
‘Dad?’
‘Hello, son.’
Peter stood beside his father. ‘Why are you crying?’
‘A patient died. Miss Morrison. Mel doesn’t know, and she’s having Christmas with us, because her parents are busy.’ He dried his eyes. ‘You will go downstairs and
be a man. Yes, men cry too. Go. Give your sister and her friend a decent day. Stop feeling bloody sorry for yourself.’
Tom sat in the bay window long after his son had gone downstairs. Puppies ran, two girls laughed and shouted, while the scent of food rose up the stairwell and almost made him gag. ‘Silent
Night’ was playing on the wireless. Wasn’t that a German carol? Wasn’t it ‘Stille Nacht’? And did it matter? He remained where he was through ‘Silent
Night’ and part of Handel’s
Messiah
.