The Liverpool Trilogy (90 page)

After listening to the patient’s distended abdomen, Dr Ryan perched on the edge of Eileen’s temporary bed. ‘Right,’ she began.

‘What now? Haven’t you done enough?’

‘Well, there’s just one more thing.’

‘Fire away. And I want a new wireless, one less crackly than the antique we have. And it comes in the cage with me.’

The medic took Eileen’s hand in hers. ‘It’s doubly important that you do everything I’ve told you, Eileen. There are two heartbeats.’

The patient blinked stupidly. ‘Two?’ She forced herself to relax before addressing her beloved. ‘You never do anything by halves, do you? Two puddings, two biscuits, two
caramels, two babies. No wonder I look nine months gone already.’ She grinned broadly. ‘I don’t half love you, sweetheart. But you should come with a hazard warning, like
dynamite.’

He dropped into a chair. ‘I didn’t know, did I? I didn’t capture two of the buggers and tell them to find an egg each.’

Elizabeth Ryan laughed. ‘They could be identical. If they are, that’s just one little tadpole and one tiny egg. If fault’s the right word, it could be Eileen’s body that
went for a walk on the wild side. I’m still putting my bet on the bigger one being a girl.’ She liked these people. They were honest, positive and funny. ‘Eileen, do you have any
savings? Sorry to ask, but . . .’

‘We have money,’ Keith said.

‘Then I want you to allow a Mr Barr into your cage. He is
the
man, a consultant, so his fee will be three or four times mine. I’d like him to keep an eye on you and to be
there for the birth in Parkside. It’s run by Augustinian nuns, so it isn’t expensive. You may need a Caesarean section.’

The chin came up. Even lying down, Eileen managed to demonstrate determination. ‘There’s enough bars in that bloody cage without bringing another Barr in. But whatever it takes, Dr
Ryan, we save both of these kiddies. Now, where’s that bloody ambulance?’

Nellie was going spare. Her one and only, her precious daughter, was having twins and she’d lost her plug. Nellie, who had been unaware of the existence of uterine plugs,
was crying at Hilda Pickavance’s kitchen table. ‘Stands to reason. Pull the plug out of a sink and everything drains away. There’s no chain with a womb plug, no saying
“whoops” and shoving it back in and saving what you can. And she’s no good at lying down and keeping still. I’m scared, Hilda. She needs me. And I’m stuck here with
the three bloody musketeers.’

‘Then go to her, but go alone. I fear Mrs Openshaw might be a little too much for Eileen given current circumstances.’

Nellie dried her eyes. ‘A big too much, you mean. Oh, I don’t know what to do. If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Life settles down, so you get Germans dropping in for
tea, an unexploded bomb being exploded down the road, a genius artist in the family, Jay and his diabetes – what next? Creatures from another planet, a plague of frogs?’

Hilda was tired of telling her friend that Willows would not fall down without her. The schoolchildren had settled well, so Nellie’s brand of punishment was seldom required, and
Eileen’s three tearaways had turned out brilliantly. But Nellie, whose attitude often embraced a healthy level of cynicism, continued to eye her grandsons with suspicion. They had been
thieves, vagabonds and a threat to sanity, and she was waiting for them to kick off again. Leopards didn’t change their spots, and vagabonds usually reverted to type.

‘Nellie?’

‘What?’

‘Jay and Neil are nearby. It’s my belief that the boys are so well settled that you needn’t worry. But if you insist on getting in a state, just remember that we have people
here who will help. Go to her, I beg you. Phil, Rob and Bertie are evacuees, and most evacuees don’t have family with them. She needs you. Let me phone Keith. If he sets out now, you’ll
be back in Crosby just before dark. Go on. Pack your things.’

‘But—’

‘I mean it, Nellie. If anything happens to Eileen or her babies, you’ll never forgive yourself. I couldn’t live with you if you couldn’t live with yourself.
Go.’

Nellie went upstairs to pack her bag. While she was gone, Hilda phoned Keith. He was so grateful that he almost wept. If anyone could keep his Eileen under control, it was Nellie. He had petrol,
a neighbour would stay with Eileen, and he would be at Willows in just over an hour.

He replaced the receiver and went into the once more ex-dining room. ‘Your mother’s coming,’ he advised the patient. ‘I’m going for her. Mrs Anderson or Mrs Wrigley
will sit with you.’

Eileen eyed him balefully. ‘One condition.’

‘All right.’

‘Mam can be the keeper of the royal bedpan.’

Keith opened the cage door and stood over her. ‘When I said there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, I meant it. But yes, Nellie can be chief bum-wiper. I’m going now to
get a babysitter. Don’t move. Oh, and I’m doing the rest of the looking-after bit. Your mother will have enough chores.’

She blinked rapidly, because she’d cried enough for now. This was a man who cared deeply. Every day he did or said something precious; every day he proved himself. ‘I love
you,’ she whispered. ‘You’re beyond wonderful.’

‘I know.’ He sighed in an exaggerated fashion. ‘And so modest with it. Mr Perfect, that’s me.’

‘Bugger off.’

He kissed her forehead and buggered off.

Elizabeth Ryan was often described as a woman not to be trifled with. She was straight all the way up and all the way down, no discernible waist, no bustline, no hips. During
the war, she rode a bicycle whenever possible, because fuel was scarce and because she wanted to stay fit for her favourite pastime, which was golf. In spite of her slender frame, she had donated
to the world two attractive, clever children and enough tournament trophies to crowd a mantelpiece. Like the Watson/Kennedy/Greenhalgh women, she was determined, strong and feisty; she was also
quietly angry.

When Bingley’s receptionist left, Elizabeth walked into his empty waiting room and tapped on the surgery door.

‘Come.’

She went in. ‘A word or several,’ she said.

Tom looked up. God, what a sight this was. She looked like something that had miraculously survived six months on a desert island, starved body, skin like thin paper, a shadow of moustache
threatening the upper lip. ‘Liz,’ he said, rising to his feet.

‘Oh, sit down. You’ll need that chair in a minute, Tom. I have a whole kipper full of bones to pick with you. Eileen Greenhalgh. Do I need to say more?’

He felt the heat in his face. ‘What about her?’

‘Sensible woman, pretty as a picture, decent husband.’ She leaned forward and lowered her tone. ‘While you were declaring undying love for her on Moor Lane, she was almost in
labour.’

Tom’s jaw dropped. ‘She should have told me.’

‘She didn’t know. I examined her and found the dislocated operculum. I surely don’t need to remind you of the implications. She now has to lie flat for weeks on end, her
husband can’t return to his proper job, and she is terrified. Of you.’

He closed his mouth with an audible click. ‘God,’ he groaned.

‘Now, listen to me, you fool. There are two babies. One is large and reasonably well developed, the other is smaller. Both deserve a chance. By making her stand there while you carried on
like a love-sick teenager, you may have cost them their lives. Even the bigger twin needs to stay where she is. The smaller one might not survive anyway – we all know twins do battle before
birth, and the weaker one may not make it into the world. All that aside, my patient is taking legal advice, because you have plagued her for well over a year. Should you disobey a court
injunction, you would lose everything – your practice, your family, perhaps your liberty and, of course, your precious position in local society. Stay away from her. You know me, Tom. No
threat I make is empty.’

He swallowed noisily. ‘I was just . . . talking to her. There’s nothing going on. There never has been anything—’

‘Only because she has your measure.’ She leaned even closer. ‘Miss Morrison knew the lot – Dockers’ Word, Mrs Kennedy’s attack on you. And we all know why
those things happened. Eileen doesn’t want you. She wants to go back to Keith’s home and live the country life.’

He gave up. ‘I know.’

‘Then why, Tom?’ Her anger melted. The man was vulnerable.

He steepled his fingers and placed his chin on the apex. ‘It’s ridiculous. I just met her and loved her, fought like hell for my marriage, tried to stay away, told myself it was just
sex. But it isn’t. And it isn’t going away, Liz.’

‘Willpower?’

‘Where she’s concerned, I have none.’

‘Then we have a problem.’

They sat in silence for several minutes, at the end of which Tom Bingley conceded defeat. He would not see her again, would not telephone the house, would distance himself from the whole family.
The daughters of the two houses were best friends, and Marie had grown close to Eileen, but Tom needed not interfere with any of that.

Liz studied him while he spoke. He was edgy, uncertain and terribly unhappy. She was one of his doctors, and she wasn’t liking what she saw. She asked about sleep pattern and, as she
feared, he displayed symptoms of both anxiety and clinical depression. Because he was a medic, he knew the implications, and the expression in his eyes screamed for help. ‘You’re no
candidate for electro-convulsive or insulin coma therapy, Tom. Emotionally, you were quite well organized till Eileen came along. The woman in Rodney Street – do you think she could
help?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m too tired to try. Eileen has taken me over body and soul.’

‘I can’t move her to that village, and you know why. I’m putting her with Barr, and she’ll deliver in Parkside if she doesn’t miscarry. What the hell am I supposed
to do? Prescribe bromide for you?’

Again, he raised his shoulders.

‘Are you still intimate with Marie?’

‘Sometimes, yes.’

‘Bloody hell, man. You spent a fortune—’

‘I spent a fortune to prove I was desirable even to Marie. It’s always been about me, me, me.’

‘You hate you.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s depression.’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you self-medicated? What’s your poison?’

‘Anything I can get my hands on in the evenings when I’m at home. Spirits, wine, beer if there’s nothing else. The drinking’s not yet out of control, but I’m afraid
it may become so. And all because of a little woman from Scotland Road.’

Elizabeth Ryan was at a loss. Here sat a patient with full insight into his condition and its implications. He was intelligent, capable, and a darned good physician. And he had fallen in love.
This was not a sin, but she had long recognized that it could become an illness. For most people, the disease righted itself, couples settled down, remained close and were cured. Or they parted,
recovered and looked elsewhere. But the unrequited version was potentially deadly. ‘I have a theory that testosterone kills off brain cells,’ she muttered, almost to herself.
‘Women suffer less. I don’t know why, but there it is.’

‘Oh, God.’ He made a pillow with his arms and placed his head on it.

Liz had to make a decision. ‘Tom, I can’t certify you, because you’re sane. You will have to volunteer. I’m naming it nervous exhaustion. We all know you’ve been
dashing down to town to help after running two or three surgery sessions a day.’

His head shot up. ‘We’ve lawyers down there who work full office hours before going out to act as firemen. Why am I different?’

‘You just are. I’m going to talk to Marie. There is help. Naturally, I will not mention Eileen Greenhalgh to your wife. But you must go away from here, my friend. Please, allow me to
help.’

Tom nodded his agreement. Unless something happened, he might go right under and be unfit for work. Liz Ryan, while not a gentle deliverer of bad news, always knew her onions. He was
unbelievably tired, and she saw that. He wasn’t eating properly, was getting very little sleep, and alcoholism lay in his path. But there might be a fork in the road. He couldn’t yet
see it, but someone else might spot it and get him to change direction.

‘Tom?’

He looked up and, just for a moment, caught a glimpse of the reason why her handsome husband was so devoted to her. She cared, and her eyes were pretty. ‘What?’

‘You’ll be all right. I promise you.
Nil desperandum.
’

‘That’s what Eileen calls the coal man. But she altered it slightly to Neil Desperado. He fancies her as well.’

‘Is Neil his name?’

He shook his head. ‘No. See what I mean? She makes it up as she goes along, and she carries every colour of the rainbow in her palette. My head’s full of her. When I wake at five in
the morning, she’s there. When I try to fall asleep at night, she’s sitting on a draining board with three cups and a pan. Just a game she plays. With him.’

‘He’s a good man.’

‘I know. This is obsession.’

Outside, Elizabeth dried her eyes. Detachment was vital in a doctor, but she was temporarily defeated. Tom Bingley was not a bad person; he was just a man who had suffered an accident. He was
one of those who had fallen in love a little late in life. He had married, children had been born, and the love of his life had fallen into his path when he was over the age of forty. There could
be no quick cure; he was already teetering on the edge. Such a bloody shame. Not for the first time in her career, she felt powerless. Broken bodies showed and could often be dealt with. But
fractured hearts and souls were beyond her reach. He had to go away.

While Dr Ryan was dealing with one Bingley, Mel had her hands full with another of that clan. In truth, the reverse was nearer the mark, because Peter had handfuls of her. He
had pushed her against a massive oak in Coronation Park, and his upper limbs were on the move. She was the only one. He had done his best to stay away thanks to the damage attempted by his sister,
but that was all mended and forgotten now, so might they get together again? Secretly, of course. He wanted to prove that he wasn’t homosexual, but Mel had sense enough to know that she could
not be part of that process.