Read The Liverpool Trilogy Online
Authors: Ruth Hamilton
The next few days and weeks would merit a title – ‘Remembering How We Fed Elsie During a War’. Elsie took for granted all the little extras she managed to acquire at Willows.
Here, for the first time, she was forced to live with true rationing; here, she began her weight loss programme.
Elsie Openshaw took up walking to fill in the time between meals. It didn’t take her long to realize that her life at home had been one long meal interrupted only by
sleep, shoppers, and people wanting the services of the Royal Mail. Spoodle was a good excuse. Reluctant at first to leave Eileen in what he recognized as her hour of need, he had to be dragged
along on his lead, and Elsie was just about ready to give up when he finally decided to go with the flow. Humans, he had discovered, always won in the end, so fighting was useless, tiring and a
waste of breath.
Each day, they walked a little further until, after a couple of weeks of gradually lengthening journeys, they finally reached Nellie’s beloved river. Immediately, Spoodle pulled so hard
that he took the lead with him, leaving Elsie to scream while the dog chased his sister along a beach made narrower by dragons’ teeth and barbed wire.
‘Hello, stranger.’
She turned and studied the man. ‘Oh, it’s you. Spoodle’s buggered off, and now there’s two of him, and they’re in all the muck. See? Over there.’
‘Pandora’s from the same litter. She’ll come back to me, and he’ll follow. How are you? Oh, and the food at Christmas was delicious.’
‘How am I? Bloody starving’s how I am.’ She opened her coat. ‘See this frock? It fitted when I got here. I’m becoming emacicated.’
Tom Bingley didn’t laugh. ‘You look better for the weight loss.’ She did. She would probably be healthier, too. ‘Are you staying with Eileen and Keith?’ he asked, a
coating of nonchalance applied to the words.
‘I am. Well, with Nellie, really. But I’m stopping till I see them babies. She’s done well, has Eileen, keeping to her bed like that when she’s not blessed with a patient
nature. She can sit up now, like, but she must have been scared when it first kicked off. Any road, Nellie’s mistress of the bedchamber, and I’m the bloody dog walker.’
‘So am I, Elsie. I had to take a break from work. There’s been a lot of pressure and stress. Not just my job, but the raids in town. It’s been a bitter time.’
She wasn’t surprised, and she told him so. The noises at night, bumps and thumps and bangs were enough to send anybody pots for rags. ‘I thought I were going to be dead at first.
Nellie explained things to me, but it’s still only seven or eight miles away, so I’m a bit feared, cos we never see nothing up yon where I come from. Best excitement we get is tupping,
and Jay Collins falling off a ladder when his sugar’s low. Even that doesn’t happen a lot now.’
‘Diabetic chap?’
‘Aye. Here comes trouble.’ Two filthy little floor mops with legs arrived. The pups were breathless and covered in the muddy sand that gets dredged up by a tidal river. ‘What
the blood and dolly mixtures are we supposed to do now?’ Elsie asked.
‘My house,’ Tom replied. ‘Nearer than Nellie’s. A quick rub down for the dogs, pot of tea for us, and a cake of sorts. Marie does her best, but I’ve ordered some
chickens, then we can have our own eggs. And I’ve turned over the back garden for vegetables.’
‘Aye, well keep your hens off that lot. Inquisitive little buggers, they are, so watch your veg. And if you fancy a chicken supper, I’ll do the deed for you.’
Tom hadn’t thought that far ahead. Eggs were one thing, murder was another. He swallowed.
‘You make me laugh, you townies,’ said Elsie. ‘It’s all right for the butcher to kill, but you’ll not dirty your hands, eh? And you a doctor, and all.’
They walked back to St Andrew’s Road, a feat for which they deserved medals, since the two pups decided to take up French knitting, and their leads became intertwined in a pattern that
might have been pleasing had there been no mud involved. By the time they reached Tom’s house, all four members of the posse were as black as sweeps.
Tom dealt with the spoodles while Elsie cleaned herself up and made tea. But the best laid plans often fell apart in the presence of Pandora and her brother. Within minutes, the whole house was
marked. They didn’t like the bath. They didn’t like Lux Flakes, green soap, or human shampoo. They ran muddy, slightly muddy, damp and wet through across beds, rugs, chairs and sofas.
They skidded into the kitchen, banged into Elsie’s lisle-stockinged legs, turned, ran on the spot because their feet found no purchase on the slick floor, and were finally returned to the
bathroom by an angry Boltonian female. ‘Didn’t you close the door, you daft bugger?’
‘I didn’t think,’ he answered weakly.
‘Out,’ she commanded. ‘Make the tea. And may God have mercy on your soul when the missus gets back.’ But he wasn’t going anywhere. Nothing on earth could persuade
him to abandon Elsie to the machinations of two canine lunatics. He sent her away.
The missus, when she returned, thought the situation was hilarious. She staggered through the house with mops and cloths, pausing at the bathroom door to listen to her beleaguered husband. His
voice rose above loud splashes and unhappy yelps. ‘There has to be a tranquillizer for dogs,’ he shouted. ‘Put the bloody sponge down. No, we do not eat loofahs or pumice
stones.’
Marie slid her body into the room, taking care not to open the door to its full width. Tackling one pup each, they managed the task, but only just. Wet through and laughing, they sat side by
side on a flooded floor, clothes sodden, towels dripping, two very wet spoodles shaking water from their curls and up the walls. ‘Bit of a mess,’ she managed, tears dampening further
the soggy atmosphere.
Tom pressed a hand against his aching stomach. ‘Can you imagine a Great Dane or an Irish wolfhound?’ he howled.
She hit him with a wet washcloth. ‘Shut up.’
The door opened and Elsie stood in the gap, arms folded, head shaking sadly. A pair of soggy dogs shot past her and down the stairs. ‘Hello, Mrs Bingley. I’ve found some big towels.
You two had better sort yourselves out while I look for them two buggers and dry them off. Then I’ll light a fire.’ She wandered off, muttering quietly about daft Scousers, stupid dogs
and the bloody muck in the bloody Mersey.
‘That was fun,’ Tom said seriously. ‘Fun is what we lack.’ He stood up, locked the door and made love to his wife in a dirty, waterlogged space alongside the bath. There
was a near-stranger downstairs, and their surroundings were rather less than perfect, but it was glorious. Except for one thing. When he reached the point of no return, for one exquisite moment, he
thought of Eileen.
* * *
Dear all,
I have been remiss. So many letters from Mel, but I find myself quite caught up in life – who said it was quiet, peaceful and/or boring in the country? The new greenhouses have been
erected on Willows land, while the planting at Home Farm was achieved in record-breaking time, since Neil Dyson now has an assistant, one Robin Watson – be proud of him, Eileen.
While his greenhouses are primarily for tomatoes, Robin intends to grow exotic flowers after the war. He is tender with blooms, and he says that brides should have more than just roses in
their bouquets and sprays. So, like his older brother, he seems to have an artistic eye, though he says he’ll get a female to front the wedding business. At that point, several others
jumped on the bandwagon to offer hairdressing, wedding cakes and bridal attire, so perhaps we shall rename the hamlet Weddings Ltd.
But a great deal of my time has been invested in Philip, who blossoms like one of the rare orchids his brother might grow. Mr Marchant and I arranged a show for him, and we sold
everything! Yes, even in wartime, he is valued. People who invest in him now will reap the benefit in later life, because Philip’s talent is unique.
Which leaves just Bertie, your baby for the moment, Eileen. That boy can calm a horse from a distance, can break one for riding in under a week, and now has paid work in two stables where
staff have gone to war. He rides daily, and is becoming accomplished.
I asked him once about his long-term future. He declared his intention to serve the King at any of the palaces. The King’s horses deserve the best, and he is the self-proclaimed
greatest horseman ever born, so there you have it.
The most touching thing happened. When Philip sold his paintings, he gave some of the money to Bertie for riding boots, jodhpurs, coat and hard hat. Bertie, very solemn-faced, took the
money and bought the things he needed. As he chose second-hand except for boots, he was able to give back change. ‘For paint and stuff,’ he said. Philip took the change and used it
well. They are all good friends, and I believe their move to the country was for the best.
Appreciation of life here is widespread. Many of the other Scotland Roaders have settled well, but their parents have mixed feelings. When they visit their offspring, they often come to
me almost wringing their hands because their So-and-So doesn’t fancy going home when the war ends. God alone knows what lies ahead, but I think we are in for fun and games when
hostilities cease – as long as we are victorious, of course. Like your three boys, most of the evacuees are at impressionable ages, since country folk took children who were old enough to
be useful. They are useful; they are also falling in love with a way of life.
Eileen, I am so glad that you have come this far with your twins. I can scarcely wait for you all to come home. Nellie and Elsie, our two wise women, are missed, as is Keith. By the way,
I am learning to drive and have bought a little Austin, so don’t worry about keeping the car. Your need is greater than ours, because you are so near to Liverpool and so close to giving
birth, and that vehicle might get you out of all kinds of difficulty.
The six willows are thriving, the land is healthy, and our best bull has been in great demand lately. We are taking no fees. Instead, we get produce, poultry and piglets. The Ministry has
accepted the idea for the duration.
Eileen smiled when she reached this point. Black market dealings went on, of course, though Miss Pickavance would never allow such information to stain paper.
Please continue to take care of each other. Don’t worry about the boys. They are well behaved, busy and happy. Oh, and Jay’s diabetes is under control, Gill
and Maisie are doing well, and the Dyson family continue to cope with the Land Girls. Beautiful blossom in the orchards; all’s well with the world, or it will be when I see those
babies.
Love, Hilda.
Smoke and grit often drifted their way along the Mersey to pay a polite visit to Crosby and Blundellsands. Nellie didn’t want to think about it, but Mel kept everybody
informed whether they liked it or not. She was like a walking book of statistics: so many houses flattened in Bootle, so many in Liverpool; the number of dead, gravely injured, walking wounded.
Dusty gardens and windowsills were evidence enough, but Mel had to make cement and lay everything on with a trowel. Even Elsie told her to shut up, while Keith usually left the battlefield before
it became unbearable.
By the end of April, Eileen was sitting in a chair. Every time she wanted to stand, Keith threatened to send for ten big lads and a crane, because she was heavy, and her centre of gravity seemed
to have shifted. ‘She’ll disprove the Newton theory soon,’ he pronounced. ‘At least the bloody dog’s got it right now, but Eileen’s a law unto
herself.’
‘She always was,’ Nellie would say before going into detail about her daughter’s wilder days. Tales of truancy, unsuitable boyfriends, and visits to Southport when she should
have been in church poured in a seemingly endless stream from the mouth of this adoring mother. ‘If her dad had been alive it would have killed him’ or ‘Her father must have been
spinning round the cemetery on roller skates’ were typical of her concluding remarks.
Occasionally, the voice of the accused drifted from the used-to-be-dining room. ‘Shut up, Mam, or I’ll tell Elsie about the time you went three rounds with Bootle Betty and pulled
her wig off in Jackson’s chippy’ was one of the many ripostes offered by the expectant mother. She was going into Parkside soon. She was not happy; she was going to be cut open by a man
who was five feet tall in his shoes, and she hoped he could reach her babies without a ladder, since she was very tall in the belly area when lying down. She was fed up.
Nellie and Elsie had taken up walking together while Keith minded his wife. They went daily to the beach, calling in at St Andrew’s Road to collect Pandora, and, a few times a week, Tom
Bingley came with them. He was working part time; he also went into the city to help in the evenings. Unlike Mel, he produced no information unless asked, thereby proving himself a truly
professional man.
Surprisingly, Nellie was becoming very fond of Pandora’s ‘dad’. There was a great deal more to the man than met the naked eye. He talked about the twins with pride in his tone,
mentioned his wife frequently, and indulged in lengthy sessions of private thought while gazing out towards the bar, an invisible seam where river became sea. She wondered whether he still longed
for Eileen, but was proud of him for maintaining his dignity. In moments while dogs ran free, she frequently glimpsed the edge of his pain when he turned from the Mersey to address his companions.
He suffered. Every death, every mutilation stayed with him. The man cared about people, loved Liverpool.
Today, he awarded Elsie Openshaw a broad grin. ‘They won’t know you back at Willows. You must have shed at least three stone.’
The ‘emacicated’ woman laughed. ‘Mel’s took all me clothes in. Eileen couldn’t, cos she’s not allowed to do much. What I want to know is, what happens to all
me loose flabby bits?’
He thought about that. ‘Your neck – cover it with a scarf or wear high-necked clothes. My wife has an imitation pearl choker; it’s too big for her. I’ll ask her for it,
and you can wear that for posh.’