Meet Me at the Pier Head (51 page)

Izzy tried to reassure her friend. ‘She’s fifteen, Joan. No court would attempt to force her to do anything.’

‘But she doesn’t need the disturbance it would bring,’ Joan insisted.

Her husband jumped to his feet so suddenly that his chair fell over backwards. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered, his eyes fixed to the photograph on the table.

‘What?’ the two women asked simultaneously.

‘I can’t tell you yet,’ he replied. ‘But I’m going for Theo. I may be wrong, so I’m saying nothing.’ He grabbed his jacket and left.

Izzy and Joan stared at each other. ‘What happened there?’ Izzy asked. ‘He seems to have upstaged both of us.’

‘No idea,’ was the reply. ‘We’re supposed to be unpredictable because we’re women, but Jack’s like a flea on a dog sometimes, leaping about without warning. I
think he just had what people call an epiphany. With angina, epiphanies are not necessarily a good thing.’

‘So an idea dropped into his mind without warning?’

Joan nodded. ‘Don’t worry, there’s plenty of space for it in his head.’

They laughed, though the sound arrived strained.

‘I couldn’t bear to lose him,’ Joan admitted.

‘He’ll be fine; he has you to live for.’

They heard Theo’s car starting up. The beloved MGs were still parked in a large garage behind the house, though the Quinns frequently used a family car since the children had arrived. Izzy
dashed to the window. ‘Jack’s with Theo. Ah, they’re gone. Shall we ask Portia what’s afoot? Oh, hang on; here comes Rosie, so we must stay where we are.’

They had to wait. Izzy, who had practised calming through yoga in many dressing rooms, sat down and managed to contain herself. Joan began to pace about. ‘Oh, God,’ she muttered at
least five times.

‘Joan?’

‘Yes?’

‘Go and wash dishes, clean the oven, paint a ceiling or whatever.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Forgiven. But go away.’

Joan went away.

Alone, Izzy closed her eyes and aimed for calm, but she never quite got there. Frank Turner. Who and where the hell was he?

‘Where are we going?’ Theo asked. ‘Tia believes I’ve left home.’

‘I’m thinking,’ was Jack’s reply. ‘We’ll kick off down the Dingle. I’ll find out whether they’ve moved.’
I need to remember. Come on,
Jack Peake, wake up. Was I courting a girl in the Dingle? What was her name?

Theo applied the brakes. ‘I know you have your thinking head on, but I must ask you this – whether who’s moved? What the hell in a wagon is going on?’

Jack shook his head. ‘Look, it’s just a thought and I could be wrong. The photo made me wonder, that’s all. I don’t want to say anything in case I’m at the mucky
end of the stick. Just drive while I try to remember stuff.’

‘What stuff?’

‘Stuff I’ll remember better if you shut up. I had enough in the flat with Joan and Izzy nattering on like bloody market traders. That’s it. One of them had a stall on
Paddy’s Market when he grew up.’

‘One of which or what or whom?’

‘Button it, Mr Quinn. I’m sixty-five and I’m looking for number twenty-seven with no idea of the street. Just drop me when I say, then come back in an hour.’

‘But—’

‘Please don’t talk.’

‘OK, keep your hair on. You can’t afford to lose any more.’

Jack sat back and stared through the windscreen, hoping against hope that something would catch his eye – a clue, a hint, a— ‘Stop,’ he yelled.

The car squealed to a halt. ‘Jeez,’ Theo breathed. ‘You made me jump, and you’re doing no good for my tyres.’

‘Come back for me in an hour,’ Jack begged. ‘I’m going to find some Turners. Go into the flat and make sure my Joanie’s all right. She frets.’

‘Turners?’ Theo raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘They may be the wrong ones.’

‘Right.’

‘No, wrong ones.’

Theo groaned. ‘Jack?’

‘What?’

‘Get lost; I’ll see you later.’

When Theo had driven away, Jack got busy wandering up and down streets that all looked the same, one door, one window, another door, another window, the smell of rancid fat emanating from the
chip shop on the corner. It was the shop that had given him a clue, because its door cut across the corner of the terrace. But he discovered that several of the streets had a shop with a similar
entrance, so . . .

He pulled himself together and knocked on a door that was not twenty-seven; it was twenty-four. In his experience of terraced-house living, neighbours across the way often knew more about those
living opposite than they did about adjacent families.

An old woman with a splendid moustache answered. ‘What do you want? I’m listening to me programme.’ She fiddled with her hearing aid.

‘Do you know any Turners?’

‘What? Speak up, me battery’s playing the fool again, bloody rubbish.’

‘Do you know any Turners?’ He separated every syllable.

‘Turners?’

He nodded.

‘Him at number eighteen works a lathe. He’s a turner, goes across on the ferry every day, ironworks in Birkenhead.’ She closed the door.

Jack covered four streets. His feet ached, his head ached, and most parts between these extremes were unhappy. Theo would be back soon.

On street five, he hit what Theo would call pay dirt, gold among dry earth and rocks. There was something here, on this spot, a memory, a picture of two boys running from police and into a
house, into this house. He recalled sending the cops in the wrong direction, thereby letting the lads get away with whatever they’d done, because they were poor. Yet the place looked the same
as all the others, so why did he recognize it?

‘Here goes,’ he muttered. For a reason he still didn’t fully understand, Jack knocked at the door. It was number twenty-seven in a warren of streets he hadn’t visited
since God alone knew when.

A man opened the door. He was in his mid to late thirties, dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a blue shirt. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

Jack cleared his throat. ‘I’m looking for the Turner family,’ he said.

‘I’m a Turner,’ the man said, stepping aside. ‘Who are you?’

‘Jack Peake.’

Mr Turner smiled. ‘I remember you. You never grassed on us when the coppers were on our tail years back. You were going out with that Lucas girl – what was her name? Eileen. Eileen
Lucas. Come in.’

Jack swallowed hard and went into the house. No longer dirty and smelly, the place was cheerful, clean and decently furnished. He perched on the edge of a small armchair. ‘Have you always
lived here?’ There was a whiff of new paint in the air, so the house had been decorated recently.

‘No, I moved to Seaforth and came back here just about a month ago. It’s nearer to the station, you see. I’m a fireman.’

Hoping that Theo would wait for him, Jack began to ask his questions.

Theo and Tia joined Joan and Isadora in the first-floor apartment. Rosie had been appointed to cope with the boys’ bedtime, as she was well capable of dealing with her
younger brothers.

‘So you just left Jack there?’ Joan’s tone was almost accusatory.

Theo shrugged. ‘He practically told me to bugger off, so off I buggered.’

‘Is it safe?’ Izzy asked.

‘You should have parked and waited,’ was Tia’s contribution.

The other two nodded in agreement.

‘It’s safe enough. I saw no Comanche, no Sioux or Apache,’ Theo told them. ‘Jack needed to be alone to think. Every time I asked him what was going on, he ordered me to
shut up. He’s not a child, ladies, though I must admit that he made little sense. Anyway, stop apportioning blame. One of my closest friends asked me to come home, and I did just that.’
Ah, here they go with the tea ceremony. Three of them in the kitchen just to make one pot of tea. Tea is always the panacea on these small islands.

What the hell are you up to, Jack? I’ve three distressed females here, and a fourth across the street who may well become distressed very soon. I’m her father, Tia’s her
mother, Izzy-gran is Izzy-gran, and Joan and you are aunt and uncle. She has another aunt and uncle in Juliet and Simon, and two further aunts are Delia and Elaine. No one can take her away from us
after all this time. She’s inherited my Portia’s stubborn streak, because nurture won over nature, and she’s a brilliant student because of us. No matter what, she’ll stay
here. Don’t find him, Jack.

We taught her at Myrtle Street, though we sent the boys to a different school, because they never lived in the Lady Streets. Ashburner School is almost as good as mine, and we fill in any
minor gaps at home. Just a few minutes to wait now, and I can go fetch him. And I’m drinking no more tea in case I drown in the stuff.

The women returned with tea and biscuits.

‘He’s thinking,’ Tia announced. ‘The frown gives him away every time.’

Theo scowled at his wife.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you’re always talking about me as if I’m elsewhere.’

‘That’s because although you’re with us in body, your mind has a habit of wandering off.’ He jumped up. ‘No more tea for me. If I drink any more, I’ll start
to look Chinese or Indian.’

Tia grinned. ‘What about your octoroonship?’

‘That ship has sailed,’ he answered tersely.

‘Our children are sixteeneroons,’ she answered smartly.

He nodded. ‘Sometimes, I manage to see that there is a strong case for the application of corporal punishment.’

Tia folded her arms. ‘Oh yeah? Try it, mister.’

He startled her by crossing the room and planting a sloppy kiss on her forehead. ‘I’m going for Jack.’

‘Good.’

Theo left.

Joan heaved a sigh. ‘Do they have a disease, I wonder? Some kind of genetic flaw that makes them talk rubbish and wander off like lost dogs?’

Tia burst out laughing. ‘You don’t sound in the least like my Nanny Reynolds. If you mean men, yes. It’s testosterone. They start off in their teens with a surfeit of it that
drives them demented and, as they get slightly older, it starts to come and go without warning. So you’re living with a cross between a sex-crazed lunatic and a moonbeam who starts
criticizing your sewing.’

Joan’s cheeks coloured slightly while Izzy howled with laughter. ‘When does the wandering start?’ Joan asked.

‘When they crawl,’ was Tia’s quick answer. ‘And you know they’re completely past it when they get attached to slippers and one chair. No one else must sit in that
chair. Thus far, my Teddy is retarded – still a teenager. I have to wear running shoes when the children are out. But I’m lucky, I suppose.’

Izzy shook her head. ‘You’re still a naughty girl, Portia.’

‘Good. Ah, we have a visitor. I’ll get the door, Ma. I hope it’s not Rosie.’

‘Don’t worry, Joan,’ Izzy advised quietly. ‘He’ll be back.’

Tia returned looking upset. ‘It’s Martha Foster,’ she said, dashing away a tear that meandered down her cheek. She turned and pulled the door wide. ‘Come in,
Martha.’

Martha crept into the living room. ‘Rosie said you were all here. I didn’t tell her anything; Harry wanted Theo to tell her.’ She held up an envelope. ‘Where is
Theo?’

‘We don’t know. He’s gone to pick Jack up, and we don’t know where he is, either, so we—’ Joan cut herself off. ‘Tia, grab her; she’s going to
faint.’

Tia caught Martha and placed her on the sofa.

‘Has she fainted?’ Izzy asked.

‘No,’ Martha replied feebly. ‘I wouldn’t mind some sweet tea, though. I can’t eat. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. He was dead when I went to wake him this
morning.’

The other three women were now suddenly seated. ‘Harry?’ Izzy’s voice broke on the second syllable.

Martha nodded. ‘In his sleep. I boiled his egg and made toast, but he was cold when I went to give him his breakfast.’

Joan pulled herself up and went to make yet more tea.
How many sugars do I use for shock? And how many things can go wrong in one day? We don’t know where Jack is, we don’t know
where Theo went, Rosie may have acquired a father, and now poor Harry and poor, poor Martha. He was her life, bless her. They were devoted to each other. Izzy will think of something; Izzy and
Portia usually think of something. Martha loves Rosie, and Rosie has always adored her and Harry. This is a terrible day.

‘What next?’ she muttered as she spooned sugar into the mug. ‘Come home, Jack, I need you here.’

Martha’s hands trembled as she accepted the tea. ‘He beat me twice at dominoes last night. Some lads from the
Echo
were talking about taking him on a trip in a boat; they
were going fishing, and he was so excited. People went out of their way to buy their newspapers from him, and it wasn’t pity – it was because he was always joking, saying things like he
couldn’t get legless on a Saturday night and how he’d been stopped for speeding on his trolley in a built-up area. He was the best.’

Tia swallowed hard. ‘Rosie will miss him. We all will. We bought our newspapers from him, too, when we were in town.’

The visitor sipped at her tea, wondering what she was going to do without Harry. She had a part-time job in a shop, but he had been her reason for living. She looked at Izzy. ‘Would you
mind if I stopped here tonight? I know I’ll have to learn to be in the flat on my own, but his breakfast’s still there. I think the dominoes are in the box on that table you made for
him, Tia. All his clothes, his special gloves, the trolley . . .’ A long, shuddering sigh made its way out of her lungs. ‘My brother’s being cut open down the hospital. They think
he had a heart attack, but they have to be sure. It’s the law, you see.’

Izzy told Martha that she could stay for as long as she liked. ‘Post mortem is compulsory, Martha, if the cause of death isn’t evident. Rosie had to go through the waiting when
Maggie died. And I think Harry was a kind of grandfather to Rosie. So she’s lost two important people in a matter of weeks.’

‘He loved her. I love her.’ Martha dried her eyes before adding, ‘Will you make me a bit of toast, Joan? I feel a bit better in normal company away from ambulance men and
doctors fussing about.’

‘Of course. Marmalade or jam?’

‘Just butter, please.’