That Liverpool Girl (10 page)

‘And?’

‘It’ll be fought in the air, Jean. They’ll fly in to bomb, to drop troops, to invade. It’s because of my children that I want to shoot the buggers out of the sky.’ He didn’t say the rest of it, because it would sound too soft and maudlin. In a way he didn’t properly understand, he was keen to fight for the King. George VI had suffered enough through getting lumbered with a job he’d never wanted; now the poor chap had to come over all positive and determined, because a war had arrived to ice the cake for him. ‘I want to serve my country,’ was all Neil allowed himself to say.

‘Oh aye? And growing cabbages and spuds isn’t serving your country? What’s the flaming matter with you? Somebody has to keep the home fires burning and the ovens filled. I’ll be here ripping guts out of chickens and knee-deep in feathers while you go and save the world? Right.’ She tore off her apron. ‘That’s it. You are manager of Willows Home Farm. I am not. I shall take the girls to my mam and dad’s up Bury Road, seeing as they’ve got a couple of spare rooms. You can please your bloody self, but the farm will have no boss.’ She stalked out of the room. After a few seconds, she reappeared briefly. ‘This kitchen is shut due to illness. I am bloody sick of it. The farm is shut, too.’

He waited, tapping his fingers on the table, walking round the room a few times, drinking a small bottle of ale, glancing at headlines in an old newspaper. When the clock told him she’d been gone for twenty minutes, he followed her upstairs, undressed and slipped into the bed. ‘Jeanie?’

‘Bugger off.’

‘Hit me, and I will.’ He dragged her into his arms. ‘Do you think I like the idea of some ugly, sweaty Kraut doing what I’m about to do? Would I want a Nazi general touching you like this, or like this?’

‘Stop it.’

‘You know you want me. You always want me.’

It was no use, she told herself resignedly. She was his happy plaything, and she loved him. When she got her breath back, she dug him in the ribs. ‘Oi, you.’

‘What?’

‘Come back dead, and I’ll kill you.’

‘OK, love. I’ll remember that.’

Jay Collins was rather less fortunate than his partner in drunken crime. He told his wife of his intentions regarding the air force before going out to fill the log basket. When he returned to the house, all the doors and windows were locked, and he was rendered homeless. This new circumstance was disconcerting, as he had enjoyed a roof over his head for all of his thirty-two years, so he waited to see what would happen next. What happened next was extremely damp and uncomfortable, because his wife opened an upper window of the gatehouse and poured a bucket of water on his head. The water was cold, and he moved away in case a repeat performance might be in the script.

‘Gill?’ he spluttered.

‘They won’t take Neil,’ she yelled. ‘He’s well turned forty, and his eyes are funny. In case you haven’t noticed, his arms need to grow longer so that he can read the newspaper properly. But they’ll take you, because you’re nobbut a handyman. Why don’t you wait to be called up? You will be called up, because we’ve no kiddies, but why go now?’

‘Because I want to choose what I do in the war.’

‘Huh.’ The window slammed.

‘Gill?’

Nothing happened.

‘Gill? Let me in.’

Nothing happened again. He considered his options, which were few. The idea of sitting outside and dying of pneumonia didn’t appeal, even though it would make her sorry. He could break in, but she would kill him. Neil kept farmer’s hours, in bed at nine and up and about by five except for one night a week – tonight – when he went to the pub and Jean took over morning duties on the following day. She still had to be up by five, so that was a non-starter. Which left only the boss, who was a man of understanding and discretion, and therefore won hands down.

Jay, feeling a real idiot, jogged down the lane until he reached Willows Edge. He hammered on the door, and was almost overcome by relief when it opened. ‘Thank God,’ he said from the heart.

‘Bloody hell in a handcart,’ the boss exclaimed. ‘Who got you dressed and ready? Neptune? Have you been paddling in Blackpool? Did you take your bucket and spade? Where’s my stick of rock?’

Jay rushed to the fire. ‘Don’t start, Keith. I’m not in the mood. She threw me out. I can’t break windows that are antiques, can I? Get that bloody kettle on, my bones are frozen and my teeth won’t keep still.’

‘This isn’t like Gill. What happened to make her carry on like that?’

‘Me and Neil happened. We were in the Red Lion, because it’s Neil’s night off, and we made a decision. We want to be fighter pilots. And we even went home early, but a man can’t do right for doing wrong as far as Gill’s concerned.’

Keith, doing a pale imitation of a saddened man, put the kettle to boil. ‘On a scale of one to ten, how drunk were you when this decision made itself?’

‘About seventeen. Put it this way – the landlord wouldn’t let us play darts, and we both got lost on the way home, ended up in a cow shed just off Willows Lane. It was Neil’s cow shed, so we got our bearings after that. Nice, aren’t they?’

‘Eh?’

‘Cows. Very comforting. I’d never noticed that before.’

‘Jay?’

‘What?’

‘Sit down and shut up. I’ll find you a towel and some pyjamas.’ Shaking his head slowly, Keith walked up the stairs. Hitler had a lot to answer for, and one of his first victims was downstairs, teeth chattering so hard that they threatened to break. Fighter pilots? Jay couldn’t navigate marriage or his way home, while Neil had no chance. He’d been in the last war, Lancashire Fusiliers, so he’d already trained in the army, and if they did start taking older men they wouldn’t want him as an airborne hero.

Keith came down, throwing a towel and some pyjamas at his visitor before airing his views. ‘Neil and I were both in the Lancs Fusiliers,’ he said. ‘No way will a man our age get to train as a pilot. But you might. And if it’s what you really want, go for it. She’ll calm down. They take it as personal, as if you can’t wait to get away. Gill thinks you don’t love her any more.’

‘I love the bones of that girl.’

‘I know you do. She knows you do. But she’s annoyed.’

Jay stared at his boss. ‘I’d no idea,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I thought she was playing water fights or cleaning windows. I only went out for some wood, and she locked that house down like the Tower of bloody London. If they ever need somebody to mind the Crown Jewels, she’s their man.’

‘Gill’s frightened.’

‘And I’m not? We’re all afeared, Keith. There’ll be folk called up who don’t want to go. Leading them in won’t be easy, because their hearts aren’t going to be in the job. I want to save Britain for the British, and I’ve always wanted to fly.’

‘Pilots will die like bluebottles, lad. Exactly like flies. They’ll fall to earth or into the sea as if they’ve been hit by a giant flyswatter with a machine gun as backup. As soon as you take off in a Spitfire, it’ll be nearer my God to thee in more ways than one.’

‘I know.’

‘So why?’

Jay shrugged. ‘Because I have to.’

A few seconds strolled past. ‘Then go to it. Neil knows he’s too old. He can try lying about his age, but his eyes won’t pass muster. I’ll have a word or three with him tomorrow. Now, dry off and go to bed – back room. I’ve a letter to finish.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

‘One more thing.’

‘Yes?’

Keith pondered for a while. ‘I know it’s none of my business, but get Gill to the doctor’s, will you? I know it’s not supposed to happen for her, but she’s put a bit of weight on, and there’s a little dark mark under both eyes. It may be nothing, but, before you volunteer, get a pregnancy test. Her hormones might be in a mess. I could be wrong, but better safe than sorry, eh? A woman’s body knows it’s pregnant almost from day one, a long time before the brain gets the message. You might find there were two of her chucking water.’

Jay’s jaw moved south. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Bloody hell is right. Now, stop dripping on my rug. A friend pegged that for me years ago.’ He walked into the kitchen. A sudden desire to weep like a child was drowned by a cup of water. The tea was brewed, and he carried into the front room a pint pot filled with the steaming beverage.

Jay, pyjama-clad, was huddled over the fire. ‘If she is, what shall I do?’

‘Wait till you’ve crossed a bridge or two. If the doc says she’s having a baby, ask how she’ll be, but even a doctor can’t really predict that. If she is carrying, you might want to wait and see for yourself how she is. On the other hand, the thought of becoming a dad could make you even more determined to fight. I don’t have a magic wand, Jay. It’s your life – live it.’

Jay took his pint of tea upstairs. There would be little sleep for him tonight. For a start, the bed was lumpy, and it wasn’t his. And he remained chilled, mostly because he was used to sharing with a warm body. A baby? It was all she wanted. Her motherless state was a huge source of disappointment for Gill Collins. In her opinion, a woman without children was scarcely a woman at all. And she loved kids, was even planning to take an evacuee or two. He hoped she understood what she’d be living with, because if the women were anything to go by, Scouse kids promised to be several handfuls of mischief.

‘Three pages already,’ Keith said aloud. ‘A letter of this length when I hardly know her?’ But he did know her. She’d been in his head, his bed and his dreams for days. He hadn’t been to visit Cora, didn’t need her. There was something distasteful and impolite about using one woman while seeing the face of another. Should he throw in the job, move to Crosby and find work there? No. Because he knew how to woo her, and the key was three boys. If he could tame them and get them to behave sensibly, he might be halfway to winning her.

He reread the whole letter, wondering whether he had gone too far in mentioning how pretty she was. It had been the same with Annie, God bless her. One encounter, and he’d been lost. And here he was, twenty years older and wiser, two decades dafter, with a fool in bed upstairs. No matter what went on around him, no matter which piece of work he was tackling, Eileen was there in his mind, right at the front where business should sit. So where was the real fool? Upstairs or here, sweating over a letter?

The answer entered the room. In striped pyjamas and work boots, Jay Collins looked as mad as a spring hare. ‘I’m just . . . er . . . the lav.’ He walked out through the kitchen.

Life, Keith told himself, was weird. One minute he felt like weeping, and the next he was practically doubled over at the sight of his handyman in boots and sleepwear. Was Keith the pregnant one? Were his hormones in turmoil? ‘Perhaps I’m having an early menopause. I must tell the quack about my poor nerves.’

Jay returned. ‘Bloody raining now,’ he muttered as he climbed the stairs.

The rain was the last straw. As mirth rose in his throat, Keith Greenhalgh damped the fire, turned off the lamps and went upstairs. It was time for bed. He had given up on today; it was a hopeless case . . .

‘We could decorate a Christmas tree with that grin of yours, Eileen Watson. It’s all the letters, isn’t it? They’ve been coming through that door by the sackful. I seen you stood there yesterday with a gob on because there was no letter.’ Nellie sighed like a ham on stage. ‘Isn’t love wonderful? Ooh, I can see it now, hand in hand through buttercups and daisies, tossed over the wall by a bull, landing side by side in a cowpat. Lovely.’

Eileen shrugged and changed irons, setting the cool one to heat near the fire, picking up the hotter one and spitting on it to make sure it sizzled. ‘Stop it, Mam. You’re getting on my nerves, so give it a rest. He’s just a nice fellow, a decent man. It’s good to hear about the place where you’ll be staying with our three musketeers. I see that stain came out of our Philip’s shirt.’

‘And you’ve gone red.’

‘So? What are you, counsel for the Crown Persecution? Because that’s what this is, Mam. It’s perse-bloody-cution. Would you rather I went a nice shade of green?’

‘Well, it would suit, seeing as you’re half Irish.’ Nellie wandered off for a brief segue down a different avenue. ‘She’s give you some lovely clothes. Funny, isn’t it? When she wore them, they looked dowdy. You look like a film star in Hilda’s stuff. It’s that figure of yours. She’s straight up and down, but you’re curvy.’’