That Liverpool Girl (19 page)

He smiled to himself as he pictured Nellie Kennedy pushing an old pram filled with washing through the side streets of Liverpool. She was a character, all right, and she had birthed another character, who had produced yet another. These were his kind of women, because they never gave up. ‘Neither do I, Eileen,’ he said to the three pages. She cared. No one would write all this without holding some kind of interest in the recipient.

Jay came in, face split from ear to ear with an east-to-west grin. ‘I’m the one with diabetes, and she’s the one who stood in a cowpat.’ He looked over his shoulder as a shoeless Gill entered. ‘See? So busy keeping an eye on me, she ends up covered in sh— in shame.’

Keith looked at the pair and wished, hoped, that Gill loved the father of her long-awaited baby. Jay was a jester, but he was a good man who deserved the best. Then Keith caught Gill staring again, damped-down longing in her eyes. Immediately, he jumped to his feet, uttered a quick goodbye and left the house. There was something in Gill’s head, and it was not appropriate. Bugger. He ate quite frequently at the gatehouse, and he enjoyed greatly the company of the couple who lived there.

‘She looks at me the way I look at Eileen,’ he told one of the six willow trees. Had he explained to Miss Pickavance that these weepers liked people, that they thrived on conversation? If the willows did well, stock thrived, crops burgeoned and the orchards bore enormous fruits. ‘What’s the matter with her?’ Pregnant at last, she should be celebrating with her man. Fronds rustled and brushed against him, caressing his face and neck. Eileen’s children would play here. Their noise would feed the willows and, because her blood was in the boys’ veins, she, too, would be providing nourishment.

If Gill felt for Keith what he felt for Eileen, she would be in pain. What could he do? He’d never been married, but estate management involved interaction with many people, and pregnant women were odd. They developed strange likes and dislikes, had mood swings, ate coal and orange peel and, sometimes, went a bit wild.

Was Gill off her rocker? If she was crackers, would she mend straight away after the child’s birth? What if she started with that decline some women went into after confinement? Should he talk to her? He left the trees on which everyone’s welfare supposedly depended, and entered the main house. Tomorrow, he would pick up from Trinity Street station two women, three boys, and assorted small pieces of luggage. The main items had already arrived, but the car would be packed. With Miss Pickavance in the passenger seat, he would need to squeeze into the rear of the car three boys in assorted sizes, and a well-built though not overweight grandmother.

The house looked cosy. Gill and Jean had brought in some of summer’s lingering blooms to brighten and freshen the rooms. Beds had been made, furniture waxed, oil lamps filled, wicks trimmed. He lit fires in every room, opened windows slightly to encourage airing. Tonight, he would sleep here on a camp bed in the kitchen. Willows was too precious to be left while wood and coal burned in grates.

He led the horses from the paddock into their stables, stood in the yard and looked at the stars. There could be frost tonight, because the sky was clear and inky. Tomorrow, the rebirth of Willows would begin under the guidance of a new mistress, one who might take an interest in the welfare of this vast estate and its many inhabitants. She was a good woman. Old Mr Pickavance had not been bad, but his connection to the land of his forebears had been minimal. Yes, there was a war on, yet the ill wind had delivered the promise of a new beginning in which Willows might find itself again.

All Keith needed now was for Gill to settle down with her excellent, well-meaning if chronically sick husband, and for Eileen to visit. He closed the stable doors and went into the kitchen. With a fire in the large grate, it looked homely and welcoming. For many years, this house had been lonely, neglected and unloved. ‘As have I,’ he said just before noticing the PTO at the bottom of Eileen’s third page.

Hope attacked his heart from two fronts, a pincer movement seeming to squeeze all air from his body. She would be here, and not just for the odd weekend or half-term. And she had written a word that was taken too lightly these days.
Love.
‘Don’t love me like a brother or a friend,’ he begged. He had never expected to meet again eyes like Annie’s: honest, beautiful and unafraid.

‘Of course I’ll pick up your neighbour. By the hair, if necessary.’ He made toast and cocoa. Sometimes, life tasted good.

Nellie Kennedy was having a day and a half. Saying goodbye to Rachel Street wasn’t easy; saying goodbye to Kitty Maguire was proving a near impossibility, because the thin woman had fastened herself to Nellie’s clothing. ‘You can’t leave me on me own, Nell. I’ll not manage without you.’

‘If you rip that sleeve, I’ll give you a clout round the ear ’ole. Come with us. Get the kids, pack your bits, and—’

‘I’ve never been away from here. I’ve never been on a train.’

‘I’ll be with you.’ But they wouldn’t all fit in the car at the other end. Someone would have to stay behind at the station in Bolton and wait for the first lot to be delivered to Willows. ‘Next week you’ll be joining us, Kitty.’

‘I daren’t.’

Oh, but she would. Nellie reclaimed ownership of the sleeve, then folded her arms. ‘Three or four days,’ she said. ‘If we don’t come Monday, we’ll be here Tuesday. Kitty, I’ve things to do. I can’t stand here like the bloody Venus de Milo, because I need to use me arms to get the last of our things wrapped up. You’ve got to pull yourself together, queen, or we’ll all be in a mess. Keith Greenhalgh is meeting us, and we have to be on that train.’

‘But your Eileen’s at work. She can’t look after me.’

Nellie looked at the sky as if seeking guidance. Saying ta-ra to Eileen and Mel this morning had been the hardest thing. ‘From tomorrow, Eileen will be in Crosby. Miss Morrison’s health’s gone worse, so our Eileen’s had to give up all her other jobs just to look after the old lady.’ Eileen was to have a small wage and, with food, fuel and shelter already paid for, she’d survive as long as they didn’t get bombed.

‘I can’t be on me own,’ Kitty wailed.

‘There’s a whole street of people here. You won’t be by yourself.’

‘They’re fed up with me. There’s only you cares.’

Nellie was as fed up as everyone else, but kindness had prevented her from giving up on this poor, confused woman. If the odd behaviour went on, Kitty might well find herself in an institution, and her kids would become genuine evacuees like most of the children who had left their parents at the beginning of September. ‘Kitty, you have to get a grip, but not on my best clothes. If you turn up at Willows Edge in this state, and if your children carry on running wild and dirty, nobody will help you. People help those who make an effort.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You bloody can and you bloody will. There’s a nice clean cottage waiting for you. There’s a job. Look, I know what it is to be widowed, and I feel for you. There’s no one else to blame now, is there? It’s just you. Charlie was always pickled, and the behaviour of your young ones was his fault. But I’m telling you now, Kitty, Willows is your only hope. If you don’t take that house, somebody else will. Now, I’m going.’

‘But—’

‘I’m going to save my grandsons. If you don’t mind your kids dying, stop here. If you don’t mind dying yourself and leaving them three little buggers as orphans, stop here. Your future, with a job and Miss Pickavance to teach your babies, is about forty miles away. Liverpool will be flattened. It’s up to you.’

Kitty burst into tears and fled through the front door of her filthy house.

Nellie continued giving away bits of furniture, pots, pans and anything that might be taken over by a new tenant if she didn’t allocate it now. She hung on to two beds and enough bits and pieces for Eileen and Mel. Tonight would be their last in this house. Remaining items would be disposed of tomorrow, and keys would be returned to the landlord’s office.

It was the end of an era. Nothing would be the same after today. New addresses, new friends, new way of life for everyone. But Nellie was determined to walk on, because she could not, would not, remain here. She picked up a few packages, left the house and, after locking the door for the last time, posted her key through the door. Eileen had her own key, and she would get rid of both tomorrow.

Nellie crossed the road to number one. Three shiny-faced angels stood with Miss Pickavance, brown paper parcels clutched to their chests. The older two seemed composed, but poor little Bertie, who had managed to survive past his seventh birthday in spite of his mother’s teasing, was white-faced and clearly frightened. Nellie placed her own packages on the ground before squatting down at his level. ‘Shall I tell him now?’ she asked.

Hilda Pickavance pretended to consider the question. ‘Well, if you must. It was supposed to be a surprise when he gets there, but he seems a little sad.’

‘Don’t want to go,’ Bertie said. ‘Me friends are all here. I like Liverpool. I don’t know why I have to go.’

Nellie blinked back a river. ‘Your own horse, babe. A pony. It’s called Pedro and it’s a palomino. Like a pale gold colour with white mane and tail.’

The child blinked. ‘Has it got big feet?’

‘No. It’s not like the one you pinched, love. This is a proper riding pony, but Neil and Jean Dyson’s girls have grown a little bit tall for it. They live at the home farm, and the youngest’s nearly ten. So Pedro’s yours.’

‘Mine? I don’t have to share?’

‘All yours.’

Bertie didn’t understand not sharing. Even at school, the books were all one between two. At home, first up best dressed had often been the rule, but they were giving him a whole horse. ‘I’d rather have me mam,’ he admitted, ‘but if I can’t have her, a pony’s nearly as good.’

Those words became Nellie’s unspoken mantra as they rode the tram to Liverpool, a train to Manchester, another to Bolton. Keith Greenhalgh picked them up and drove them out of town and up to sweeping stretches of moorland. All three boys stared at what they saw as a void, since there were no shops, theatres, cinemas, trams or crowds.

Nellie sat tight-lipped, because there was a hole in her chest, a space in which she had held Eileen for thirty-three years, Mel for thirteen. Strangely, she kept seeing the Liver Birds, twins that sat and overlooked the waterfront. They had to stay. No Nazi missile could touch them, or the city would crumble. It was just a piece of local folklore, but— Oh, Eileen. Oh, Mel. Then she looked at Bertie and smiled. A pony was nearly as good . . .

At first, Eileen felt rather trapped, because Frances Morrison needed almost full-time care. But three immediate neighbours offered to help so that shopping could be done, and she was promised the odd day or evening off. The doctor was just round the corner, Miss Morrison’s house had a telephone, and . . . and yes, the doctor was just round the corner.

Miss Morrison was a kind and gentle woman whose breeding and education showed without being overpowering. A further surprise came Eileen’s way when she discovered that the people of Crosby and Blundellsands were rather more than all fur coats and no knickers. They spoke well, but they had their feet planted, showed few airs, and were more or less like everyone else except they had better houses and good furniture.

The old lady was now confined to the ground floor. A nurse came in daily to check on her, but the hour-to-hour care was Eileen’s province, and she was determined to make a good fist of it. Three pounds a week, with all necessities already found, meant she was comparatively wealthy. So she helped with the disposal of dining room furniture, and was on hand when the space was turned into a bedroom. Neighbours sold table, chairs, display cabinets and sideboard, while Eileen concentrated on comfort. Wireless and gramophone were moved into the newly established sleeping area, while a firm, low chair was placed near the fire.