That Liverpool Girl (26 page)

‘That’s cheating.’

‘It’s survival. When you talk to one of the other lot, lower your head a bit and look at him through your eyelashes – no! Not like that; you have to be subtle. Yes, that’s better. They mustn’t know that you know what you’re doing.’

‘But I don’t know what I’m doing,’ poor Gloria had cried.

‘You’ll learn. And don’t let them get close, always have witnesses. Remember, this is all rooted in survival of the species, so you’re working on their weaknesses, which are also their strengths, because they have powerful bodies. To get into a girl’s knickers, some would sell their souls. If you learn to manage them, you’re a winner. Make them want you. It drives them mad, and they start being nice and giving you things.’

Tom smiled to himself. He had given Mel a bike and money for clothes. She understood the game, had probably learned it from her mother. Part of him felt glad that Gloria was showing promise and that Mel had noticed the improvement. But the loss of innocence was sad. Even so, the father in Tom felt a degree of relief, because if Gloria followed Mel’s rules she might keep herself safe, at least.

His marriage was burned out. He would not be the one to leave, since he had nowhere to go apart from the flat above the surgery, but it looked as if Marie might be about to break her word for the first time within his memory. Would she take his children? Of course she would. Perhaps Peter might opt to stay behind, but Gloria would definitely accompany her mother. This was the lowest point in his life so far. And while Eileen Watson existed, Tom Bingley could not look at another woman.

He drove past the house whenever he could, often going well out of his way in order to have a small chance of seeing that wretched female. The knowledge that he hovered on the brink of obsession did not sit comfortably in his mind, because he’d attended his fair share of lectures in psychology, but what could he do? He loved the bloody woman, lusted after her, had no outlet for his frustrations.

It was after midnight when Marie came home. ‘Still up?’ she said brightly.

‘Apparently so. I’m downstairs and awake, so yes, I’m still up.’

Marie removed hat and coat. The man’s sarcasm made her want to shake him, but he was too big for that. But she could shake him in a more permanent way any time she chose. She could leave him, yes, she could and would. ‘I’ve a meeting in Manchester next week. Top brass coming up to teach backward northerners how to cope with the homeless. I shall probably be away overnight.’

‘Right. I expect Boring Norman will be away at the same time?’

Marie was ill-equipped for her husband’s games. Unlike him, she had not gone out looking for Norman, had not chosen him, had not even allowed him a kiss. ‘Don’t make the mistake of judging me by your standards. Norman is a good friend. He plays the piano while we make up parcels and fold slings and knit socks for soldiers. I have been to his house, as have some of the other ladies, and he has cooked for us.’

‘How nice.’ The use of the word ‘ladies’ was typical of Marie. She never got things quite right, always erring on the side of politeness, usually worrying about how things looked, and were they correct, and what would people think? ‘What will the community make of you when I sue for divorce and name Norman as co-respondent?’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she replied quickly. ‘But I would advise caution. Norman’s brother’s a barrister. A slander suit would do you no good at all.’ She walked out.

He suddenly found her almost desirable, yet he remembered only too well the non-responsive creature with whom he had shared a bed for years. What was the point? She was not combustible, had been born without passion at any level. It had taken a declaration of war to enliven her and give her a sense of purpose. Tom shifted in his chair. A doctor had to be careful when it came to putting himself about, so recent experience was minimal, but it occurred to him, not for the first time, that their failure in the bedroom could be his fault.

It wasn’t a comfortable thought. He was a medical man, so he knew more than most about the mechanics of sex. Foreplay? Marie didn’t like it, so he’d stopped bothering with it. She’d been a depository, no more than that. Stimulated by other women, he had used her mercilessly, and he was perilously near to the edge of self-hatred. This couldn’t go on.

Tom Bingley walked upstairs and into his wife’s room. She sat on the edge of a narrow bed, her face tear-stained, hands folded in her lap. ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘No more. Because of the children, I won’t scream, but have mercy, I beg you.’

Wearing his doctor face, he sat next to her. ‘It’s all right, dear. I just want to talk. Do you mind talking?’

She shook her head.

‘Did you ever feel anything, Marie? When I touched you, I mean.’

She thought about that. ‘In the early days, before we married, there seemed to be a promise of something, but the only fruit it bore were the twins. The whole business is embarrassing and untidy.’

He agreed. ‘God has a sense of humour, you see. He put all primary sexual organs in the same area as the unpleasant end of our digestive tract. Then some silly ass came down a mountain with rules carved in stone, which were also designed to make us uncomfortable. Popes scream to this day about chastity, yet half the priests are indulging in some sort of activity.’ He paused. ‘Could you consider trying again if I promise to stop when you say so?’

‘It would always be stop.’ Her spine was rigid. ‘Yes, I’m afraid it would always be stop, Tom. It’s something I was born without, I think.’

No one was born without needs and desires. ‘You must have been born with the need for a partner and for children. Even nuns have it, though they dedicate themselves to denying that area of their lives. This Norman – you are fond of him, I can see that. Is it because you think he will never touch you? Do you desire him?’

With excruciating slowness, she turned to look at him. ‘He’s kind to me, Tom. I have been as dutiful as I could manage. I’ve been tolerant, useful, kind, and a fairly good mother. But I shall no longer do as I am told. Once upon a time, I did as I was ordered. Yes, Norman is a comfort. But nothing will come of it, because I know I’m frigid.’

‘You did as you were told when you were a child?’

‘Yes.’

Tom sat as still as stone. ‘Did anything happen to you when you were little?’

‘Can’t remember.’ She began to weep noiselessly.

Gently, he laid her on the bed and placed himself beside her. For the first time in many weeks, they were together. Tom and Marie Bingley, fully clothed and on a narrow bed, clung to one another and cried themselves to sleep.

Freda Pilkington, now the proud owner of two decent pillows and Nellie Kennedy’s best frying pan, was pleased to allow Nellie to use her house. She went out for a stroll with her children and her husband, who was due to report to training camp in a few days. Freda and her toddlers had been allocated the Willows cottage that should have gone to Kitty Maguire. Since poor Kitty and her children were to be buried on the coming Tuesday, Freda had moved up the list.

Next week, a charabanc would pick up and carry to Willows several children from the Scotland Road area. They would travel by train to Trinity Street station in Bolton, then would be collected in the coach and allocated to farmers and villagers for the duration. But two who had already been taken into the safer zone had absented themselves, and Nellie, Eileen and Keith were on the case. Nellie fastened herself to Freda’s window and waited. They would turn up in this, their own street, sooner or later.

Poor Mel had taken a precious day off school in order to mind Miss Morrison, and these two boys were in a chasm of trouble. No longer fearful for their safety, Nellie felt only anger. She looked across at the house in which she had lived with her daughter and grandchildren, then moved her eyes until they rested on Kitty’s place. Behind dirty windows, it awaited fumigation, after which all trace of Kitty and the children would disappear from the planet. Those panes were reminiscent of blind eyes, because Kitty no longer stood there and watched the small slice of life with which she had been familiar.

Among all this sadness and in spite of the dread of war, Nellie’s two older grandsons had taken off without a word to anyone. They seemed to care for no living soul, and they needed a firm hand. Yes, they had run wild since the death of their dad, but Nellie had worked five mornings and three evenings each week, while her daughter’s jobs had spanned four full days, because rent and bills had to be paid, food and clothes cost money, and both women were widows. But this time there was a plan. Thanks to Miss Morrison, the pair of ruffians would soon be too scared to breathe normally. ‘You’ll get your comeuppance,’ Nellie muttered. ‘Then I’ll nail both pairs of bloody feet to the floor.’

The door crashed inward, and Phil was thrown into the house. Behind him, a furious Keith entered. ‘Don’t you ever speak to your mother like that.’

Rob, his head bowed, followed Keith.

‘Where’s Eileen?’ Nellie asked.

‘She’s giving the bikes to kids who’ll appreciate them.’ He picked up the older boy, stood him against a wall and pushed his face to within an inch of Phil’s. ‘In fact, don’t talk to anyone until you’ve rinsed your mouth. What did Eileen do to deserve an odious little toad like you? You are grounded, boy. One wrong word, one dirty look out of you, and I’m the one you answer to. What you want doesn’t matter. Your unhappiness is nothing, because you’re just a small speck at the front of a big painting, and that painting’s a world war. You got taken up yonder so that you won’t get killed by a bomb. You get given a bike, and you run away on it. I can see Rob’s heart wasn’t in all this, so I am holding you fully responsible for the pain your mam and your gran have gone through. Nasty piece of work. Your father would be ashamed.’

Nellie guessed that this was probably the longest speech the quiet man had ever made. For Eileen, he would do anything, or so it would appear.

He spoke to Rob. ‘When I first went up to Willows Edge, I hated it. Like you, I came from an overcrowded street where everyone was poor. It grows on you, Rob. Give it time, son.’ He turned and winked at Nellie. They both knew that Rob would settle, because he liked growing his own food. Rob might become a happy soul, but Phil was more rigid. Phil had suffered when his father died, and it was showing now.

Eileen entered the scene. She stood with her back to the door, arms folded, lips tightened in her pale, tired face. ‘Get the car, Keith,’ she said. ‘I’ll stand guard.’ She moved to allow Keith to leave.

Phil stayed where he had been put, arms folded, face expressionless. For the rest of their short stay in Freda’s house, not a word was spoken. During this weighty, uncomfortable pause, the lad began to understand the enormity of what he had done. According to Keith, three police forces were out searching for the Watson boys. Bolton, Manchester and Liverpool were paying men to search not only for them, but also for other evacuees who had decided that the move from home didn’t suit them. He was eleven. He should have known better. Fear of leaving home was for little boys, not for the likes of him.

Eileen and her mother sat and allowed the quiet to continue. Let him have the chance to reflect on his actions, because the day would get worse for him before it got better.

It got worse.

Phil, the bigger sinner, was locked in Miss Morrison’s old bedroom, which contained one chair and a blanket. Rob, in his mother’s room, found himself well furnished but lonely. Both boys, isolated completely, were given hours during which to contemplate what they had done. Mam and Gran were trying to save them, and the two ingrates had thrown everything back in the faces of those they loved.

A silent, grim-faced Keith served meals on trays, returning only to remove debris before locking doors in his wake. No one spoke to them. In two separate rooms, clouds of foreboding gathered and hung in the air like the threat of thunder. Something was happening downstairs. They heard little, saw nothing, sensed disaster. Rob, flat out under his mother’s eiderdown, rested bones still weary from the endless ride; Phil wondered how old he needed to be to join the army and whether he would get his bicycle back.

The policeman came for them at about six o’clock. He had stripes on his arm, a face like a train crash, and very big feet in very shiny shoes. In the hall, he explained that courts were busy, so juvenile sessions were being convened out of hours in schools, other civic buildings, and occasionally the house of a magistrate. ‘Be truthful, polite and brief,’ the man advised. ‘Your future hangs in the balance. Miss Morrison is a magistrate of long standing.’

Three justices sat at the kitchen table. The one in the middle introduced herself as Miss Morrison, owner of the house in which Philip and Rob had been incarcerated. A public gallery, consisting of Mam, Gran and Keith, was wedged just inside the back door. The witness box, a metal walking frame belonging to Miss Morrison, was situated between a gas cooker and the kitchen sink.

When the two offenders had been sworn in, a list of crimes was read out by the police sergeant. It seemed that Philip and Robin Watson were responsible for all the ills in the world, with the possible exception of diphtheria and a couple of wars. In a moment of reckless clarity, Phil demanded a lawyer. ‘Silence,’ called the magistrate in the middle. ‘These are uncertain times, you are children, and your behaviour is beyond the pale.’

Phil wondered what a pail had to do with anything; it was just a posh bucket when all was said and done. They were now talking about suitable placement, and Derbyshire was mentioned again. Not only was the school for bad boys far away from family, it was far away from anything. He listened while the place was described. The words frying pan and fire paid a brief visit to his consciousness, because life in the Peaks sounded a sight worse than life in the house named Willows.