That Liverpool Girl (3 page)

But Mel would miss her family. Pragmatic by nature, she tried to go along with the flow of life, picking up whatever was wanted and available, refusing to worry about her poverty-stricken household, the vagaries of her brothers, the loudness of her grandmother. This was the situation into which she had been born, and she had made the best she could of it.

Her undeniable beauty was a tool she used from time to time. She had inherited her looks from her mother, who had stoically refused to remarry, though she had not been without potential suitors. But, as Eileen repeated with monotonous regularity, she would not wish her three boys on the worst of men, while the best had the sense to stay away. As for Mel’s brain, it was just a fluke. Many clever people came from lowly beginnings, so she wouldn’t be the first urchin to strut the stage with the Cambridge Footlights.

How far were they going? There were no farms round here, though a few of Lord Derby’s existed over towards Rainford and Maghull. It would be further away, in a place where no housing estates had sprung up since the Great War. ‘I don’t want to lose my mother,’ she told a statue of Our Lady. ‘And what if Gloria’s dad and brother want to do more than look at me?’

At thirteen, she knew almost all there was to know about sex. Gender issues were another problem, since her brothers had, from the very start, considered her bike to be fair game because they were boys, while she was a mere female. The matter had been settled by Gran: two beatings with a belt that had belonged to Dad, followed by the acquisition of a chain and padlock. Mel’s bike now lived in the front room, attached to a hook in the wall that had been installed by a docker. It was the only way for a girl to survive in a house that contained members of the so-called superior sex.

Sex itself had similar rules, she supposed. In order for the species to survive, males had been furnished with the urge to invade the female body. Women and girls needed to be clever, because these masculine requirements could be utilized. A pretty face, good legs, a small waist and developing breasts were assets not to be underestimated. When manufactured innocence invaded a sweet smile, dresses, bikes and food became available. Could a bed be attained by the same means? It would be safer, she decided, if she shared a room with Gloria. She didn’t want babies from Gloria’s brother; she wanted Cambridge. School holidays could be spent with the family she didn’t really want to lose, while term time would be a sight easier if she lived in Crosby.

The door opened. ‘Mel?’

‘Come in, Mam.’

Eileen sat on the edge of the lumpy bed. She told her beautiful daughter about Miss Pickavance and the inheritance, about Gran’s intention to shift everyone inland, about the boys’ excitement.

‘I heard it,’ said Mel.

‘Miss Pickavance said that Bolton School might take you because of special circumstances. But it’s about ten miles from where we’re going—’

‘Mam, I’m staying here. Somebody will put me up. Bolton School might be doing the same courses, but differently. And I don’t want to pedal twenty miles a day, do I? There may be some public transport, but petrol’s going to be scarce.’

‘Is it?’

Mel nodded. ‘It’s imported, and the seas won’t be safe with all those U-boats lurking.’

‘Eh?’

‘Submarines. We won’t want to risk them blowing up the oil tankers, so petrol will be rationed, as will all imported stuff. Mam, it’s going to be a nightmare. Please let me find someone who’ll take me in, then I’ll do my best to get to you during the holidays.’

Eileen began to weep softly. ‘I don’t want to lose me girl, do I?’

This was the weak link in Mel’s sensible, I-can-cope-with-anything chain. She adored her mother. No matter what she achieved in life, no matter where she worked, this woman would be with her. ‘You’ll never lose me, and I’ll never lose you till the day one of us dies, Mam.’ She had watched her mother going without so that the children might be better fed. She’d seen her in the same clothes day in, day out, frayed but clean, shoes polished and full of holes. Mam’s beauty was finer now, almost ethereal, because her facial skin had become translucent, allowing miraculous bones to boast loudly of their perfection. From this wonderful woman, Mel had gained life, reasonable health, and the power that accompanied good looks.

‘We’d be safer,’ Eileen said now. ‘But I’d be worried past meself about you, babe. From the moment you were born, you were perfect. Your dad cried when he saw you, said you were the loveliest girl in the world – except for me, of course. But they’ll bomb Crosby, Mel. They will. I know they’ll be aiming for the docks and the ships, but Crosby’s only two minutes away in a plane. How can I leave you?’

‘You’ve the three lads, that’s how and why. On a farm, Bertie can run out his madness, and the other two will learn skills like planting, harvesting, collecting eggs and milking cows. Gran will be better in fresh air. As for bombs – well, they’ll just have to keep out of my way, because I’m going to Cambridge.’

‘How?’

‘When I get there, I’ll work ten nights a week in a pub.’

‘But there aren’t ten in a week.’

‘I’ll soon alter that.’

‘I bet you could, too.’ If her Mel set her mind to something, it suddenly became achievable. ‘All right, love. But when you decide where you’re staying, I want to see the people and the house.’

‘Of course.’

Eileen went downstairs to re-join the rabble. If she had to meet people from Crosby, she’d need clothes. Perhaps Miss Pickavance would lend her something sensible. But would she dare to ask?

In one sense, the day on which war was declared had become the best in Hilda’s life so far. Her parents had been kind, gentle but rather quiet folk. Both avid readers, they had introduced her to books at a tender age, and she still devoted much of her leisure time to reading. The wireless was excellent company when she was dusting and sweeping, but at other times she chose books. She had never been a communicator. At work, her employers, who valued her greatly, spoke Cantonese for the most part, so Hilda’s conversation practice had been sorely neglected. Today, she had broken her duck. Very soon, she would become a comparatively wealthy woman.

But this little house was part of her. She even kept Mother’s last piece of knitting in a bottom cupboard, the needles stopped and crossed in the middle of a row. It had been a cardigan for Father, but it had never been finished, and he would not be needing it now. Yet Hilda couldn’t part with any of it. What was the sense, though? Why should she hang on to a house in a slum, a street that might fall down or be bombed before being selected for demolition? And, if she kept it, would it be burgled and looted in her absence, or might a neighbour look after it? The cleanest people were coming with her, so . . .

‘Calm down,’ she ordered. ‘You are going to look, no more and no less.’ After the war, she might sell – what was it called? Willows. Willows was a large house; then there was Willows Home Farm and a little hamlet labelled Willows End. No, Willows Edge. The place was reputed to be slightly run down, as Uncle had spent most of his time abroad. The solicitor had intimated, as delicately as he could, that Uncle had favoured the company of young men, hence the lack of direct offspring. And Hilda had blushed. She needed to stop blushing and start living.

Mother and Father were together on the mantelpiece. The photograph had been taken a few years ago during a visit to Southport. Hilda smiled at them. Sometimes, she had felt rather de trop in this house, because the love those two had shared had been enough, and they hadn’t needed a child to underline their status. Yes, they had loved her; yes, they could have managed without her. To this day, she felt no resentment, since she had been raised in a stable home, one to which a drunken parent never returned, where silence was normal, and contentment seemed eternal.

It had been a sensible union. God knew there were few of those in these parts. But nothing was eternal. Mother had passed away one Christmas Eve; Father had followed her three days later. The whole of Scotland Road had turned out for the double funeral, since most of them remembered kindness and thoughtfulness. So decent had the Pickavances been that no one had ever gone over the top with a slate. Even after the shop had closed, pennies and threepenny bit had landed on the doormat wrapped in scraps of paper with a name, and a message –
Last payment
, or
I still owe you another 8d
.

Now this. What would Mother and Father have done? Had Father outlived Uncle, this problem and its accompanying wealth and responsibility would have been his. There was a farmer, there were farmhands. There was a land agent who collected rents and kept order on the whole estate. Hilda would be their boss. It was all rather daunting, but she didn’t want to shame the memory of the people who had raised her. ‘I’ll try,’ she said to the photograph. ‘God help me,’ she continued as she doused gas mantles in preparation for bed. She picked up her candle and walked to the stairs. This place was all she knew. From tomorrow, life might change, and she was not prepared for that.

‘A woman. A bloody woman!’ Neil Dyson threw his cap onto the kitchen table where it narrowly missed the milk jug. ‘I know I won’t be one of the first to be called up, but I might have to go sooner or later unless the job here’s termed reserved. Jean, you’re the best wife any farmer could want, and I’d trust you with my life, but this is one blinking big farm, and you’ll be answerable to a female from the middle of Liverpool. The only things she’ll grow are her fingernails, and I bet she’d run a mile if she saw a cow or a big boar. She’ll be as soft as putty and as daft as a brush.’

Jean Dyson poured another mug of tea for her rampageous spouse. He was ranting and raving, while she was trying to bake bread and scones. ‘It’s not her fault, Neil. She’s just the last man standing, and she happens to be female. She didn’t turn her uncle into what he was. None of it’s her fault, love. You know I thought the world of Adam Pickavance, but he was never here, was he? If we saw him twice a year, we were doing pretty well. But calm down, for God’s sake. We’ve trouble enough without you aiming for a stroke. And you know how much I hate all the shouting.’

‘Adam Pickavance?’ he snorted. ‘Too busy chasing pretty boys all over the place, he was. He never bothered about us lot, did he? The houses down the Edge need new roofs and all sorts, Willows is slowly rotting away, and who’s going to run this place?’

‘I am.’

‘But you’ll lose most of the hands. The older ones might get left here, and a few of the very young, but anybody eighteen to twenty-five with no children will be off within weeks. You’ll have to register every animal in triplicate, there’ll be no meat to market without the Ministry say-so, and you’ll be—’

‘Oh, give over. It’s not just us. Every family in the country’s going to be in a bit of a mess.’ She raised a hand when he opened his mouth to continue the rant. ‘Neil, just stop it. I don’t want anybody to go, don’t want anybody to fight. You won’t be called up, because you’re turned forty, so stop it. Anyway, all this has to be taken out on Hitler, not me, not Chamberlain, not England. We’re all frightened and in the dark, and it’ll get worse before it gets better. Like I said, it’s everybody from Land’s End to John o’ Groats, but God help them in the south, because they’re nearest to hell. Now, go and stamp about on the land, because I’ve listened enough, and I’ve baking on. My bread doesn’t thrive when somebody’s in a bad mood, and we want to send some decent stuff up to Willows for when she comes on her visit.’

Neil picked up his cap and slammed out of the house. Not for the first time, he wished he could get his hands on enough money to buy this place. His dad had farmed it, and Neil had taken over. He knew every animal, every pleat and fold in the land, every ditch and hedge – a bloody woman? Adam Pickavance had been as much use as a damp squib, but answering to the agent of an absent man was one thing; having a woman in charge would change matters. Or would it? Perhaps she might leave everything in the hands of Keith Greenhalgh, who was a fair man, knowledgeable about the estate, and unlikely to be called up, as he was well into his forties while his occupation could sit nicely under the umbrella labelled essential and reserved.

In the top field, Neil stopped and surveyed a domain he had always considered his own. As far as he could see in any direction, the land belonged to Willows. The hamlet known as Willows Edge nestled in a dip, and all the houses therein were tied to the estate. Keith Greenhalgh had done his best, but the funds left in his care by Adam Pickavance had been insufficient to cover anything beyond bare essentials, and the dwellings were in need of attention. A flaming woman, though . . .

‘Morning, Neil.’

It was the man himself. ‘Keith. I was just thinking about you.’

Keith joined him and both men leaned on a fence. ‘How’s it going?’ the agent asked.

‘As all right as it can go. Conscription hangs over the field hands like a thundercloud, and a Scouse woman’s taking the reins. Couldn’t be better.’

Keith chuckled. ‘Look. I shouldn’t know this, and I shouldn’t be telling you, either, but the old man left a fair sum, didn’t fritter it all away. She might pull us out of ruin.’

It was Neil’s turn to laugh. ‘Oh, aye? And one of my pigs has just floated down tied to a purple parachute. The bloody woman’ll be all lipstick and shoes, because she’s a townie. I guarantee she’ll think more about her perfume than she will about folk. These city women know nowt about owt.’