That Liverpool Girl (59 page)

‘Absolutely. He was brave, Keith. He had spirit, and I’m glad I knew him. But he wasn’t for me, sweetie. I admired his cheek and his courage.’

‘God, yes. He died for Liverpool, for England.’

‘And behind all the bluster and the elegant doctor with his posh suits and shoes, he was very like you. He started off wanting my body, then he fell in love. But I didn’t love him, you see. I fell in love postally. Is postally a word?’

Keith laughed heartily. ‘Did you keep all my letters?’

‘Of course. And you kept mine, because I found them in the dresser. We must read them aloud sometime. Yes, the postman led me astray.’ She fell asleep.

He stared down at her, thanking God for bringing him to his senses. She had become a mother again, and his love had shifted for a while. Awe had replaced desire, and he had treated her like something delicate and priceless created by Fabergé. For some reason best known to womankind, Eileen had found the whole business hilarious. In the end, she had forced herself on him. Once recovered from sexual assault, he and she had returned to normal, or for what passed for normal between him and his beloved spouse.

Asleep, she was an angel; awake, she was exciting, unpredictable, passionate and crazy; this was definitely his kind of girl. She still spent the odd five minutes on a draining board . . .

Frankie and Helen gravitated towards their beloved Dada, curling at his feet and falling asleep in an instant. One by one, the Watsons joined them, Mel hot from running, Bertie in his riding gear, Phil with pad and charcoal, Rob moaning about acid and alkaline. Always welcome in several homes, the sons of Eileen and Lazzer slept where they landed. Nellie and Elsie made space when required. The boys had bedrooms in Willows, and there was a spare room in the newly renovated Greenhalgh double cottage. If the place got full, the dining room had a folding bed. But no matter where they rested their heads, these three boys always had Sunday lunch with Mam and Keith. It was a law they obeyed joyfully, because they had the best parents available to humanity.

The St Michael’s Road house in Crosby was closed and shuttered. Eileen would make up her mind about it after the war, when it could be returned to its former pristine glory, black woodwork and white walls. Mel and Peter were no longer a worry; they were forging ahead at school, outstripping all comers, aiming for the stars. Gloria, too, had bucked up, and she promised to be a pretty and clever woman. All was well, Keith reminded himself. The Americans were not only strong in number, they were also fresh, not yet fatigued by battle.

Eileen woke, while the rest of the various groups stopped talking. Mary Dominic made herself decent, and all awaited the arrival of a vehicle that rumbled its way up Willows Lane. No one present had ever before been so close to an American Jeep. Major Joseph L. Chalmers jumped out and waved his driver off to park the vehicle closer to the house. He ran to Marie, picking her up and spinning until she was dizzy. Marie ignored his rank; he was her GI Joe.

He placed her on the grass, awarded her a huge kiss, then beamed at the pure Englishness of the scene. ‘Beautiful,’ he said. Marie steadied herself, led him round and introduced him to those he had not already met. He spotted the Watson/Greenhalgh clan and said, ‘There’s the girl who introduced us, Marie. That Liverpool girl. My sisters will blame her when I stay here with you and try to become the English gentleman. If your country will have me, that is.’

‘Of course they’ll have you. There she is, Joe. There’s our Mel.’

But Amelia Anne Watson was having one of her moments. She walked behind the screen provided by the largest weeping willow. With her vision of the world fractured by trailing branches, she peered out at the people she loved, at an environment she had come to enjoy. Everything was so green and fresh, so untouched by hostility. This was how life should, could and would be. Even Peter was calm here in the bosom of Lancashire’s rolling generosity. He had settled into his own uncertainty, had decided to wait until the light dawned and pointed out his true way home. ‘I’m happy,’ she said to herself. ‘Everyone here is happy.’

While she watched, the tree whispered to her. Magical trees, beautiful gardens, contentment. Willows was filled with wonderful people, and she was a lucky girl. Well, she would be when the war ended, when clothes came off ration, when Gran stopped moaning about the shortage of tea, when sweets were more plentiful, when . . . She laughed. A few flies in the ointment? No matter. The willows were healthy, the land was fruitful, and an American Jeep was parked on the drive.

Mel stretched out in the shade, closed her eyes and dreamt of a better future. And the willow continued its whispering.

Also by Ruth Hamilton

With Love from Ma Maguire

Nest of Sorrows

Billy London’s Girls

Spinning Jenny

The September Starlings

A Crooked Mile

Paradise Lane

The Bells of Scotland Road

The Dream Sellers

The Corner House

Miss Honoria West

Mulligan’s Yard

Saturday’s Child

Matthew & Son

Chandlers Green

The Bell House

Dorothy’s War

The Judge’s Daughter

The Reading Room

Mersey View

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Wayne Brookes (editor) and

Ryan Child (Wayne’s assistant),

both fabulous people.

Thanks for all the help, boys.

Oh, and the laughs.

First published 2011 by Pan Books

This electronic edition published 2011 by Pan Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-1-447-20813-6 EPUB

Copyright © Ruth Hamilton 2011

The right of Ruth Hamilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Visit
www.panmacmillan.com
to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.