The Girl From Penny Lane (39 page)

Towards the end of the month Stuart took a couple of days off which were owing to him, so that his small family might begin to plan their move, and on the first of these he offered to take Elizabeth to nursery so that Nellie might begin to get all her china washed, wrapped in newspaper and stacked neatly into the big tea-chests the removal company had lent them.

‘Oh thanks, Stu,’ Nellie said gratefully, lifting the delicate, rosy-petalled cups and saucers down from the dresser and carrying them over to the sink. ‘It’ll be a weight off my mind when these are packed away, because I expect there’ll be a good deal of upheaval and they are so pretty and precious.’

So Stuart set off with his small daughter scooting along beside him and chattering like a magpie all the way.

‘Yesterday I told everyone in my class that I were going to move back to Liverpool and some of them . . .’ Elizabeth dug her toe into the pavement and scooted well ahead, then turned her head to shout. ‘ . . . Some of them said horrid things!’

‘Did they? What?’

‘Well, Simon said could he have my scooter, which was unkind, wasn’t it, Daddy? And Annabel said she would sit in my seat and Simon would love her best.’

‘Stupid person!’ Stuart said at once. ‘You’ll be taking all your things with you, naturally.’

‘Will I? Oh, good,’ Elizabeth said, clearly relieved of a secret worry. ‘But not me friends, Daddy?’

‘Well, no. But you’ll make new friends, you see. Very easily and quickly, because Liverpool people are the friendliest people in the world.’

‘Are they? Really? Friendlier than Londoners?’

‘Oh yes, much friendlier,’ Stuart said, thinking of journeys on the underground railway when no one spoke to anyone else except to complain if an elbow got them round the ear. ‘Well you know Aunti Li, and Mummy, and me . . . we’re all friendly, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, and I are,’ Elizabeth said. She had stopped her scooter so that Stuart could catch up but now she indicated it rather impatiently. ‘Could you take my scooter now, Daddy, so we can talk? It’s hard to talk and scoot, my puff runs out and my squeak starts.’

This frequently happened, so Stuart picked up the scooter and took his daughter’s small hand in his. ‘Righty-ho, sunshine,’ he said breezily. ‘Talk away.’

‘Oh, thank you. Right. Well, I want to know whether that Uncle Joey Mummy and I met in the park is a really-truly uncle or just a pretend uncle. That Tommy – he wasn’t Uncle Joey’s real . . . well, Uncle Joey wasn’t his real . . .’

‘Hang on a minute, queen,’ Stuart said, perplexed. ‘I’m not following you. Which Uncle Joey? Which park? When?’

‘Oh days an’ days ago,’ Elizabeth said in a rush, having given the matter some thought. ‘On the day you went to Liverpool and lefted me behind.’

‘Oh yes, Mummy said you’d gone to the common. And you met a man called Joey? Mummy didn’t mention it.’

‘I spec’ she forgot. He said do you ’member me, and he said did you marry that chap you was with and Mummy said no she married you, an’ who did Joey marry, and
he
said his were deaded an’ he wasn’t sad no longer.’

‘Gosh, so Mummy knew him before she married me,’ Stuart said, staring down at his small daughter. ‘An old friend, then! What else did this old friend say?’

‘Oh, he talked and talked, and Mummy talked and talked. And Tommy and me sailed his boat and we had ice-creams and little cakes and melonade which fizzed up our noses . . .’

‘Lemonade, not melonade,’ Stuart corrected automatically. ‘Did Mummy say what his last name was?’

‘Can’t remember. But I know who he is . . . he rescued Lilac when she ran away . . . oh yes, he’s a sailor.’

A sailor! A cold knot of apprehension began to tighten in Stuart’s stomach. He was pretty sure that the father of Nellie’s first child had been a sailor; if she’d met up with him again by chance, and he knew his Nellie too well to think she would plan such a thing, then no wonder she hadn’t mentioned the fellow to him! She must have been hoping that the child would forget all about it too, never think about the bloke again, and nor she would have, had it not been for the double coincidence of his having a day off and Elizabeth’s conversation turning to friendship and relatives.

‘So what happened, love? What did Joey look like? Was he nice?’

‘He was very nice,’ Elizabeth said solemnly. ‘Not as nice as you, but really nice. He had a brown face, light brown hair, blue, round eyes, he was same tall as you, trousers, shirt . . .’

‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ Stuart said, since Elizabeth was going puce with the effort of description. ‘And he had a little boy, Tommy.’

‘Yes, but he weren’t Joey’s, not really,’ Elizabeth insisted. ‘He was
my
uncle, not Tommy’s.’

‘I’ll ask Mummy,’ Stuart said soothingly. ‘She’ll tell me whether he was your uncle or not. But don’t you have enough uncles, sweetheart? I’m afraid I can’t provide any, but Mummy has several brothers. And you’ve scores of cousins.’

‘Ye-es. But Joey’s especially nice,’ Elizabeth repeated with deep conviction. ‘Oh, there’s Simon . . . I’ll go and tell him I’m taking me scooter to Liverpool with me . . . bye-bye, Daddy, see you later!’

Stuart waved until she and Simon had disappeared into the school, then turned his footsteps homeward with a heavy heart. He knew jealousy was a destructive and pointless emotion which could only harm him and those he loved. Why could he not believe Nellie when she said she had never truly loved another? Why was it so hard to be sensible, to ask outright about Joey just to set his fears at rest? He resolved to ask the moment he stepped through the front door, but knew he would not do it, knew it would fester within him until it became obvious from his attitude that something was wrong. Then Nellie would have to prise it out of him . . . and no matter how harmless the explanation, there would always be that little, niggling doubt . . .

But he was wrong this time.

He got back to the house and there was Nellie on the front step, talking to a man in a sports jacket and flannels. The fellow was tanned and fit looking; Stuart’s heart began to bump. Could this possibly be the Joey his daughter had spoken of? And if so, just what was he doing on the doorstep, renewing acquaintance with his, Stuart Gallagher’s, beloved wife?

Stuart could feel his hands forming fists, his temper beginning to build, as he flung open the gate and took the little path in a couple of swift strides.

‘Nell? Who the devil . . . ?’

‘Stuart, you’ll never guess who’s come calling! Do you remember me telling you how Lilac ran away from the Culler when she was little, and was rescued by a seaman who took care of her for me? Well, it’s him – Joey Prescott! We met on the common a couple of weeks ago, I came home full of it, only when you arrived back from Liverpool to say you’d got the job it just went clean out of me head!’

All the jealousy, all the fears, all the stupid, niggling doubts, disappeared. Stuart gripped the other man’s hand and shook it heartily, a big smile forming.

‘Well, Joey Prescott – it’s like meeting a living legend, old feller, the times I’ve heard the women clacking on about how you saved our Lilac from a fate worse than death! Nell, love, what are you doing on the step – come in, Joey, come in . . . did Nell explain about me?’

‘Talked about nothing else,’ Joey said. ‘I ’ear congratulations are in order? Though it’s a bit late to congratulate you when you’ve been married ’alf-a-dozen years! I come over now because my ship’s sailing in a few days so I thought I’d pop rahnd an’ see whether Mrs Gallagher ’ad writ to Lilac abaht me callin’ on ’er when I’m in Liverpool.’

Stuart led their guest through the house, hesitated outside the front room, then grinned at Joey and shook his head. ‘No point in pretending we live in there; we live in the kitchen, and if I know Nell that’s where we’ll find the kettle singing away. But see that photo on the mantel? That’s our Lilac, taken last year; quite a change since you saw her last, I daresay! You can see she’s turned into a beautiful young woman. And now I’ll just get the rum and some glasses, and we’ll have a tot to celebrate this reunion.’

Joey stared hard at the photograph, then followed Stuart out of the sitting-room and into the firelit kitchen.

‘That’s a lovely picture of a lovely girl,’ he said approvingly. ‘This room’s a treat, ain’t it? You can tell Mrs Gallagher’s a real ’omemaker. I ’aven’t ’ad much ’ome life, so I loves a real kitchen.’

‘You call her Nellie, and me Stuart, old fellow, and don’t forget, we know all about you, me as well as the girls,’ Stuart said, fetching glasses for the rum. ‘They’ve told me about you over and over, believe me. You ran away from a London orphan asylum when you were twelve and went to sea. Nellie watched Lilac like a hawk when she hit twelve in case she had the same idea, but she managed to leave the Culler in a more conventional fashion.’

‘That’s right; I lived in the Metropolitan Orphanage, to the east of Aldgate pump. We all ’ad brahn suits an’ big boots, daily lectures on the importance of rememberin’ we come from ’ardworkin’ people – the deservin’ poor rather than idle layabouts drinkin’ their money away. No one told us where they got this money from, mind. No wonder I split!’

‘Poor little boy,’ Nellie said softly, beginning to make tea in the big, brown pot. ‘Stu was a Culler boy – did you know that?’

‘No . . . you never said, the other afternoon on the common. We was talking rather more abaht the past, though.’

‘Here, a toast!’ Stuart said. He handed Nellie a small drink and Joey a rather larger one. ‘To absent friends – particularly our Lilac!’

They drank. ‘And you really will visit our Lilac whilst you’re in the Pool?’ Stuart said.

Joey nodded. ‘Oh aye; always intended to see ’er again one day. Mebbe I’ll tek ’er on the ferry . . . I don’t suppose Nellie said nothin’ abaht it, but I lost my wife six years ago, so I know what young Lilac’s goin’ through.’

‘No, she didn’t,’ Stuart admitted. ‘I’m really sorry, old fellow.’

Joey sighed and raised his glass.

‘She was a good gel, my Annie,’ he said. ‘But I’ve got some rare ’appy memories; they’ll do me, for now.’

Chapter Fourteen

They didn’t know how to tell Kitty. Matron, an awe-inspiring figure in a dress and apron so stiffly starched that they would have stood up quite unaided, said that someone who knew her well would be best, so Sister called Lilac into her office for a quiet word.

‘Miss Larkin, we’ve had grave news of Kitty Drinkwater’s family. I fear her mother and sister are both in hospital. Mrs Drinkwater isn’t expected to live and the child, Betty is very ill indeed.’

‘My goodness – what’s happened?’

‘They were taken to the David Lewis Hospital after they fell into some sort of a cellar . . . I’m not too clear on the details but I imagine the mother was the worse for drink. Apparently the cellar was full of something, coal dust, rubbish, I’m not sure what, which all but smothered the pair of them.’

‘How did they struggle out?’ Lilac asked. ‘I suppose a cellar has stairs, though . . . or were they too injured to help themselves?’

‘I imagine so, but fortunately a neighbour heard cries for help and managed to rescue them both, though not before considerable damage had been done.’

‘What a dreadful story,’ Lilac said with a shudder. ‘I suppose Mrs Drinkwater must have fallen against the cellar door and brought the child down as she fell.’

‘I don’t think the cellar had a door; the health visitor was shocked by the state of the house, and is strongly recommending to the authorities that the landlord must demolish the whole building, but that’s no help to the Drinkwaters, of course. And in the meantime, what do you think? Should we tell Kitty?’

‘I think,’ Lilac said, ‘that you had best start at the beginning, Sister, and tell me the whole story. Up to this moment all I knew was that you’d discovered Kitty’s address and were sending someone round.’

‘That’s right. A health visitor went round, only to find the house deserted. Neighbours told her that as soon as Kitty was out of the way Sarah Drinkwater got herself up to the public house on the corner and began drinking again. The family next door heard the woman return home. Then they heard an argument, then a clatter followed by appalling screams which were suddenly cut off. Fortunately one of the older girls had visited the house and suspected what must have happened. She and the others managed to get a rope round the mother and hauled her out first, then realised that the child was still down there under . . . well, under the rubbish. They got her out, but they said she was blue . . .’

Lilac shuddered.

‘Poor little soul. But she’d not developed the fever, at least.’

‘Malnutrition had taken a sad toll of her health even before the accident, and now because of her breathing difficulties there is some doubt over her recovery,’ Sister said. ‘The mother is a big woman, her weight, crushing the child . . .’

Lilac shuddered again. ‘Poor little kid. She wasn’t fit before the accident, then?’

‘No, indeed. Kitty is well-nourished so I’d guess that her time on that farm near Corwen stood her in good stead, but the other child was quite neglected. The health visitor spoke to the authorities and learned that two other children had been taken away from Mrs Drinkwater a couple of years ago, and that Kitty had taken two more little girls into the Father Berry Home only weeks before the accident, explaining that she could no longer feed and support them. It’s very sad, but with unemployment affecting more and more people, and with slum housing conditions the way they are, I fear we can expect to see a good deal more disease and death amongst those forced to live in such places.’

‘Yes, and the ones who go under are those who don’t know where to go for help and have no idea of their entitlements,’ Lilac said, trying not to let her emotions show in her voice. ‘They’re the ones who suffer. They hide away, sure they’re in the wrong simply because they can’t cope. There are good and caring parents seeing their children grow ill and weak . . .’ her voice broke and she stopped abruptly.