Meet Me at the Pier Head (31 page)

He stood, rubbed his eyes and went to bed. He was making so many mistakes, which could be corrected on the top copy, but the carbon, supposed to be for Isadora, was beginning to look like
Swahili . . . Why Isadora? Because she, like her wonderful daughter, owned a heart big enough to hold his truth and keep it safe in this land that was no longer foreign.

Tia crept up the stairs, anxious about waking two women who had travelled all the way from Kent to Liverpool before enduring a supper party with strangers.

She opened the door at the top of the flight, surprised to find Isadora waiting for her. ‘Shouldn’t a woman of your advanced years be in bed, Ma?’ She kissed the top of her
mother’s head.

‘You were out with Theo?’

‘Yes. We went to look at some of his other properties in the city.’

‘Ah.’ Isadora glanced down at newly painted fingernails. ‘There’s something going on, then?’

Tia shrugged. ‘I think I love him. And he thinks he loves me.’

Isadora nodded. ‘I see. That was quick.’

‘Being quick doesn’t have to mean mistaken or wrong.’

The older woman pursed her lips. ‘Dip your toes before taking the dive, sweetheart. For some men, it’s a takeover bid, a dabble in mergers and acquisitions. He’s older than
you, about halfway between my age and yours.’

Tia grinned. ‘You’re definitely not having him. I saw him first.’

Isadora giggled. ‘I like him, Portia. I like him very much. There’s intelligence, talent and humour in the man, and he clearly thinks that you are his main source of light. I’m
sure you will take care to disabuse him of that mistaken concept.’

Tia could not contain herself. ‘This is a secret, Ma, though he finally gave me permission to tell you. Theodore Quinn retained his initials and became Tom Quirke, and he wrote the Body
Parts series of books. The writing allows him to indulge his hobby, which is teaching.’

Isadora blinked several times. ‘Goodness gracious, and his dialogue’s excellent.’

‘Yes, it is. Are you thinking what I’ve been thinking for days? Theatre, film, radio, television in the long term?’

‘From an acorn, the heart of England grew. That was a line in . . . oh, I forget, but it was in a play long ago, when I was a mere sapling.’ She stared at her daughter, as if
assessing her. ‘I can get something done with those little acorn books of his, Portia. The man is clever; he has forced me to laugh until I was too sore to read on, yet there’s solidity
in his characters. What a find, my love.’

Tia grinned. ‘He’s a treasure.’

‘You may be right there.’

‘Not a word, Ma. He’ll talk about it openly in his own good time.’ Tia sat next to her mother. It was all going to happen tomorrow; Pa would receive his divorce papers if he
could be found, while the national newspapers would be full of it.

But Isadora’s mind was on other things. Roughly half of Quirke’s books were set here, in Liverpool. The mistaken of the southern counties probably believed that the only culture to
be found in the north would be in neglected refrigerators or in mould on bedroom walls. How wrong they were. Having met Maggie, Rosie, Martha and her injured brother, Isadora had already
experienced the wit and wisdom of this beautiful, vibrant city. She could do some good here; her money might multiply and yield sufficient to turn Bartle Hall into a refuge for children, and the
north, too, would benefit. ‘I won’t say a word, Portia.’

‘Thanks, Ma.’

They clung together for a while. ‘Did you love Pa?’ Tia asked eventually.

‘Yes, he dazzled me. I thought he was my way forward, a torch in the darkness. That’s the other thing, my precious girl. We change.’

‘Fortunately, some grow closer with age, Ma.’

Isadora kissed her daughter’s cheek. ‘Just take care, Portia. Marriage can be a difficult journey, so make sure you tread softly, because you tread on dreams. Who wrote that, or
something like it?’

‘I forget.’

‘Well, don’t forget to call me Izzy as from tomorrow. This evening’s guests will not betray me, but some penniless soul might be happy to take payment from the press. Guard me
well, baby.’

‘Always, Izzy; I shall always guard you.’ In that moment, the daughter’s love for her mother was too big to be contained, and it spilled down her face like summer rain.
‘Always,’ she repeated, her voice strangled by tears. ‘My mama, my best friend in the whole world.’

‘Don’t weep,’ Isadora whispered. ‘Marry him. You’ve changed because of him, child. Yes, you should marry him. Stop crying now.’

Tia smiled. ‘These aren’t tears, Ma. They’re just overflow.’

Theo picked up the newspapers at seven o’clock before returning to his ground-floor apartment to prepare for school. He climbed the stairs to the first floor and placed
the four copies on a table in the upper hallway. A young Isadora stared up at him from a front page; Tia was the image of her mother, though taller. ‘I get better value for money if this
works out,’ he whispered. ‘More pounds for my pound.’

The door opened. ‘Good morning, Teddy Bear.’

He smiled. Her hair was sleep-disturbed, her eyes hooded against the invasion of light, the nightdress crumpled. She seemed not to be a morning person. ‘Don’t dare to call me Teddy
Bear at school.’

‘Mr Quinn,’ she amended.

‘That’s better.’ He handed her the papers. ‘It’s happening. I’m worried about your younger sister. Few will know where Delia is, because she’s an
itinerant anyway, and she’s supposedly on her way here with your mother’s things. But Juliet is a fixed point in that hospital. She’ll be easy to trace. I’m also wondering
whether we should go to Chaddington Green after all. There’ll be reporters and photographers looking for Bellamys.’

‘We’ll talk about this later. Remember, my father will be prey for the media, too, and every reporter in the country knows that Bartle Hall is Pa’s home, so he’ll
probably be elsewhere. I’ll sort out something with our housekeeper, Mrs Melia. I promised Rosie a priest hole, and a priest hole she shall have.’

‘I’m concerned for Juliet, Tia.’

She nodded her agreement. ‘Delia’s tough, as am I; she’ll tell them to go away and urinate, but Juliet . . . You’re right. I’ll telephone Matron. Incidentally, my
own phone will be installed some time today, but I must beg to use yours this morning.’

‘Everything I have is yours, baby.’

‘Not until we’re married, Mr Quinn.’

‘Presumptuous, aren’t you?’ he said, his face split by yet another wide grin.

Tia shrugged. ‘It’s inevitable.’

He cocked his head to one side. ‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes. Despite your worries about matters genetic, we belong together. Now bugger off while I get dressed.’

He buggered off happily, fed his animals, showered, shaved, cleaned his teeth and dressed himself in decent clothes. This was the last week of the school year, possibly even his final week at
Myrtle Street. Would he be here in September? He might well be arrested for kidnap, abduction, or whatever the wording might be in the statutes of Britain. Maggie and kidnap victim were still
asleep, and he moved quietly in order not to wake them as he left the house.

Am I to lose all this, my dream since the end of the war? Will my Portia’s name and reputation be sullied because of what must be done for little Rosie? But the machine is already
rolling, and I cannot, will not, stop it.
He went to his office where he penned a letter to his solicitor, telling all he knew about Sadie’s history, about her dead pimp and his habit of
shutting the child in a coal shed, about Sadie in a coma and Rosie’s maternal grandmother’s need to remove the little girl in case Sadie reverted to type when she recovered.

The phone rang. It was Tia. ‘Hello, sweet man. Ma’s agent has spoken to Pa’s agent. My father is leaving the country today, and that will be broadcast tomorrow, so we can use
Rose Cottage. Maggie, Rosie and I will stay there, but you and the Athertons might get rooms at the Punch Bowl, though Mrs Melia has offered to lend you Lilac Cottage if you prefer that.’

‘You’ll be seen, Tia.’

He almost heard her shrug. ‘I’m afraid of very little, Mr Quinn. My parents’ business is not mine, so it matters not at all if I’m approached. The main thing is that we
keep Maggie and Rosie safe. Happily, there are many places where Rosie can play, but she and Maggie must remain on the estate unless we go out in the ambulance. When we do go out, we use back lanes
and stay away from the village.’ She paused. ‘Actually, I have an idea, Mr Quinn.’

Theo groaned inwardly. ‘And Juliet?’ he asked.

‘She’ll be here in my flat with Ma and Joan. Matron released her from duty as soon as I delivered the warning; she doesn’t want the rubbishy press crawling around in the
hospital grounds and corridors. I spoke to Juliet, too. She’s tougher than she looks, yet she remains the baby of the family, and we guard her well. See? I think of everything, Mr
Quinn.’

He smiled. ‘I think of you all the time.’

‘Yes. I suffer too, you know.’

‘We’re diseased, Portia.’

‘Probably. See you later.’

Theo sat back, a silly smile plastered across his face. She was worth it, as were Rosie and Maggie. Should proceedings take place, Portia’s name would be kept out of . . . No. She
wouldn’t agree to that, because Madam was as stubborn as the proverbial mule, and she probably had a kick to match, too.
What is it about her? She’s difficult, opinionated,
mercurial, crazy. She’s lovely. Don’t question this, you fool. You can trust her, and that’s the main thing. Write down all your rubbish and cleanse yourself; she will take you as
you are in spite of your lineage
. He placed the letter for his solicitor in an envelope.

After tapping on the door, Colin Duckworth poked his head through a small gap. ‘Sir?’

‘Yes, Colin?’

The rest of the child crept in. ‘You know in America, Sir?’

‘I know a few things about America, but not everything.’

‘Why do they have Indians? Indians should live in India, shouldn’t they? Was they brung over from India like the slaves from Africa?’

‘No.’

‘So is there another India as well as the India what used to belong to our Hempire?’

‘No.’ Theo squashed a laugh.
Hempire?

‘So what happened?’

Theo sighed heavily. ‘Where does your teacher think you are, Colin?’

‘Toilet, Mr Quinn.’

‘We have to stop meeting like this, son. Rumour has it that Christopher Columbus thought he’d found India. The people labelled Red Indians are indigenous.’

‘Oh. Is that an illness? Is that why they’re red?’

‘They’re not red, Colin, they are brown. And indigenous means they were there first.’

‘Oh, I thought it meant indigestion. My mam suffers with that and says it’s my fault.’ He paused, though not for long. ‘So it’s their country?’

‘It used to be until people from Europe took over and made them live in reservations. Those among us who are decent are thoroughly ashamed of that.’

Colin made a decision and voiced it. ‘Right, Sir. Next time I go to the fleapit and they’re showing a cowy, I’ll cheer for the Indians.’

‘Cowy?’

‘Cowboy film, Sir.’

Theo couldn’t contain the chuckle that escaped from his mouth. ‘Colin, you’re a long time at the toilet.’

But Colin had an answer for that, too. Digging in a trouser pocket, he pulled out two sheets of lavatory paper. ‘She thinks I’ve gone for a number two, Sir. She’ll think
I’m constipated.’

That was the last straw. Theo burst out laughing, his head shaking from side to side. He loved this terrible kid, loved his deliberate Spoonerisms, his cheek, that enquiring mind, the silly
hair, the deepening frown that had arrived through too much thinking. ‘Go, Colin,’ he gasped. The boy was definitely university material.

Colin went. His true hero, Mr Blackbird-Quinn, liked him. For some time, Colin had suspected this, but he now had proof. Mr Quinn was the true seat of learning in this place of education. He rid
himself of toilet paper and returned to class, one hand clutching his belly. ‘Sorry I took so long, Miss. I must have ate too many chips last night . . .’

We were staying in our trailer on the ranch owner’s land about seven miles outside Atlanta, Georgia. It was 1930, and I was almost ten years of age, a skinny kid with
too much hair and very little flesh on my bones. Mom used to say I looked like nobody owned me, though Dad always told her I would fill out in a few years. I still hear his wicked laugh from all
the times he chased me with a wooden spoon, threatening to play a tune on my ribs. We had fun. I try to think about the fun, but nightmares still haunt me. My life may seem strange when you read
this, but I was happy most of the time, and I was loved.

Dad was working early mornings and evenings with horses, his favourite job, and I went with him occasionally. My father respected the noble beasts (his lovely Irish term) and refused to run
them in the heat of the day. When it was hot, he did general jobs round the ranch. I recall occasions on which he took wet cloths and used them to cool down ‘his’ horses. There was an
ice house under the ground in a kind of cave, and the ice man filled it twice a week.

Mom stayed inside the trailer for most of the time; the reason for that was something I would come to understand fully quite soon. It was hot, so hot, and the air was wet and clammy; any
clothing was soaked in sweat within minutes. There were baths in a shed. Sometimes, Dad and I took two or three quick baths a day, but Mom waited until the middle of the night to go and get
clean.

She was different, and I was finally beginning to understand what that meant. Mom didn’t act like other wives and mothers on the trailer park. They spent time together when chores were
done, chatting over lemonade or iced tea, but my mother kept herself to herself. Sometimes, I stayed with her and we read together. Dad and I taught her to read.