The Liverpool Trilogy (121 page)

Tom Walsh was a good dad, but he was educated to know about spuds, butter, tea, sugar and divi points, because he ran the new Bootle Co-op. Seamus couldn’t discuss his complicated secret
with his parents. World war would break out, and folk were still waiting for houses after the last lot. And they would stop him, of course. Grown-ups were spectacularly successful when it came to
putting a damper on ideas. They got tired, he supposed. Anybody really old, like over the age of thirty, was bound to have started to wear out a bit. They had too much to think about, what with
Scouse Alley, weekend events, the market and the Co-op. So it was up to him, because he hadn’t yet begun to crumble under the weight of adulthood. He was young, strong, and ready to become a
hero; he was clever, resourceful, and quick.

Clues regarding the case in hand were few and far between, so Seamus stuck to the Harry Burdon school of thought. Unlike Beanpole, Seamus would not end up screaming in a bed of nettles, or
hanging upside down from a tree in some innocent person’s back yard. He would not break the wrong windows, had no intention of being sent to reform school, to Borstal, to prison. No. He was
merely going where no adult in his sphere would dare to tread; he intended to find his brothers.

You gotta take what you have and use it
, Harry-in-the-book would say to his clumsy, idiotic friend.
And if you ain’t got nothing, you look at possibilities and number them in
order of merit. All notes in code, remember. Gear up. Army pocket knife, a good length of strong rope, food and water, as much money as you can scrape. Good luck to you, Beanpole.

After a great deal of begging and pleading by Seamus, the knife had arrived at Christmas. It boasted every attachment apart from a kitchen sink, and Seamus was unsure regarding the usefulness of
many of its components. There was a thing to take the caps off bottles, the blade, a horse’s hoof doodah, and loads of other stuff that looked as though it had been copied in miniature from a
medieval torture chamber.

Rope. Stealing thick stuff from the docks might have caused mayhem, and it was too heavy to carry. In view of these problems, Seamus had taken an alternative route, and several prefabs on
Stanley Square were now bereft of clothes lines. Clothes line might not be the strongest of rope, but it was better than nothing. He was doing his best, although his only support lay between the
covers of a book, so nothing was easy. Discussion was an unaffordable luxury, and that was that.

But the largest part of Seamus’s plot was rooted in a lie so huge as to be frightening. It was Easter, 1959. Some of the boys in his class were about to go camping with teachers for five
whole days in the mountains of North Wales. Mam had signed the permission paper and had given her youngest son enough money to cover the expedition, and he had stolen it after tearing up the
permission paper. This was the most wicked thing he had done in his whole life, and he was avoiding Confession until it was all over. He’d probably get five thousand Our Fathers, a bucketful
of Hail Marys, and a few Glory Bes thrown in for good measure.

There was, of course, a distinct danger in the scheme. If Mam met any of the other parents or children, she might learn that her beloved son was not going camping. But, as Harry Junior might
have said,
If you don’t take a chance from time to time, you ain’t getting nowhere.

Well, Seamus was going somewhere. Nobody else in his family owned the guts, but he had no yellow streak painted down his spine. Eavesdropping, a skill he had perfected during the second reading
of chapter one, had taught him that the whole family missed Finbar and Michael. Letters, relieved of envelopes and with no address provided by their senders, had informed him that his brothers were
married and that each had a child. ‘I’m an uncle,’ he whispered proudly before hiding his book. ‘They have taken my unclehood away.’ One of the kids was only a girl,
but that couldn’t be helped.

He left his private bunker, dropping to hands and knees to make use of cover provided by the privet hedge. Harry Burdon was virtually invisible. He blended. Because he blended, he could go
anywhere in that vast city without being noticed. But Seamus couldn’t. Everyone round here knew everyone, and they certainly knew Seamus.

Reen and Jimmy were at work, but Seamus needed to shield himself from the prying eyes of neighbours. Gossip was an almost full-time occupation in these parts. He could hear his grandmother now.
No better than she should be. And did you see the heels on the shoes? She’ll be needing an oxygen mask if she goes any higher up. Silver nail polish, too. I tell you she’s on the way
to Lime Street with a mattress on her back.
Yes, Gran was a gossip of professional standard, but there were many others of her ilk in these parts.

Safer now, he stood up and walked towards home. There were photographs of Fin and Mike somewhere in the prefab. Seamus hadn’t seen them and didn’t know where they were kept, but
he’d listened to his parents talking. Because Tom Walsh had been a substitute manager as, when and where required, he had filled in gaps created by managers’ holidays all over the
place. ‘Rainford, near St Helens,’ he had declared to his wife, little realizing that his son was in the hall hanging on every word. ‘I recognized the shops in the background.
It’s a village. East Lancs Road, turn right for St Helens, left for Rainford. A few tenanted farms – Lord Derby owns the land – and the village is pretty. Stone cottages, nice
church, a few shops and at least four pubs. They could be in worse places, Maureen.’

And that had been it. But it was something. Seamus had found the village on a map, and had learned the route. ‘I could do it with my eyes closed,’ he declared quietly as he walked
homeward. But he was going to need his eyes open, as he would be on his bike. Mum and Dad wouldn’t miss the bike; it was kept in their Anderson shelter. ‘My whole life’s in
Andersons,’ Seamus mumbled as he sauntered up the path to his own prefab.

It was half-day closing at the Co-op, and Maureen had taken a couple of hours off between catering at Scouse Alley and helping her dad on the market. Even now, after more than a quarter century
of marriage, she and Tom liked to steal time to spend together.

Maureen’s lips were pursed as she watched her son dragging his raincoat along the path. ‘He’s up to something,’ she advised her husband. ‘He’s not one for
concentrating unless it’s football or cricket. Look at him. Like Loony Lenny from Linacre Lane, doesn’t know whether he’s coming, going, or on the big wheel at the fair. I get
worried when our Seamus is thinking, because nothing good ever comes of it. He shouldn’t think. His brain gets overcrowded and his cheeks burn. Looks like a candidate for that spontaneous
human combustion.’

Tom joined his wife. Their one resident child was standing in the middle of the path counting. On his fingers. ‘Counting,’ Tom said. ‘What the heck is he counting?’

‘Not prayers,’ replied Maureen grimly. ‘Definitely nothing holy, I can guarantee it. It might be to do with them wedding photos of him in his hat. There’s only three in
the book, but he hates them.’

Tom laughed. ‘He certainly does.’

‘But Tom, he wouldn’t spoil his sister’s wedding album, would he?’

‘He would. Remember how he buried the whole suit plus hat? Your mother had to dig everything up for the church. That blinking hat put him in a bad mood for months. And it was a stupid hat.
I was surprised when he didn’t stick it in the bin before the kick-off. I mean, even some of the grown-ups were calling him Popeye.’

‘It was his only sister’s wedding day and—’ Maureen stopped abruptly. ‘Sorry, love. I never meant to make you remember things from that time. Sorry.’

Tom cleared his throat. ‘I’ll not forget it in a hurry, girl, but I’m all right with it now. That lad of ours out there could have been in his grave if I hadn’t . . . if
I hadn’t done what I did. Knowing they were gunning for our other two doesn’t help, does it? We can’t visit, they can’t come and see us, and—’ He cut off the
rest of his words when the front door opened.

‘Seamus?’

‘Yes, Mam?’

‘Come here, son. Immediately, if not sooner. And I don’t want just your head floating round the edge of the door; bring the rest of you as well.’

One hundred per cent of Seamus entered the room. Although he knew it was a dead giveaway, he allowed his weight to swing slightly from foot to foot. His mother’s face, when displaying
disappointment or anger, made him sway about a bit, but he kept movement to a minimum. She might be on to him. She might have met someone at Scouse Alley or at the market, and that someone could
have marked him as a cheat and a liar who mistreated his own parents, and wasn’t to be trusted, and wasn’t going with school to Wales—

‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asked. ‘You look like you’re sickening for something. And you can’t go camping in the damp and cold if you’re not
well.’

Seamus allowed a sigh of relief to emerge quietly. If she’d been told he wasn’t going camping, she would have come out with it straight away.

‘We’ll see how you are in the morning. If you’re all right, your dad will run you to school in his car.’ She was proud of the better car. She wanted everybody at school
to know that Seamus’s dad was moving up in the world.

‘No,’ the lad exclaimed quickly – rather too quickly. ‘No, not the car.’

‘But you’ll have your rucksack and first day meals and the little tent. They’re borrowing that to keep tinned food in, aren’t they?’

‘Mam, we’ve been told to practise walking with the weight on our backs. And I don’t want people thinking I’m still a baby. I’d be the only one.’ He glanced at
the clock. He still needed to get the bike out and hide it somewhere between home and wherever. ‘Please don’t give me a lift, Dad. Don’t make a show of me in front of
everybody.’

Maureen sat down and folded her arms. ‘You are up to something,’ she said.

‘Me?’

‘Well, I’m not talking to your father, am I? And you’re the only other person here now that Reen’s married and . . .’ Her voice died.

‘And my brothers have gone,’ the child concluded for her. ‘They don’t visit, and we don’t visit them. So I take the blame for everything. I bet it’s my fault
if it rains. Well, I didn’t make everybody leave home, did I? It wasn’t my fault that we were overcrowded and Reen had to sleep at Gran’s and my brothers had to sleep in the
living room. They left here to try and get some space to live in.’

Maureen sniffed. They’d gone to make fast, dirty money in London, and she couldn’t tell their young brother that. But she could put his mind at rest regarding overcrowding.
‘We’ve had to wait for a house because we want to be near your Gran and your sister. We don’t want to be spread out all over the place on Hitler’s say-so, do we? Well, our
new places will be ready in a few months. I suppose my mam will be pig in the middle, then she can pin her ear to the walls and find out what we’re all up to.’ She sniffed again.
‘And you are up to no good.’

Seamus had trouble when it came to adopting Harry Burdon’s innocent look. Harry never blushed, but Seamus had inherited his mother’s expertise when it came to changing colour. Harry
didn’t sway when questioned, but Seamus did. ‘Mam, I’m going away for five days tomorrow. I have to learn to put a big tent up with all them poles and pegs, make fire with
something called a flint, use a compass, and warm enough beans on the fire for fourteen boys and three teachers. It’s a lot to take in.’

Tom grinned. ‘Especially when you don’t listen to any of those teachers. And if you’re living on beans, God help Wales. You’ll have all the Welsh running over into
England. Well, I hope they don’t bring their sheep. I don’t fancy waking up to baa-ing every morning. Your mam’s bad enough, because she’s not a morning person.’

In spite of her husband’s attempt to lighten the atmosphere, Maureen remained on high alert. With her older sons in hiding and her only daughter wed, she had every intention of hanging on
to her youngest for as long as possible. There was something wrong. He reminded her of one of those desert lizards. Their feet got burnt in the sand, so they stood on two while the other pair
cooled, and those reptiles were . . . what was it?
Perpetuum mobile
. That was Latin for not being able to keep still, and the
mobile
was pronounced mobil-ay. Her son was
perpetuum
whatever when lying. ‘What are you not telling me?’ she asked. ‘Come on, out with it. You know I always get to the bottom of things.’

‘Nothing.’ Seamus felt renewed heat in his cheeks.

Maureen glanced through the window. ‘Have you had anything to do with the mysterious disappearance of three washing lines from these prefabs?’

‘No,’ the child shouted. ‘It’s always me. It was probably me that bombed Dresden and Hiroshima.’ This was what Harry Burdon called fighting fire with fire.
‘I’m the one to blame for everything just because I’m the only one of the family here.’ At last, he was in his stride. ‘Well, I never crossed the border into Poland,
didn’t blow up ships, and what would I want with clothes lines? That’ll be some girls wanting rope for long skipping.’ Long skipping had a girl at each end turning, and five or
six running in and out of the rope. Sometimes, there were two ropes turning in opposite directions. Oh, yes. Seamus was a born private investigator, because he missed nothing.

‘Don’t start getting clever with me, lad,’ she said.

‘Oh. So I’m clever now, am I? You never said that when you were helping me with my geography homework.’

‘That’s enough.’ Tom’s tone was ominously quiet. ‘Don’t ever talk to your mam like that. She’s not here for you to wipe your feet on or to sharpen the
edge of your temper. Oh, and she’s my wife, by the way. I expect people to treat her with respect.’

Seamus hung his head. It was now or never. He knew full well that telling his parents immediately would take more courage than he had. Keeping quiet and going through with the plan was the
easier option, so was he a coward after all? What he intended to do was naughty, because he’d told lies and stolen money. But it was also good, since nobody else seemed to have the courage to
face Finbar and Michael. Why, though? What had happened for a wedge of such a size to be driven through so close a family? Everyone quarrelled, of course, but Gran always said that it was the Irish
in them, the paddy-whack, as she sometimes called it.