The Liverpool Trilogy (144 page)

‘I’m serious. You know how selfish children are? Remember our Sean pinching Anne-Marie’s banana when he already had his own?’

‘I suppose so. She was as bad, though. They both grabbed what they could and when they could.’

‘Exactly.’ She paused. ‘They were hungry, too.’

‘Listen, sweetheart. Our kids were well fed and well enough upholstered to be a couple of armchairs.’

She shook her head. ‘Not them. I mean my brothers and sisters back in Ireland all those years ago. See, a kiddy is centred inside itself. Boy or girl, it knows pain and hunger and running
about for no reason at all. Like squizzles. Just little animals. Truth is, I wouldn’t know or care what the others had to eat. I concentrated on me.’

Don sipped his cocoa. ‘Survival instinct.’ She was analysing herself; at the same time, she was taking under consideration the needs of other family members. Was this the beginning
of the end? Could she talk herself out of a dilemma that had lasted for so many years?

‘I was the easiest target.’ For minutes, she sat and said nothing. Then, finally, she wondered aloud where they all were. How carefully she had avoided mentioning them until now.
‘They won’t have crossed oceans,’ she said quietly. ‘We were all sick coming across from Ireland. None of us had sea legs. I had no legs at all, so I lay on deck trying to
muster the strength to jump overboard and have done with it.’

‘Might they go on aeroplanes?’ Don suggested.

Tess shrugged. ‘Where we lived, I think we’d only just caught up with the invention of the wheel. I can’t see our lot putting their lives in the care of a big metal tube in the
sky. They’ll be around. Somewhere.’ She sighed. ‘I bet they’d go mad if somebody stole from their kids. I bet they’ve forgotten what they did to me.’

‘Then your parents should have guarded you, baby.’

She laughed, though the sound arrived hollow. ‘He was always drunk, and she was worn out by his other hobby, which was sex. They’re long dead now, both of them. He drank his way to
the grave. For Mammy, his death was probably a blessed release because of her nerves. He used her as a punch bag later on in life, because booze had probably deprived him of the ability to perform
in bed, so he found other outlets for his aggression. She suffered. By God, she suffered until he got pushed through the gates of hell. By which time, she was a shadow. I expect she never
recovered.’

Don decided to remain silent. She seemed to be getting somewhere without any help.

‘I ran when I was fifteen. Last day at school, I just packed my few bits and pieces and fled. Sent a letter to my mother, which someone would have needed to read to her. I put no address,
and I got a job in a shoe shop, shared a bedsit with a girl called Paula. We slept top to toe in a single bed, but I’d never felt so free. When you met me, I was under-manager in that shop,
and I had my own rooms, if you remember.’

Don drained his mug. She’d scarcely touched hers.

‘Our kids were grown when I really fell in love with you, Don. Then when I lost my insides, I knew I didn’t have to be like my mother, with loads of kids and no food. I could enjoy .
. . things. I probably did have strong feelings for you, but I couldn’t show them. And the business of being a Catholic . . . well, you know how irritating that can be.’

He waited.

‘I saw Mammy’s death notice in the paper. Forgiving myself for not going to the funeral is something I’ve never managed. I suppose she had a few peaceful years without him, but
I bet she remained a frightened woman. I never even visited her. How would we feel if our kids left home and never came to see us?’

‘With or without Elvis?’ he asked.

‘Oh, Don.’

‘I know and I’m sorry. Forget Elvis. I love our children and would hate to lose them.’ He paused. ‘Would you like to find your family, Tess? Do you feel ready for
that?’

‘I’m not sure.’

Should he tell her? Could he tell her that Operation Riley was already under way, and that some of those discovered were her siblings? No. It would be better to present her with a fait accompli
down at Scouse Alley. The decent people he had met bore no resemblance to the hungry children who had denied the existence of their little sister. ‘It might cure you,’ he suggested.

‘Let me work my way up to it, love. Come on, lights out. Let’s try to get some sleep.’

Another person suffering severe sleep deprivation was Seamus Walsh. After a doze that lasted minutes, he suffered a rude awakening. Granddad had surfaced. It was probably
Gran’s medicine time, and the habit seemed to be proving hard to break. He must have found the note, because he was up and down the stairs like a yo-yo with a long string. The coach would be
leaving soon, surely? And why was Granddad grunting and groaning? Something unusual was happening, and the something unusual was climbing the stairs yet again. Seamus felt as if his heart might
stop at any minute.

Kevin O’Neil stood in the doorway. ‘Get dressed,’ he snapped. ‘I’m not waking our Reen, so you’ll be coming with me. We have to follow the London coach.
It’s nearly time for it to set off, so don’t be dawdling and messing about.’

‘No, we don’t need to do that.’ The child squinted when light flooded the room. Electricity seemed a lot brighter than it used to be.

‘What do you mean? Come on, don’t sit there blinking as if you’re innocent. I thought you’d been a bit weird lately. What do you know? What haven’t you told
me?’

The boy bit his lower lip. ‘Mam and Dad are following the coach.’ He groaned under his breath. When was he going to learn what not to say?

Kevin folded his arms. ‘You what? You knew your gran was going to London, and you said nowt? And with her chest the way it’s been? Well, we’ve no time to be picking bones, but
you’ll be a bloody skeleton when we come home. Get in that van. I’ve put a mattress and bedding in the back, so crawl in and stay there with your head down. I’m posting a note
through our Reen’s door.’ He left the scene.

Seamus kept his pyjamas on, piling on top the clothes he had been wearing earlier. With his outdoor coat over an arm, he went out to meet his Armageddon, which had suddenly taken on the shape of
his grandfather. But Granddad was already scraping a bit of ice off his windscreen. ‘Get in,’ he hissed. ‘And shut the door properly. I don’t want you to shoot out somewhere
outside Birmingham, because I need a word when we get back. You’re in trouble, lad. Very big trouble.’

When was he not in trouble? He could remember very few days on which he’d scraped through without being accused of something or other. So what was the difference? It would have been more
remarkable had he not been in some kind of grief, then somebody might tell him for once that they were impressed by how good he’d been.

To give them their due, the remarks on his much improved school report had given rise to kisses – which he could have done without – book tokens, three quid in change and a kit for a
Spitfire off their Reen. He was clever. He knew he was clever because even old Vera with the prune face had said so, while Sister Beetroot – really Beatrice – had declared that his
compositions were good enough to enter in national competitions. He had a good imagination. Yes, he had a good imagination, and he was shut in the back of an old van with two blankets, an
eiderdown, an old army greatcoat and some skirts and blouses intended for the Paddy’s Market stall. Oh, yes. As Gran might have said, it was a hard life as long as you didn’t
weaken.

He couldn’t see anything. There were two little windows in the van’s rear doors, and they afforded a brief glimpse of the lit-up Liver Birds, though nothing else of interest was
visible. Then the van stopped.

Kevin called over his shoulder. ‘I can see your mam and dad’s car skulking up the alley. And your gran’s on the coach.’ He tapped the steering wheel. ‘I don’t
know whether to go and drag her off. Lie down. Did I tell you you could sit up?’

‘No, Granddad.’

‘Then lie down.’

‘Yes, Granddad.’

‘You taking the wee-wee, Seamus?’

‘No, Granddad.’

Kevin almost exploded. ‘Now look what you’ve made me do. The coach is pulling out. I could have got her if you hadn’t taken my mind off things.’

Seamus closed his eyes. No matter what, no matter when, no matter where or which, the ills of this world would always be placed at his feet. If somebody dropped another atom bomb on the Far East
or started an avalanche in the Swiss Alps, it would be down to Seamus Walsh of Prescott Street, Bootle, Liverpool, Lancashire. Should an earthquake swallow up Buckingham Palace, he’d be the
one in the Tower.

‘Your dad’s following the coach, and I’m following your dad.’

So who was daft? Seamus pondered this for a few minutes. Sensible people would sort this out. Oh well, he might as well hang for a sheep. ‘Granddad?’

‘Go to sleep.’

‘I was just thinking.’

‘God help us.’ Kevin changed gear.

Seamus continued. ‘When the coach does one of its stops, Mam and Dad should lock their car and come with us. You’d have two drivers and you could take turns. That saves petrol. Mam
could have a sleep with me, then you could swap with her and have a rest while Dad drives. They can lock their car, and pick it up on the way back. It makes sense.’

For an idiot, Seamus did make a lot of sense. Kevin grinned to himself. Seamus had taken after his dad for brains, though his mam wasn’t exactly backward at coming forward, was she?
‘We’ll see, lad. Now get your head down and try for forty winks. This is going to be a long night.’

Rosh turned over. She wasn’t ready to wake up, because she’d been having a lovely dream about being on the English Riviera in springtime with Roy. There were palm
trees, some exotic-looking flowers starting to bud, and clotted cream teas stolen by this county from Devonshire, its next-door neighbour. She and Roy had a bridal suite with four-poster bed, a
full bathroom including shower and bidet, and a bedroom balcony that overlooked a bay populated by fishing boats. Tomorrow, they would hire a boat and crew to take them out for—

But she couldn’t get back to sleep. She couldn’t get back to sleep because some fool was hammering hell out of the front door. Bleary-eyed, she blinked till the luminous dial on the
alarm clock made sense. It was ten past midnight.

She got up and peered through the curtains, but she couldn’t see anything, since the intruder was shielded by the open porch. Though she did notice that Roy’s lights were being
switched on. He watched over her and the children constantly. Right from the beginning of their courtship, he had taken on the job of caretaker, a sort of lieutenant to the absent Phil. He was
lovely. Rosh pulled on a dressing gown and opened a sash window. She bent down and placed her mouth at the two-inch gap she’d created.

‘Who is it? If you wake my children, you’ll be a bit dead, and don’t expect a decent funeral, because you’ll go in the Mersey, burial at sea.’

Her mother stepped back onto the path. ‘It’s me,’ she said unnecessarily.

‘I can see it’s you because of the street lamp. Stop hammering. Even poor Roy’s awake – look across the way. You’ve probably woken everybody at this end.’

Anna, muttering under her breath, stepped into the porch once more.

Rosh went down and opened the door. She was not in the best of moods. ‘Where’s your key? I hope you haven’t lost it.’

‘I thought it was in me pocket, so I did. But this is the key to his house.’

Rosh blinked stupidly. ‘You mean your house. It’s your home as well as his, isn’t it?’

Anna sniffed and stalked into her daughter’s hall. She was carrying two lidded baskets. ‘It will be, because I’ll make sure of it. May God forgive me, but I’m in a fight
and with no intention of losing. He’s taken a step too far.’

‘God has?’

‘Eric has.’

‘I see.’

‘No, you don’t. I’m banned from the allotment, and no one knows more than I do about arable farming on any scale whatsoever. He interferes with my cooking and cleaning,
won’t let me help with decorating, says I’ve to leave the garden alone. As for the Isle of Wight – well . . .’

‘Well what?’

‘He kept going into a huddle with the gardener, something to do with raspberry canes, a south-facing aspect, and growing orchids in a greenhouse. But there was more to it than that. A lot
more. I was absolutely disgusted. Honeymoon? He spent more time with his new best friend.’

‘There was more to what, Mam?’

‘Him and the gardener.’

Rosh staggered back. ‘You’re not telling me Eric’s bilateral?’

‘You what?’

‘Is he queer?’

It was Anna’s turn to lean for support on a wall. ‘Oh, give it up, Roisin. He’s no more homo sapiens than your Roy.’

‘You mean homosex—’

‘I know what I mean. Don’t be telling me what I mean, because you’re as bad as I am, asking is he bifocal. Oh no, this is another matter altogether, one that means war. So I
need troops. That’s why I’m here just now, because he’s already starting to fix battens to the wall.’

Roy fell in at the front door. ‘What’s happening? Is Eric all right?’

Anna nodded. ‘Just now, he is. Whether he’ll continue so is very much a matter of opinion.’

Rosh shrugged and stared at her intended. He bore a marked resemblance to an unmade bed that had recently housed several small children and a couple of dogs. In his current condition, no way
would he look right in a bridal suite complete with four-poster, its own bathroom containing shower and bidet, plus an off-the-bedroom balcony overlooking a Cornish fishing village. ‘Who got
you
ready?’ she asked. ‘Is it a fancy dress do?’

Roy knew when to ignore his beloved. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked again. ‘Come on, say something rational, Anna.’

‘He’s happening.’ Anna jerked a thumb over her shoulder. ‘Holt. The creature I married, otherwise known as my biggest mistake so far.’

Roy sighed. His mouth felt like the bottom of a bird cage, and he desperately needed a cup of tea. ‘Fight among yourselves,’ he said. ‘I’m putting the kettle
on.’

Anna watched as he walked away. ‘He might look better with a kettle on,’ she declared. ‘It would cover his hair up, I suppose. I’ll sleep on the sofa.’ She walked
into the front room.