poor wee… That’s what I think myself. Who knows?” said Mrs Milligan, her voice small and sad.
All this was too much for Pete. “But how can she be away over there and here at the same time?” he blurted.
In the dark shelter, Pete heard Mr Milligan draw a long breath through his nostrils. “That’s the bally question I kept asking myself—” said Mr Milligan.
“Instead of asking the poor wee lost lass herself when she came to see him and doing something useful.” This time it was Mrs Milligan doing the interrupting. “Too feart to help her, James Milligan; that’s what you were.”
Pete couldn’t help himself; he felt a bubble of mirth rising up his throat and escaping as a choked giggle when Mrs Milligan scolded Dad’s big smoothie boss like he was still in short trousers.
“It’s no laughing matter, letting that lassie down. And her mother.” When Mrs Milligan cracked a smack off her son’s knee, Pete actually felt sorry for El Honcho.
“Mother’s right, Pete. But seeing the ghost of a girl you know full well is as alive and kicking as you are on the other side of the world made me think I was going bally off my chump. And I’ll put my hands up,” Mr Milligan admitted. “I was too scared out my wits to be of use to anyone when Beth came calling for help.”
“But you’re here now, son,” Mrs Milligan gripped Pete’s arm and began to lever herself up from the bench, “and that Matron’ll be sending out a searchparty if Jamie doesn’t get me back to the Last Chance Saloon before my bedtime sherry.”
“That’s me getting my marching orders, Pete,” Mr Milligan chuckled. “Let’s be having you then, Mammy.”
At the door of the shelter Mrs Milligan cupped her hands round Pete’s face. “Mind you do what yon big tumshy of mine never managed. Help Beth so her mother can rest.”
Chapter 22
Pete had spent so long in the shelter with the Milligans, he expected Mum and Dad to bombard him: What were you talking about? What were you doing? Instead, he found them snoring on the sofa in front of the telly, Jenny sound asleep between them.
Could’ve run away and they wouldn’t have noticed , Pete had thought. This was while he spooned cold soup from the pot and swigged milk straight from the carton since there was no one about to tell him he was being disgusting.
Now, back in his room, he had his head against the wall. He was moving his ear from place to place like a doctor pressing a cold stethoscope to sound different parts of his chest.
“Hello?”
“Beth?”
“Are you there?”
But all he could detect was… What was Mr Milligan’s word?
Nothingness .
Pete could almost hear it whooshing. A shored-up, derelict gap site. That was all that remained on the other side of the wall. Beth was gone.
Pete slumped onto his bed. As he pulled his duvet over his legs, he spotted Beth’s notebook. It had fallenopen on two pages bordered with dozens of drawings. New ones . Pete was sure. Men, women, children, their likenesses all created in a few clever strokes.
Mummy , Beth had written underneath the sketch of a smiling woman with dark curling hair. Beside her a solemn man with a pencil moustache leaned on a cane and stared out at Pete with stern eyes: Dr Aidan, my daddy .
There was a chubby baby next to Dr Aidan whose eyes were screwed up and whose mouth gaped in misery. Beth had drawn flying teardrops and exclamation marks all around the baby’s head and filled its mouth with the words, Jamie Wah-wah!!!!! instead of teeth.
Looking up at this picture and wearing, Pete thought, the same frazzled expression as Mum after an all-nighter with Jenny, was a young woman with long, loose hair.
Aunty Mary , was written on the apron she wore.
Mrs Milligan . Pete wondered if the very old lady who’d kissed him goodbye would manage to see this young version of herself if the light was good enough. Or if she would recognise the uniformed sailor grinning beneath her, raising up a salute.
All this was too much for Pete. “But how can she be away over there and here at the same time?” he blurted.
In the dark shelter, Pete heard Mr Milligan draw a long breath through his nostrils. “That’s the bally question I kept asking myself—” said Mr Milligan.
“Instead of asking the poor wee lost lass herself when she came to see him and doing something useful.” This time it was Mrs Milligan doing the interrupting. “Too feart to help her, James Milligan; that’s what you were.”
Pete couldn’t help himself; he felt a bubble of mirth rising up his throat and escaping as a choked giggle when Mrs Milligan scolded Dad’s big smoothie boss like he was still in short trousers.
“It’s no laughing matter, letting that lassie down. And her mother.” When Mrs Milligan cracked a smack off her son’s knee, Pete actually felt sorry for El Honcho.
“Mother’s right, Pete. But seeing the ghost of a girl you know full well is as alive and kicking as you are on the other side of the world made me think I was going bally off my chump. And I’ll put my hands up,” Mr Milligan admitted. “I was too scared out my wits to be of use to anyone when Beth came calling for help.”
“But you’re here now, son,” Mrs Milligan gripped Pete’s arm and began to lever herself up from the bench, “and that Matron’ll be sending out a searchparty if Jamie doesn’t get me back to the Last Chance Saloon before my bedtime sherry.”
“That’s me getting my marching orders, Pete,” Mr Milligan chuckled. “Let’s be having you then, Mammy.”
At the door of the shelter Mrs Milligan cupped her hands round Pete’s face. “Mind you do what yon big tumshy of mine never managed. Help Beth so her mother can rest.”
Chapter 22
Pete had spent so long in the shelter with the Milligans, he expected Mum and Dad to bombard him: What were you talking about? What were you doing? Instead, he found them snoring on the sofa in front of the telly, Jenny sound asleep between them.
Could’ve run away and they wouldn’t have noticed , Pete had thought. This was while he spooned cold soup from the pot and swigged milk straight from the carton since there was no one about to tell him he was being disgusting.
Now, back in his room, he had his head against the wall. He was moving his ear from place to place like a doctor pressing a cold stethoscope to sound different parts of his chest.
“Hello?”
“Beth?”
“Are you there?”
But all he could detect was… What was Mr Milligan’s word?
Nothingness .
Pete could almost hear it whooshing. A shored-up, derelict gap site. That was all that remained on the other side of the wall. Beth was gone.
Pete slumped onto his bed. As he pulled his duvet over his legs, he spotted Beth’s notebook. It had fallenopen on two pages bordered with dozens of drawings. New ones . Pete was sure. Men, women, children, their likenesses all created in a few clever strokes.
Mummy , Beth had written underneath the sketch of a smiling woman with dark curling hair. Beside her a solemn man with a pencil moustache leaned on a cane and stared out at Pete with stern eyes: Dr Aidan, my daddy .
There was a chubby baby next to Dr Aidan whose eyes were screwed up and whose mouth gaped in misery. Beth had drawn flying teardrops and exclamation marks all around the baby’s head and filled its mouth with the words, Jamie Wah-wah!!!!! instead of teeth.
Looking up at this picture and wearing, Pete thought, the same frazzled expression as Mum after an all-nighter with Jenny, was a young woman with long, loose hair.
Aunty Mary , was written on the apron she wore.
Mrs Milligan . Pete wondered if the very old lady who’d kissed him goodbye would manage to see this young version of herself if the light was good enough. Or if she would recognise the uniformed sailor grinning beneath her, raising up a salute.
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