That Liverpool Girl by Ruth Hamilton Page A

of hair, tanned skin, laughing eyes. And he won’t get called up. About ten years older than you, I reckon, and a Woollyback, but that can’t be helped. There’s always one fly in the ointment, but, taken all round, I dare say he’ll do for you.’
    ‘Mother!’
    Nellie chortled. When Eileen called her Mother, the water was definitely warming up a bit. If she didn’t jump soon, it could boil. Because Nellie’s Eileen had limits. This angel could become a real little virago if pushed an inch too far in the wrong direction. ‘But you like him, though, don’t you? I mean you did take a fancy, I can tell.’
    The iron was slammed down onto a couple of roof slates that served to protect a table that was well past redemption. Eileen glared at her mother. ‘Listen. Sherlock. It’s elementary, and I’m Watson. He’s a penfriend. So stick that in your pan and fry it with a couple of onions.’
    ‘Ooh, look,’ Nellie exclaimed. ‘Our Eileen’s come over all Mae West in a mood.’ She was talking to nobody, as the children were at school, and she and her daughter were the only people in the house. ‘You’ve had a letter today, though. I can tell you’ve had a letter today, because it’s wrote all over your face.’
    ‘Written.’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘Written all over my face. And it was on paper, actually.’
    ‘Was it? Actually?’
    ‘Yes.’ The ironing continued. Today’s was a brilliant one. He’d told her about his childhood down in Bolton, his mam and dad, brothers and sisters, little Annie Metcalfe from Bromley Cross, dead for over twenty years. And he’d sent a parcel this time. Thank God Mam had been out cleaning the Throstle’s Nest, because she would have made a symphony out of it rather than a mere song and dance. Mam was a caution. Mam was happy, because her Eileen might have found a good man. Might have. It was early days.
    ‘Eileen?’
    ‘What now?’
    ‘I know we hardly met him, but he’s lovely.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘You’ll take it slow, though?’
    ‘Course I will. He’s got to meet my boys yet. We could have five farms ruined by Christmas with no help at all from Hitler. Our Bertie can start a war in a shoe box.’ She sniffed. ‘I’ll miss you, though.’
    ‘Same here, queen. It’ll be like ripping one of me arms off, only this can’t be helped. You have to stay with her. My granddaughter’s special, and I don’t want nobody wiping their feet on her front doormat.’
    ‘You being vulgar again, Mam?’
    ‘I am. Anyway, I’m going next door to see Kitty. Charlie went out for a packet of cigs last Friday, and she’s seen neither hide nor hair since. I know she’s used to it, but she’s gone worser with her nerves this last month. Ever since Chamberlain come on the wireless, she’s been like a cat on hot bricks.’
    Alone, Eileen dug out her parcel from behind the upended mattress on which she and Mam slept. There was the letter, a photograph of Willows, and a copy of Shakespeare’s sonnets. He was making love to her. From a distance not far short of forty miles, he was caressing her soul. Inside the book, tissue thin enough to be transparent held dried flowers between a dozen or more pages. All her life, Eileen had waited, however unconsciously, for a relationship like this. It was a fairy tale, and she was Cinderella. There was no carriage, no glass slipper, no midnight deadline, but the hero had a gentle heart, humour, and a good brain. It was all too quick, too quick because war loomed.
    At the age of thirty-three, this mother of four children had been washed ashore on an island named Hope. Her Lazzer had been a wonderful man, and she was not betraying him. Keith had a memory of a girl he had loved, so they were equal on that score. For the first time, she smiled while thinking of Laz. After baptizing him Lawrence, his family had shortened that to Lawrie, which sounded a bit like the name of a large vehicle, so Eileen and he had made up Lazzer. They’d been happy. To this