day, Eileen missed the weight of a man, the power, the loving and whispering. But she’d pledged herself to her children, and three of those children were . . . on the wild side. Keith would straighten them out. It was silly, placing faith in a bloke she hardly knew, and yet . . . He could do it. He would do it. ‘Slow down,’ she muttered.
The scream came at that moment. Eileen shoved her treasures out of sight and ran into the street. Kitty Maguire was lying face down on the pavement, balled fists battering the flags, a blood-curdling sound escaping from her throat. Over her stood Nellie Kennedy and two policemen. Other neighbours came out of their houses, mostly mothers with children too young for school. Eileen interpreted word-shapes on her mother’s lips. Charlie Maguire was dead. A constable advised Eileen that the body had been washed up on Ainsdale beach, just another piece of flotsam tossed about by the Mersey’s unpredictable rips. ‘She’s taken it bad,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘Mind you, he was never sober, so we’re not surprised he’s come to grief. Poor woman.’ He shook his head sadly.
Days later, Eileen remembered how she had thought of herself coming ashore on an island named Hope. While she had been pondering that, Kitty’s husband had been thrown up by the tide, and a whole family had been stranded on a shore entitled Despair. Life took, and life gave. Because on that first day, Hilda Pickavance rode in on her white horse and promised Kitty a cottage in Willows Edge. The true hero of the piece was a quiet woman with a spine of steel, a person who, when blessed with good fortune, insisted on sharing it. Charlie was dead, but his wife and children would be safe.
For several nights, Eileen and Nellie took turns to sit up with Kitty. Weeping continued till the early hours of every morning, after which whoever was on duty dozed fitfully in an uncomfortable chair. Poor old Charlie had been doomed anyway. According to the doctor, his life sentence was always going to be commuted to early release, since his liver was fit only for saddlery and boot-soling, not for cleansing blood. He had been a long way past retrieval, and his illness showed in every corner of the disgusting house he had inhabited. From where she sat, Eileen could hear wildlife in the kitchen. She recalled one of the babies, now grown, being taken to the hospital after eating ‘currants’ from the kitchen floor. That dried fruit had been produced by rodents, and the child had suffered the consequences. The smell in here was almost unbearable.
Cockroaches scuttered about. These creatures, along with mice and silverfish, were frequent visitors in Nellie and Eileen’s house, but Nellie kept on top of them and was merciless when it came to methods of dispatch. Mel had once termed her gran a murderer of mice, but the job had to be done. Poor Kitty had lost hope and energy; perhaps both might be reborn once the funeral was consigned to the pages of recent history.
Eileen closed her eyes. By now, Mam had discovered the letter, the book, the photo and the dried flowers. It didn’t matter. If Mel should ever be on the receiving end of a man’s dedicated attention, Eileen would want to know. Age scarcely came into it, because Eileen was Nellie’s child, just as Mel was Eileen’s.
Kitty woke again. ‘Will I like it up there, Eileen? Do you think we’ll be all right out in the wilds?’
‘I hope so, love. There’ll be fresh air and probably no bombs, so it has to be an improvement.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Yes. So am I.’ Kitty was better off, though she didn’t know it yet. Her husband had been difficult, and occasionally violent, a fact that accounted for several of Kitty’s absent teeth. He had failed to provide, so his young had scarcely thrived, and he would not have been fit for any kind of war service. By falling into the Mersey when drunk as a lord, he had done his wife and children a favour, since they could now
The scream came at that moment. Eileen shoved her treasures out of sight and ran into the street. Kitty Maguire was lying face down on the pavement, balled fists battering the flags, a blood-curdling sound escaping from her throat. Over her stood Nellie Kennedy and two policemen. Other neighbours came out of their houses, mostly mothers with children too young for school. Eileen interpreted word-shapes on her mother’s lips. Charlie Maguire was dead. A constable advised Eileen that the body had been washed up on Ainsdale beach, just another piece of flotsam tossed about by the Mersey’s unpredictable rips. ‘She’s taken it bad,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘Mind you, he was never sober, so we’re not surprised he’s come to grief. Poor woman.’ He shook his head sadly.
Days later, Eileen remembered how she had thought of herself coming ashore on an island named Hope. While she had been pondering that, Kitty’s husband had been thrown up by the tide, and a whole family had been stranded on a shore entitled Despair. Life took, and life gave. Because on that first day, Hilda Pickavance rode in on her white horse and promised Kitty a cottage in Willows Edge. The true hero of the piece was a quiet woman with a spine of steel, a person who, when blessed with good fortune, insisted on sharing it. Charlie was dead, but his wife and children would be safe.
For several nights, Eileen and Nellie took turns to sit up with Kitty. Weeping continued till the early hours of every morning, after which whoever was on duty dozed fitfully in an uncomfortable chair. Poor old Charlie had been doomed anyway. According to the doctor, his life sentence was always going to be commuted to early release, since his liver was fit only for saddlery and boot-soling, not for cleansing blood. He had been a long way past retrieval, and his illness showed in every corner of the disgusting house he had inhabited. From where she sat, Eileen could hear wildlife in the kitchen. She recalled one of the babies, now grown, being taken to the hospital after eating ‘currants’ from the kitchen floor. That dried fruit had been produced by rodents, and the child had suffered the consequences. The smell in here was almost unbearable.
Cockroaches scuttered about. These creatures, along with mice and silverfish, were frequent visitors in Nellie and Eileen’s house, but Nellie kept on top of them and was merciless when it came to methods of dispatch. Mel had once termed her gran a murderer of mice, but the job had to be done. Poor Kitty had lost hope and energy; perhaps both might be reborn once the funeral was consigned to the pages of recent history.
Eileen closed her eyes. By now, Mam had discovered the letter, the book, the photo and the dried flowers. It didn’t matter. If Mel should ever be on the receiving end of a man’s dedicated attention, Eileen would want to know. Age scarcely came into it, because Eileen was Nellie’s child, just as Mel was Eileen’s.
Kitty woke again. ‘Will I like it up there, Eileen? Do you think we’ll be all right out in the wilds?’
‘I hope so, love. There’ll be fresh air and probably no bombs, so it has to be an improvement.’
‘I’m scared.’
‘Yes. So am I.’ Kitty was better off, though she didn’t know it yet. Her husband had been difficult, and occasionally violent, a fact that accounted for several of Kitty’s absent teeth. He had failed to provide, so his young had scarcely thrived, and he would not have been fit for any kind of war service. By falling into the Mersey when drunk as a lord, he had done his wife and children a favour, since they could now
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