After the War is Over (12 page)

‘The Sloane Hotel in the city centre. I don’t suppose,’ he said with a sly grin, ‘there’s any chance of renewing the exciting relationship we had in Plymouth for half an hour or so? As you can imagine, I have plenty of time to spare.’

‘You must be joking.’

Nell and Maggie arrived not long after the major had gone. Nell remarked that Iris looked terribly pale. ‘Are you feeling all right?’ she asked.

‘Just a bit off,’ Iris confessed. ‘Do you mind if I sit upstairs while you make the meal?’

Maggie asked if she would like a cup of tea brought up, and Iris agreed that she would. Maggie was looking a bit brighter. It seemed Ryan’s girlfriend Rosie had started to come at weekends and look after things, so Maggie could have Saturday and Sunday off.

‘She
loves
housework,’ Maggie said incredulously, as if Rosie had a rare disease that marked her out from the rest of society. ‘She and our Ryan are talking about getting married.’

Iris went upstairs and could hear them chattering away. They were such innocents, the pair of them – well, Nell was. Lord knows what Maggie might have got up to with that Chris character she’d been going out with, had been about to marry but had finished with in a quite mysterious way.

The camp bike!

‘Oh Lord!’ she whispered, burying her face in her hands. If only you could rub out the past and start again. What a stupid thing to think. The past was set like concrete and could never be changed. She wondered if Major Williams would get fed up with Liverpool and return home before Monday. If he had a home. But he must live somewhere, even if it was only a bedsitting room in London, or even one of those hostel places where men slept in dormitories.

Perhaps she should have been nicer to him, Iris thought, much too late, instead of rubbing him up the wrong way, making it likely he’d return on Monday and tell Tom purely out of spite.

She should have cooked him a meal, explained in a reasonable way how impossible it would be to obtain money without Tom knowing. She could have offered him the money out of her own account as proof that she was genuinely sympathetic and wanted to help. She could even have gone to bed with him . . . She dashed the thought from her mind.

Since coming home, she’d not felt sure of her feelings for Tom, but the prospect of losing him filled her with horror. He wouldn’t throw her out, but their marriage would be over. No man would be willing to tolerate his wife behaving like a whore.

‘But all I wanted was a baby,’ she imagined herself saying.

‘You still behaved like a whore,’ Tom would say back.

Nell came in with a cup of tea. ‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Much better,’ Iris lied. ‘Almost back to normal. I’ll be down in a minute.’

‘You stay here and have a nice rest,’ Nell insisted. ‘I’ll give you a shout when the meal’s ready.’ They were having mock duck – made with sausagemeat and covered with cheese sauce that didn’t require cheese. It was absolutely delicious.

Iris drank the tea quickly, then went downstairs. Just now, she preferred not to be left alone with her own thoughts.

It appeared Alfred Desmond had spent the afternoon at the police station.

Iris gasped. ‘What’s he done wrong?’

‘Nothing,’ Nell said. ‘He’s friendly with some of the coppers; takes them whisky and biscuits and stuff, to keep on their right side, like. Me da’s got irons in an awful lot of fires. He could get away with murder if he wanted.’ She’d brought a large box of Cadbury’s chocolates for the girls to eat at the pictures, a beautiful round box with yellow roses on the lid, a gift from her father.

It was then that the seed that had been planted in Iris’s mind earlier that afternoon began to sprout. She would think about it in the pictures and see what developed.

The plot of
Mr Skeffington
was highly dramatic, but Iris was too busy creating her own plot to concentrate. Bette Davis and Claude Rains were two of her favourite actors, and she hoped the opportunity might come to see the film again.

‘What’s the name of the pub where your father drinks?’ she asked Nell when they were outside, the picture over.

‘The Queen’s Arms in Pearl Street,’ the girl replied. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

‘Like I said before, Tom’s spending the evening in a pub for a change. I just wondered if it might be the same one as your dad’s.’

Nell chuckled. ‘Liverpool has about a million pubs. It wouldn’t half be a coincidence if your Tom and my dad ended up in the same one.’

‘I just wondered.’ Iris shrugged.

They said good night, and Maggie and Nell went home. Instead of going home herself, to pass the time Iris walked slowly in the direction of the river. It was impossible to get close to the water because of the docks that lined the road. Lights shone beyond the tall wooden gates, and there was the sound of people working. At this hour, there were few people in the Dock Road and a sensation of aloneness pressed heavily upon her. She shuddered at the idea that this sensation could stay with her for ever if Major Williams told Tom about their relationship on Monday morning.

By now, the girls would be in their own houses and there was no chance of bumping into them. She squared her shoulders and walked swiftly back the way she’d come, into Marsh Lane, where there was rather more life. The chip shop was open and people were gathered outside, as well as outside a pub she didn’t know the name of. She walked further until she came to Pearl Street. The Queen’s Arms was situated about halfway down, and once again the customers had collected outside, some sitting on the pavement, leaning against the pub walls. She couldn’t imagine Alfred Desmond occupying such a demeaning position. He would be inside, on one of the best seats in the parlour. She visualised him surrounded by admirers and hangers-on, the centre of attention.

Well, she wasn’t going inside to find out. A man emerged in his shirtsleeves, no collar, and tattered braces holding up his working trousers. His hands were stuffed in his pockets and he was whistling ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’.

‘Is Alfred Desmond in there?’ Iris asked. She had on a headscarf rather than a hat, thinking that it made her less noticeable.

‘He is indeed, missus,’ the chap replied chirpily.

‘Would you ask him if he’ll come out and speak to me, please?’

‘Who shall I say it is? He’s not likely to come out without knowing who wants him.’ He grinned. ‘You could be a member of the criminal underworld luring him to his doom.’

Iris made a face. The chap had far too much imagination. ‘Tell him it’s the doctor’s wife.’

Barely a minute had passed before Alfred Desmond emerged from the building. ‘What’s up?’ he enquired, wiping his beer-soaked moustache with the back of his hand.

‘I’d like you to do me a favour,’ Iris said. ‘If it’s possible, that is.’

He put his hand beneath her elbow and led her around the corner into Garnet Street, where it was quieter. ‘And what can I do for you, Mrs Grant?’

‘I have a problem,’ Iris stammered. She should have rehearsed what she was going to say. ‘There’s a man – I knew him in the army – and he came to the house this afternoon. He’s threatening to tell Tom, my husband, all sorts of things about me that aren’t true. There’s no way Tom will believe him, but it will upset him terribly. Nell will have told you how hard he works on behalf of his patients. I just don’t want him troubled, that’s all.’

‘And what would you like me to do about it, Mrs Grant?’ He sounded vaguely amused. He’d probably guessed what she had in mind, but wanted to hear her put it into words.

She swallowed nervously. ‘He’s staying at the Sloane Hotel in Liverpool tonight and tomorrow night, with the intention of coming to see Tom on Monday morning. His name is Matthew Williams and he was a major in the army. I just wondered if you could possibly persuade him that it’s not such a good idea and to please go away? I can pay you up to ten pounds – more than that if you’re prepared to wait a little while.’

‘I’ll do that favour for you, Mrs Grant,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I don’t want your money, but there’s a condition.’

‘What’s that?’

‘That you do something for me one of these days.’

‘What sort of something?’

‘I dunno.’ He squeezed her elbow. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’ He gave her a little shove. ‘I think you’d best be getting home now, Mrs Grant. It’s late and you’d be better off tucked up in bed than wandering round Bootle at this time of night.’

‘Thank you, Mr Desmond. Good night.’ She had only walked a little way when she turned around and called, ‘Please don’t hurt him,’ but there was no sign of Alfred Desmond; he had disappeared.

Chapter 6

Tom had got home before her. He was making tea in the kitchen when Iris arrived. She felt a surge of tearful affection that took her by surprise.

‘Did you enjoy the picture?’ he enquired.

‘It was exceptionally good.’ She could tell from the silly look on his face that he was mildly inebriated. ‘Have you had a nice day?’

‘We had an excellent day, my darling.’ He came and took her in his arms. Another time, Iris would have pushed him away and insisted he get on with making the tea, but tonight she threw her arms around his neck. ‘Oh Tom!’ she sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘Oh Tom!’

‘What’s the sigh for?’

‘Sometimes I forget how much I love you.’ She felt ashamed that she’d only remembered when their marriage was under threat – all due to her. ‘Let’s go to bed now,’ she said, ‘and forget about the tea.’

Tom grinned as he led her out of the kitchen and up the stairs. ‘I’ve already forgotten about it,’ he said.

She felt on edge when she woke up on Sunday, half expecting Major Williams to turn up at some point, not only to expose the relationship they’d had in Plymouth, but also to accuse her of trying to have him run out of town by a gang of criminals. She was pleased when Tom suggested they go to Southport in the car – as a doctor, he was allowed a petrol ration – and drop in on some old friends they had remained in touch with. Their children were away at boarding school.

On the way home, they stopped in Formby and went for a stroll on the sands. Iris took off her shoes and wiggled her toes in the sand. Her emotions were in turmoil and she couldn’t have described how she felt.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Tom remarked. ‘You know it’s Mum and Dad’s ruby wedding anniversary in September? Frank and I wondered if we should throw them a party.’

‘What a good idea. Shall we have it in our house? It’s bigger than Frank’s.’ She watched a man throw a stick into the water for a dog, who skidded after it and returned to its owner shaking itself energetically. She wondered about getting a dog for themselves; medium size, not so small it would be treated like a baby, or big enough to hog the fire when it was cold.

‘Frank and I had already decided on our house, subject to your approval, of course.’

‘I do approve. I could ask Nell to make the food – oh, and invite Maggie’s auntie as a guest.’ She rubbed her hands together, already looking forward to the occasion.

Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘Maggie’s aunt?’

‘Kathleen Curran. Surely you’ve noticed her poster in our front window? She’s standing for Labour in a by-election the first Thursday in May, which is only a few days away. I hope Frank and Constance won’t mind, you know, a Labour MP.’

‘It’s not their wedding anniversary, is it? It’s Mum and Dad’s and
they
won’t mind a bit. In fact, I think Mother’s quite likely to turn into a good Socialist one of these days.’

At noon the next day, Iris telephoned the Sloane Hotel and asked to speak to Matthew Williams.

‘You mean the major? He left yesterday,’ she was told by a male employee. ‘His friends came to collect him.’

She wanted to ask if he’d looked all right, had he gone willingly, but surely the man would have said if something out of the ordinary had happened. She just said, ‘Thank you,’ and rang off. She wasn’t sure how long it was that she sat on the stairs, her head in her arms, feeling almost sick with relief. It was over.

Kathleen Curran won the by-election hands down. The result was announced on the BBC news on Friday morning and in the national press the day after, accompanied by a flattering photograph of the new MP.

On the whole, Bootle was delighted. Despite most of the men disapproving of women having important jobs, it made their little town seem out of the ordinary in the nicest possible way by adding a female Member of Parliament to the handful already there.

After the votes had been counted in Bootle Town Hall, the exuberant members made their way to the Labour Party offices on the Dock Road. One member, though, was noticeably absent. There’d been no sign of Paddy O’Neill all day, and people reckoned he was still mourning the loss of his missus. Someone was sent to call on him and impress upon him how badly he was missed.

Ryan O’Neill and Rosie Hesketh were a sensible couple. Ryan had had enough girlfriends to realise that Rosie was one in a million and would make a perfect wife. She held opinions on pretty nearly every topic on earth and they enjoyed arguing. While her face was never likely to launch a thousand ships, it was nevertheless a nice face and he liked it very much. He would trust Rosie with his life. He loved her, though he wasn’t
in
love with her. He sensed that she felt the same, and thought their sort of love was more likely to stand the test of time than the other.

As for Rosie, in her wildest dreams she had never imagined Ryan O’Neill asking her out, let alone kissing her, let alone continuing to ask her out and, by some sort of miracle, asking her to marry him.

She thought she knew why. His mam was dead, his dad had fallen to pieces, his sister Maggie was making a pig’s ear out of running the house. And his other sister, little Bridie, who Rosie loved to bits, was dead miserable, poor lamb. Rosie’s heart went out to her. Ryan wanted Rosie not only for a wife, but as a replacement for his mam, and she was more than willing to oblige.

When he proposed, she snapped him up. At home she was just one in a family of ten, but with the O’Neills she would become a wife, a daughter-in-law, a sister-in-law, and a mother to Bridie. She couldn’t wait.