Had no idea that I was heading
Toward a state of emergency
I had no fear where I was treading
I only found it out when I was down upon my knees
Looking for my life
It must be fate. The bus is bound for Liverpool, and the route takes it straight through Penny Lane. The coins in my pocket cover the bus fare, one way. I haven't got any more money, but that's the last thing on my mind right now.
I get off the bus just before we reach Penny Lane, at the stop next to Calderstones Park entrance. As I walk around the perimetre of the park, I don't see a single person. The sun is already shining brightly, but it's cooler than it was in the night. It had been humid, hot and airless, but now there is a breeze shaking the leaves of the tree branches which overhang the park fence. They sway gently, creating dappled pattern shadows over the pavement. The sunshine and shadows pick my path back through Liverpool, through Allerton, back towards home.
It's stupidly early and I probably shouldn't be doing this, but I don't even hesitate when I reach the front door. I reach up, take a deep breath and hold it as if I'm about to dive into deep water, and knock.
It's not answered immediately, but I hear movement inside. I knock again, more insistently, before my courage abandons me. A few minutes later, I see a figure come down the stairs through the mottled, distorted glass of the door. There is still a long crack in one of the glass panels.
A woman with short, white hair opens the door to me. I have to pause, wondering if I've got the wrong house. Could he have moved? She wears a dressing gown and her hair is uncombed, I've clearly gotten her out of bed. She peers at me through round spectacles, bleary eyed, half asleep. 'Yes? Can I help you?'
'Charles James?'
It's the first time I've said his name in years. Minnie and I never said his name. He was only ever him. He. That man. To name him made him too human. He was a monster, and monster's don't have human names.
'Is he here?' I add.
She stares blankly at me for a moment, blinking, thoughts whirring through her head. 'You're Hannah,' she says eventually and I nod.
She opens the door for me to step inside as she goes to the foot of the stairs and shouts up, her voice wavering. 'Charlie? Charlie?! Your daughter's here!'
Inside, the house isn't very different. It's like stepping back in time. Almost ten years have passed since I stood here, but it could have been yesterday. The rose patterned wallpaper is the same, but yellowy now with age. The furniture is the same too, more or less. There has been the addition of a hat stand and a chair, but the doormat beneath my feet, the circular rug at the foot of the stairs, the long sideboard which makes the corridor between the staircase and the kitchen at the back too narrow - all the same, all strangely familiar.
There's no reply to the woman's calls but noise comes from upstairs; heavy footsteps and a drawer opening and closing. The woman and I stand facing each other, awkwardly, as we wait. She rests her hand on the stairs bannister and I try to keep myself neat and compact, hands folded in front of me, feet together, standing up straight on the doormat. I feel safe here, I don't want to step inside any further.
Neither of us seem to be able to think of anything to say. She's small and a little rotund, with a round face and glowing, rosy cheeks, although that pinkness may have been created by my appearance. She's in her pyjamas and dressing gown. She plainly lives here, but I've no idea who she is. I'm not going to ask.
Eventually, he appears. My father. He stands at the top of the stairs, pausing for a moment, perhaps deciding whether he'll see me or say I am to be sent away. My breath catches in my throat and I have to clasp my hands together tightly to stop myself from shaking, but otherwise, I am strangely calm. The last couple of times I caught a glimpse of him it sent me into a crippling panic, but I am prepared this time. I am ready. This moment is long overdue.
I raise my head to look at him as he comes down the stairs. Dazzling sunlight streams from the small square window at the top of the stairs and landing, making him a dark figure, impossible to see properly until he moves into the shadows. He stomps down the stairs in his brown leather slippers and striped pyjamas, still as proprietorial as ever, but as he reaches me at the bottom, he is smaller than I remember.
He appears shorter, thinner and older. A lot older. As he joins me in the hall I am nearly the same height as him. In fact, if I'd put on heels instead of trainers, I would be a few inches taller. I remember he always towered over us as children. I stole a few glances at him yesterday, but I couldn't see his face in such detail until now. He has wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and the skin on his neck seems to hang loosely. He's aged. I would say that he's aged more the ten years since I last saw him, but maybe it's my memory which has built him up into something more than he ever was. Age has destroyed the monster, leaving behind only an old man.
'Hannah,' he says.
And that brings it flooding back. The fear, the dread, the sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach.
Hannah, are you awake? Where's my good girl? You're my good girl, Hannah.
I have to steel myself not to cringe. His voice is the same. His horrible voice. I loathe the sound of my name when he says it.
'It's very early for visiting,' he continues.
'Yesterday, at the funeral,' I start, forcing out the words I have rehearsed all the way here. My voice sounds shaky. I feel shaky too, I could burst into tears.
I swallow, looking down and gather myself. I swear I will not appear weak in front of this man. Minnie was never weak. She was defiant and strong and fearless and I will be just like her.
I draw myself up, look my father directly in the face and, ensuring I speak calmly and unrushed, start again. 'Yesterday at the funeral, I met a man called Alfie Gallagher. Who is he?'
He rolls his eyes and huffs, as if I'm always bothering him about this. 'Is that really what you've come to ask?'
'Yes.'
He tuts. 'After all this time. Nearly a decade since you and your damn sister ran away in the night and the first words out of your mouth when you return are, "who's Alfie fucking Gallagher".'
I take a sideways glance at the woman, still standing, watching us. I wonder how much she knows. I wonder what he could have told her about Minnie and me.
I stand up straight, like I was always told to as a girl, and step forward, off the doormat and onto the tiled floor of the hall.
'There are other things I could ask you about,' I say, coolly. 'What happened to my mother, for instance.'
He considers me for a moment, before answering. 'You know what happened to your mother,' he says, bluntly. 'She died.'
'How did she die?'
'Prolonged pneumonia.'
I'm taken aback, surprised by the flippancy of the answer, but what did I expect, really? A full and frank explanation? I don't think that will happen.
This is what I was told when I was child. Although, there was something in the way he said it. I was very young when my mother passed away, but I can't recall anyone ever telling me directly what happened to her, even when I was older and asking about her. I had to gather information over time, and mostly from overhearing what my father and grandmother told other people. There were contradictions.
'She went to the country, a health spa and convalescence home, but unfortunately she deteriorated again. She died a few weeks after she arrived there.' My father's version.
'She passed away at home, the Thursday before Christmas. Luckily the children were away, visiting with relatives at the time. We tried not to let it spoil Christmas day for them.' My grandmother's version.
'That's not the truth, is it?' I say.
'Of course it's the truth.'
'I think she wanted to leave you. I think she wanted take me and Minnie with her and leave.'
'And how does that mean she didn't die of pneumonia? I thought you were supposed to be the clever one, Hannah.' He tries to stare me down, trying to make me look away, but I refuse to.
'What happened? Why didn't she go? She wanted to be with Alfie. I know she... She came back for Minnie, but why couldn't she leave again afterwards? Did you stop her?'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' he says, stubbornly.
'I think you do.'
His eyes are different too. I remember them being sharper and darker. There is a dullness there now.
He chews his cheek and then sighs. 'Very well. You may wait in the sitting room while I get dressed.' He gestures towards the front room and turns to go back upstairs.
'I'd rather not be here that long. I need to be getting home. Can't you just answer the question?'
He raises an eyebrow, surprised by my directness. I would never answer back when I was a girl. I would never have dared.
'You're needed at home,' he echoes, and I realise my mistake too late. 'Tell me, Hannah, where is that, exactly? "Home?"'
I don't reply, but I don't look away either. I won't rise to this. I won't discuss George and Bobbie with him.
'My daughters,' he says, pointing to me but turning his head to speak to the woman. 'Do you see what I mean? I have no idea where I went wrong. They were not raise to behave as they do.'
She gives him a thin smile and a short nod. My father sighs and looks back at me. 'Is everything they write about you in the papers true, Hannah?'
'No,' I answer, quickly, unable to stop myself.
'No? So you didn't have a baby with a married man? Ah, but you are married, aren't you, Hannah? Just not to the father of your bastard baby.'
'Don't talk about her like that,' I say, starting to feel hot, flustered. 'Don't talk about her at all.'
'I believe I met your... man yesterday. Is that what you refer to them as now? Marriage too passé for your generation. Meaningless. You just have babies with whoever you happen to fall into bed with. Is he the father or was it that murderer they put in prison for thirty years? The gangster you used to sing for.'
'You met him?' the woman pipes up. 'You never told me that! You--'
My father moves his glare to her, silencing her. 'Beryl, isn't there something in the kitchen needing your attention?'
'Oh, uh... Yes, of course. Would you like a cup of tea, dear?'
It takes me a moment to realise she's speaking to me. 'No,' I reply, bluntly, then add, 'No, thank you. I really can't stay.' I turn back to my father. 'If you don't want to talk to me properly, if you're just going to berate me about... things, then I will leave now.'
He tuts in disgust. 'If you want to speak to me, Hannah, you will have to wait until I'm dressed. I will not hold conversations of this nature in my pyjamas.'
He turns and goes back up the stairs, and I don't know what to do now. Do I leave? Or wait and find out what he has to say? If that is anything at all. This is all about power, of course. Who is in control. If I want something from him, I will have to jump through his hoops to get it.
'Um, well, Charlie's never at his best first thing in the morning,' the woman says to me, politely. 'If you'd like to wait in the sitting room, he'll be better when he's got washed and dressed.' I think she's trying to be nice, trying to impress me. I can't think why.
She sweeps her arm towards the front room, the sitting room, as we always had to call it. I step inside the room and she closes the door behind me. Immediately, I grab the handle and open it again, startling her on the other side.
'I'd rather keep it open, if you don't mind,' I say to her, with a weak smile.
I can't be in a room with him behind a closed door. I have to at least feel like I can leave, escape, whenever I want to.
The woman smiles, confused by me, by all of this probably, and retreats towards the kitchen.
It's different in here, the "sitting room". I don't know why it was called that, because no one was ever allowed to sit in here. It was the room kept for best, for special occasions that never arose and important guests who never came.
The room has been decorated. There is a new mint green carpet and a matching green floral patterned three piece sofa suite. This room overlooks the street at the front. From the window I can see the little square front garden and the hedge that runs around it. Beyond that is the bus stop where George and I first kissed. That makes me feel a little better.
I turn away from the window. There is a large fireplace in the middle of the room, covered now in a cream and green flock wallpaper. There is a tall, wide chimney breast over a coal fire, which was never lit when I was a child. Like the room, the fireplace was never used. This room was always silent and cold and empty.
The mantlepiece above the fireplace has several standing picture frames and there are more photos hanging on the chimney breast and surrounding walls. It reminds me of George's mother's front room, and all her family photos. I wonder if that woman is responsible for these, the one he's living with - my God, she could even be his wife.
There are many faces I don't recognise in these photos, but there are also several of me and Minnie as children. They weren't on display when we lived here. One photo is leant against the wall in a tatty brown cardboard frame, the sort a photography studio gives you when you have professional photos taken. The photo is Minnie and me when we're quite young. I pick it up for a closer look.
I am about two and a half, Minnie must be four. We wear matching white dresses with a ribbon trim, knee high socks and buckle fasten Mary Jane shoes on our feet. Although the photo is black and white, I remember the ribbon was baby blue, our knee high socks were bright white and the shoes were pillarbox red.
Minnie is smiling in the picture, with her hair in bunches. She looks sweet. A happy little girl. Minnie was a difficult photography subject, even at that age. She hated sitting still for too long, she hated the whole process. I remember we had our professional portrait taken a lot. Quite frequently, which seems unlikely considering how much Minnie would act up. But then I remember there was a photographer who could always make Minnie laugh and capture her attention for long enough for him to take the picture. I remember he would--
I turn the photo frame over. On the back is a stamp in faded blue ink.
Henry Gallagher & Sons, Photographers Ltd.
Stanley Street, Liverpool.
Portraits - Weddings - Events.
*
Minnie pulls her face and starts to cry. There aren't any tears in her eyes. It's just noise she's making, but it's still distressing. Minnie hates this. It must be something really horrible. It must be something we don't want to do. I whimper and then I start to cry as well.
Mummy sighs and steps past the man with the camera, coming to crouch down in front of us. She puts her hand on my shoulder but points a finger angrily at Minnie.
'Stop it,' she says, strictly. 'Stop it now, Minerva. You're not really crying. You're just throwing a tantrum and you're upsetting Hannah. Pack it in now or we're going home. No park. No feeding the ducks. Straight home and then straight to bed.'
Minnie pauses to consider this. She looks at me and then starts crying again, louder, wailing.
'Minnie!' Mummy shouts at her. 'This is pointless! We're not leaving here until we have nice photos to send to Grandma, so all this naughtiness will get you nowhere, miss! And if you don't stop it this instance, I shall tell Santa Claus and he won't bring naughty girls any presents!'
Minnie cries harder. I sniffle more too. I don't want that to happen to Minnie. That would be horrible. She's not really a naughty girl. She just doesn't like photos.
'Shush, Hannah,' Mummy says, trying to comfort me, but still sounding rather cross. I don't like Mummy being cross with me either.
Mummy stands up and turns around to face the old man behind the camera, which sits on a funny looking three-legged pole. 'I'm so sorry, Mr Gallagher. Should we come back another time?'
'It's quite alright, Mrs James. I'm afraid young children are often not the ideal portrait subjects. I can make you another appointment, if you like? I'll get the book and see when we could fit you in. Christmas is a busy time, so it might not be for another week or so.'
'Yes, please. I think that might be best,' Mummy says, disheartened. As the camera man goes out of the room, she turns back to us. 'Look what you've done, Minnie,' she scolds her in a hushed voice. 'Now there won't be time to have the photos developed and copied and post them to Grandma Minnie before Christmas. Your father is going to be furious!'
Another man, younger, with light brown-yellow wavy hair, steps out of the shadows at the back and comes to stand next to Mummy. Mummy jumps when she sees him, so surprised she puts a hand over her mouth.
'Hey, hey,' he says, sternly, ignoring Mummy and talking to us. 'What's all this racket? What's all this fuss? We won't have any of this crying and yelling in here!'
Shocked, both Minnie and I fall silent instantly.
The man smiles, but straightens his face and furrows his brow. 'Don't you know it is against the law for little kiddies to cry when they're inside photo studios?'
Minnie sniffs and starts to grizzle again in defiance.
'Hey! What did I just say?' the man demands, and grins and to my surprise, Minnie gives him a smile back. He steps forward and crouches down in front of us, making himself the same height as Minnie. 'So what's your name, Minnie?' he asks her.
'M... Minnie,' replies my sister, confused.
'I didn't think you'd be here,' Mummy says to the man. 'I thought you were playing with the band full time now?'
'Minnie?' the man repeats, acting like he didn't hear Mummy. 'It's not Minnie, is it? Like Minnie Mouse?'
Minnie's face immediately falls again. 'No,' she says, firmly.
'Minnie doesn't like to be called that,' Mummy says, quietly. 'Some of the other children tease her and call her Minnie Mouse.'
The man turns his head to her. 'The band disbanded,' he says, flippantly. 'They let me back in here after a bit of grovelling. They have to though, don't they, though? Family. Blood. They've got to let you come home eventually.' He turns back to Minnie. 'Don't you like that name?' he asks Minnie.
She shakes her head slowly.
'Aw, well, then I won't call you that either, Minnie Mouse,' he says, and grins when Minnie scowls. 'It's not nice when people call you names you don't like, is it, Minnie?'
Minnie shakes her head again.
'Know what my older brothers always used to call me?'
'What?' Minnie asks, warily.
'They used to call me umbrella man,' he says and rolls his eyes comically.
Minnie frowns. 'Why?'
'Because of...' He gets up and steps away from us, going over to a huge lamp which has a very bright bulb, dazzling us. He fiddles with something and pulls the funny silver and black umbrella out from behind the lamp. 'These!' he says, twirling it. He comes back towards us. 'For years, no one would let me touch one of those camera thingummybobs,' he says, pointing to the camera. 'They thought I'd break 'em. All I was allowed to do was put the brollies up and down.'
'It's bad luck to open umbrellas inside,' Minnie says.
'That's right,' the man nods. 'Very bad luck.' But he doesn't take the umbrella down.
Minnie smiles and extends her hand to touch the silver umbrella.
'Careful, it might be hot,' he says, taking it out of her reach, resting it on his shoulder like a parasol. He touches it himself and yelps. 'Ow!!'
Minnie and me both jump and Minnie giggles.
'One day,' the man says. 'The umbrella man - that's me, girls, - got to go to London. Got a really big chance to show I can do more than put brollies up and down. I was going to take pictures at a special wedding!' He leans in and puts his hand to the side of his mouth so he can whisper to us. 'But it all went wrong! Do you know what happened?'
'What?' Minnie asks, tears and crying forgotten now.
'I met your Mummy,' he says, and looks round for Mummy. 'And she lead me astray, Minnie Mouse. Tempted me away from my work, your mam did!'
Mummy laughs. Her cheeks have gone a bright pink colour. Minnie laughs too, but I don't know what at. I'm not sure Minnie does.
'I missed taking the photos at the wedding,' the man continues. 'Because I was with your mummy all day instead. So when I got back home, my dad, that's him with the camera, was really cross with me, and I am now forever relegated to putting the brollies up and down again. Always to be known as the umbrella man.'
Minnie giggles again as the man stands up, twirling the umbrella.
'Like the song, d'you know it?' he asks, doing a little dance and then sings, 'Any umbrellas, any umbrellas to fix today--'
Minnie laughs again. I laugh too. The man is funny dancing about and singing. The man dances his way back to the lamp and slides the umbrella in behind it.
'When there's a lull, or things are dull, I'll sharpen knives for all the wives, in the neighbourhood--' He walks behind the camera. 'And I'm very good,' he says, winking at Mummy. Mummy laughs.
'I darn a sock, I'll mend a clock, an apple cart, a broken heart, I mend anything, but I'd rather sing--' He presses the button on the camera and it whirrs and clicks. He carries on whistling as he takes a couple more photos.
'There's your Christmas picture for Grandma,' he says to Mummy.
'Thank you,' she replies, sounding relieved. 'You've worked a miracle there. Minnie hates having her photo taken.'
'Ah, well, it's all included in the studio fee.'
'You have a knack with children,' Mummy says.
He smiles. 'You can still go feed the ducks in the park now, Minnie Mouse,' he says to us. Minnie whoops and slips off the stool we're sharing. I try to follow her, but it seems a long way down.
'Now, girls, stop it! Don't run around in here! You'll knock something over!' Mummy shouts. She comes and catches me before I can try and chase after Minnie, picking me up, resting me on her hip.
'How about getting a cup of coffee somewhere after feeding the ducks?' the man asks, coming to Mummy's side and putting his arm around her waist.
Mummy steps back from him. 'I can't,' she says. 'I'm married now, Alfie.'
'I know,' he says, simply, smiling. 'Just as friends, I mean. Friends can have a cup of coffee and a catch up together, can't they?'
*
'Alfie Gallagher is the man responsible for your mother's death.'
My father's voice startles me from my thoughts. I turn around, the photo still in my hand. He steps into the room. He's smartly dressed now. White shirt, grey donegal trousers and polished brogue shoes. He smiles, but it's a sneer.
'I bet he didn't tell you that, didn't mention that to you yesterday? At your... soiree.'
'How is he responsible?' I ask.
'Don't you believe me?' He sits down in one of the armchairs, resting his elbows on either arm. 'Of course not. You'd rather take the word of a bastard like him than that of your own father. After Iris, he had to move out of the area. Even his own family wouldn't have anything to do with him anymore.'
'I didn't say that I didn't believe you. Just tell me what happened please. I'm not here for a discussion about it. I wouldn't be here at all, if there was anyone else I thought I could ask.'
'Sit down, Hannah.'
'No, I would rather stand.'
He sighs. 'If you insist on being so argumentative, then I shall not--'
'Okay. Then I won't waste your or my time anymore.' I stride towards the door.
'He was the photographer's boy,' he says behind me and I stop. 'It was his father's business. He was the an apprentice or assistant or what have you. That photograph you hold in your hands, and that wall there, is testament to your mother's treachery.'
I look down at the black and white picture, still in my hands. I turn back to the room, and him, but I don't speak.
'Beryl put the pictures up,' he explains. 'After that newspaper article, she thought it might help to assuage my loss, my... heartache, as she calls it, over my errant, immoral daughters.'
I sigh silently.
'Like mother, like daughters.' He studies me with his dark eyes. 'You look a lot like her now, Hannah. Iris.'
'So I've been told,' I reply, quietly.
'You've grown up in her image exactly. In nature too, if the tabloids are to be believed.'
I shrug. 'Is that what you want to ask me about? Why don't you just come out and say it? Yes, it's true what you've read. I sang in a nightclub which was owned by the Kray twins. I married an American called Ricky West, but I started an affair with another man, George Harrison. He's in the Beatles, as I'm sure you know. I got pregnant by him and he left his wife. I'm getting a divorce from Ricky too.'
'I am disappointed in you, Hannah. Disappointment is not the word.'
'So tell me then, am I like my mother?'
'Yes. It seems you are.' He puts his hands together and steeples his fingers. 'The newspaper said you'd been seeing that man, that Beatle, behind your husbands back for two years. Is that true?'
'No,' I reply, curtly. 'It was longer. I met George here, in Liverpool, when we were teenagers,' I continue. 'I would sneak out of this house to go and see him whenever I could. I bet you didn't know that? When me and Minnie left home, ran away, I went to join him in Germany.'
He shakes his head. 'I would have expected this behaviour of Minerva, but you...' He tuts again. 'I don't know how long your mother's... fling went on. For the same length of time, perhaps. I had some leave owed from the army. I'd told Iris I was coming home, but she must have forgotten the date or else she wanted me to find them here, together. You must have been nearly four at the time. You were playing in the garden at the front when I got home. All alone. Unsupervised. You could have just wandered out into the road. Your mother wouldn't have known. She was too busy entertaining that man in our marital bed.'
That was the day I remember, I think. I remember him coming home, still in his army tunic. There was shouting and fighting. Him and Alfie fought each other. It frightened me. I was screaming and crying.
'I told her to get out, but she wanted to take you with her. How could I let you leave with a woman like that? She was never a good mother. Right from the outset.'
That was it, the reason it came to blows. He wouldn't allow my mother and Alfie to take me with them.
'They did take me,' I say quietly.
'She wasn't gone long. A matter of hours before she came crawling back here,' he continues, ignoring me.
They took me, but Minnie wasn't here. She was at school. My mother came back for her, but I don't understand why she didn't leave again.
'That was the mistake I made,' my father says. 'I let her come back. I shouldn't have. It was because of you two girls. The mistaken belief that you would need your mother. You didn't need a mother like her. It's a blessing she died when she did. I shudder to think what job she would have made of raising you.'
'What made her such a bad mother?' I ask, anger bubbling up inside me. 'Because she didn't want you? Because she fell in love with someone else?'
'Love,' my father scoffs. 'Iris didn't know the meaning of the word. Do you think she loved you and Minerva? Did she love you when she was screwing men here, in our family home? Did she love you when she went singing in cat houses and working clubs for a handful of coins? Did she love you when she tucked you up in bed every night and then went out to drink and fuck and God knows what else?'
'She... She didn't do that. She wouldn't leave us at home on our own.'
'Why do you think your grandmother had to move in here to take care of you? Because your mother refused to.'
'No, that's not true,' I say, firmly. 'Grandma Minnie only came here when Mum was ill. She was in bed with... with pneumonia...'
My father shakes his head. 'She was in bed, but she wasn't ill. Not physically. She was sick in the head. You're right, she didn't die of pneumonia. That was just what we chose to tell people. Those that didn't hear the gossip and rumors first.'
'No. That's not...' My voice trails away as a memory presents itself. My mother wearing a long, black dress. A string of pearls around her neck taps against my nose as she bends to kiss me on my forehead. The smell of her lavender perfume is overpowering. Goodnight, girls. Now remember, stay in bed, don't get out. I won't be very long...
My father sighs and stands up. 'Minerva was a difficult baby,' he says, and turns towards the windows, holding his hands behind his back. 'She wouldn't sleep, refused to feed properly, cried and cried until you were ready to strangle her... Iris couldn't cope. I suppose we should have seen it coming. When Minerva was a couple of months old, she left the baby on a bus. She was found, of course, not very long after. Iris swore it was a mistake, but I've always wondered... That's when she first took to her bed. Stayed in bed all day, refusing to get up. Doctors came but they couldn't find anything wrong with her. After a few weeks or so, she seemed to improve. Get better. She started getting up again and looking after the baby.' He pauses to scratch his chin, as if deep in thought. 'We really shouldn't have had another baby so soon after the first, but Iris fell pregnant when Minerva was six months old. We talked about getting rid of it, but it wasn't so easy back then. Abortions were illegal. Not like today. Your generation will lead this country to degradation and ruin.'
He pauses again. I stare at him, but he continues to gaze stoically out of the windows. He doesn't seem to have any recognition that the 'it' he's saying they should have gotten rid of is standing in front of him now.
'When you were born, Iris steadily got worse. She wasn't cut out for motherhood. That much was plain. She had a quite successful career before she married. Successful for what she was. A nightclub singer, a would-be actress. Strange how you have followed in her footsteps.'
I have followed in her footsteps. The realisation makes my stomach churn.
'She took to her bed when you were a baby, but again, she seemed to snap out of it. Then following the fling with Gallagher, it began again. Worse now. Staying in bed all day. Going out at night, dressing like a tart and acting like a whore. Eventually it was discovered what she was up to and my mother had to come and stay here with you.'
He turns to look at me now. Cold, dark eyes. Cruel and detached. I remember his eyes, staring down at me when he would... I suddenly have the urge to vomit and I have to put my hand over my mouth to stop myself.
My father interprets the gesture as shock. He snorts and shrugs. 'Well, Hannah, you asked,' he adds, callously. 'That was what your mother was like. Your loving mother.'
'How... How did she die?' I ask, coughing the words past the acid and bile filling my throat. 'Did she... kill herself?'
He stares at me, unblinking and silent, but I don't need his confirmation.
'How?' I whisper.
'Pills. Just like Minerva.'
I choke back a sob. Hot tears fill my eyes, but I blink them away. The time for crying will have to be later. I won't cry in front of him.
'And... Alfie?' I force myself to ask. 'How is he responsible? Just because he was the man she wanted to be with?'
My father laughs hollowly. 'Well, yes, that's correct. He is responsible in that way as well. What sort of man pursues a married woman? A married woman with two children, and takes her away from her family like that?' He shakes his head and paces the length of the room. 'I don't know the exact circumstances. She could be very tiresome, Iris. She wasn't all that bright and never had much to say for herself. Once he'd got what he wanted from her, I imagine Gallagher got bored of her. He broke it off with her anyway, and Iris started with her staying in bed routine again. On the night she killed herself, she got up, went to find him, told him she'd swallowed some pills and had more to take as well. He brought her back here, to your grandmother. Didn't tell her what she'd done, otherwise she could have called an ambulance. Your grandmother thought she'd just had too much to drink. She put her to bed and then found her dead the next morning.'
'Why didn't he say she'd taken something?' I whisper.
My father shrugs. 'He didn't believe her, he said, at the inquest. More likely, he just didn't care enough to find out whether she was telling the truth or not.'
He strides back to me, so we're face to face. There is the ghost of a sick smile on his lips. I think he is enjoying telling me this finally.
'There was talk about him being arrested for manslaughter at one point. What he did to make her take those pills in the first place I don't know, but in my mind, he will always be responsible for Iris's death. He might as well have forced every single sleeping pill down her throat himself.'
I lower myself onto a nearby chair. I don't want to sit down in here, but my legs feel weak. This can't be the full story. I can't believe the man at Minnie's funeral, with tears in his eyes and a crack in his voice, didn't care enough about my mother to get her help.
Neither of us speak for a couple of minutes. My father turns his back to me, returning to look out of the windows, while I try to gather myself. When I can find my voice again, I ask the last question I have.
'Is Alfie Minnie's father?'
My father turns to me. He frowns. 'No,' he says. 'How would that be possible?'
'I don't know. Did Mum know him before?'
'Iris and I met in London. She didn't start with Gallagher until after she'd moved back to Liverpool to have the baby. After we'd wed.'
'Yes, but could she have--'
The roar of a car engine on the quiet street outside interrupts me. It's followed by a screech of brakes, and then George's white car lurches into view, going too fast, mounting the pavement and unable to stop before the front of the bonnet crashes into our garden hedge.
It's enough to jolt me out of the atmosphere of the room, out of what we're discussing. What on earth is he doing? I think, standing up, so I can get a better view. He'd better not have Bobbie with him if he's driving like that. Then, I realise, George would never bring Bobbie here. I shouldn't be here either.
George reverses the car off the pavement. We hear a loud crack, perfectly audible from where we're standing, as the front wheel of the car goes over the old garden gate, left lying against and then inside, the hedgerow for years, waiting to be put back on it's hinges.
George parks the car on the road and gets out, slamming the door. He half walks, half jogs down the path and raps on the front door, out of our view. We wait in silence. My father scowls his disapproval as the woman who lives here, Beryl, comes out of the kitchen, passes the sitting room - fully dressed now - and goes to answer the front door.
'Um, uh, hello. Is, uh...' I hear George stumble over his words as she opens the door to him, as wrong-footed by her appearance as I was. 'Hannah,' he spits out eventually. 'I'm looking for Hannah... James. Hannah James. Does her father live here?'
'Oh my goodness, you're him!' Beryl exclaims, and although I can't see him and he doesn't say anything, I can feel George's glower of displeasure. 'Do you know, Charlie didn't tell me his daughter was the girlfriend of a Beatle for ages, and then I didn't quite believe him, but here you are! On my doorstep!'
'George, I'm in here,' I call, going to the sitting room door.
George stares at me, so surprised that he doesn't move for a few moments when Beryl opens the door wider for him. He looks dishevelled, his clothes have been thrown on and his hair hasn't been combed.
'What are you doing here?' I ask.
'What are you doing here?' he echoes, with disbelief and crosses the hall to me. He takes my hand in his, ignoring Beryl's offers of tea and coffee. 'What's the matter? Why are you here?' he says to me, very quietly, studying me intently. 'Are you okay?'
I nod, with a strange sensation of relief that he's here. 'I had to... speak to my father about something. But I'm finished now. We can leave.'
George frowns, confused. Behind me, my father clears his throat, reminding me of his presence and as a reflex, I pull my hand from George's, reprimanded, chastised, as I turn around.
'You've met George already,' I say, coolly. 'My... man. The father of my baby.' Very deliberately and very openly, I take George's hand again, lacing my fingers through his. George, in turn, grips my hand tightly. 'This is my father,' I say to George, but I'm unable to meet his eyes. 'Lieutenant Colonel Charles James.'
Unexpectedly, my father puts his hand out to George, as if to shake. George doesn't move. He looks at him and then me, still trying to deduce what's happening.
'We can go,' I say to George. 'We don't have to stay here.' I give him a small shove towards the door and we step out into the hall.
'Hannah, wait.'
I stop and turn to my father as he comes to the doorway of the sitting room. I have had as much as I can get from him. I didn't expect the complete story from him, or even the complete truth. I expected his version of events, at best, and I am never sure whether it's what he honestly believes or whether the lies are so deep seated now that it's second nature to him.
'Minerva...' he starts, eyeing George.
George moves closer to me, protectively.
'Iris - or Diana, as I knew her then. That was her stage name; Diana St. Clair. She didn't even tell me her real name was any different until we were already engaged.'
He shakes his head as if this deception is completely unbelievable, but I'm not the least surprised she didn't tell him her real name at first.
'We weren't exactly... close. I would only ever see Iris when I came back to London. I was in France and then Africa for a lot of the war. In the interest of full disclosure, if you must, I was engaged to another woman before Iris contacted me to say she'd fallen pregnant. I hadn't seen Iris in weeks. It has crossed my mind, more than once, that Minerva - Minnie - may have been... a cuckoo. She had blue eyes. No one in my family has blue eyes. Nor on Iris's side, as far as I know. Like you, Hannah. You have your mother's eyes. Where Minnie got her blue eyes from, is anyone's guess. Your mother... liked to enjoy herself, shall we say?'
'You can't do it, can you?'
'What?'
'You can't say anything without disparaging my mother one way or another. I don't think she left us, like you said. I don't believe that she didn't love us. I think she gave up her chance to be with Alfie for us, for Minnie and me, because you wouldn't have let her leave and take us with her.'
He tuts. 'Really, Hannah? You think Iris was the injured party in all of this? You have this rose-tinted view of her, you always have done. I married Iris, against my own mother's wishes, your grandmother, because she was alone and pregnant and said the baby was mine. And how did she repay me? By sleeping with other men, whenever I was away from home. But I still raised that girl as my own. I treated her as I would any child of mine. She was treated exactly the same as you were. And how did she repay that? She--'
'You treated her the same as me in some ways, didn't you?' I interrupt, angrily. 'But not in others. You'd favoured me over her. You told Minnie she was stupid and she'd never amount to anything. You told her she was evil and that it was her fault our mother died.' I laugh, and it sounds odd, strangled and almost hysterical.
George puts his other hand on my arm. 'Hannah, let's go,' he says, quietly.
'It all makes sense now,' I say, ignoring George, staring at my father. 'I didn't understand why you said those things to her. When you said Mum didn't want to look after Minnie, because Minnie was too bad, too naughty, too evil for anyone to love. Why you'd try and pit Minnie and me against each other. If you miss your mother, blame your sister. She was too difficult to look after, she drove her to her death. You'd buy me things, but never Minnie. Praise me and punish her. Punish her, even if it was me who'd done something wrong. But I see now. You must have known.'
'Han, come with me, love,' George tries again, trying to tug me away. I pull back, staying where I am.
'But then, yes, Dad, you did "treat her" in the same as me sometimes, didn't you? You did the same vile and disgusting things to her as you did to me.'
He shifts his weight and his eyes drift to George.
'George knows,' I say. 'He knows everything. I told him what you did to us. All of it. The things you forced us to do.'
My father remains silent. What is there to say to that? Even mentioning it turns my stomach. I feel sick. George tugs my arm again and we step towards the door.
As we move, my father catches hold of my wrist, pulling me back. 'Hannah, don't go.'
I stare at him. Of all the things he's said to me today, this is perhaps the least expected. 'What?'
'I don't know what you're talking about,' he says, so earnestly, I could almost believe him. 'What am I supposed to have done to you and your sister? I never hit you or anything like that. I never hurt either one of you.'
I stare at him in disbelief. Can he really be trying to deny it? Then my father moves his gaze carefully to Beryl, and I realise this is for her benefit.
'I know Minerva must have poured poison in your ear,' he carries on. 'And I'm not claiming I was always the best father to the both of you, but... But I am your father. We can start again. You're my daughter and I love you. You always used to tell me you loved me. That love must still be within you. Minerva was different, but you and me-- You were special, Hannah. You were always my good girl--'
'No...'
Involuntarily, his words start to make me shake. My breathing hitches and I feel dizzy, faint. All at once, I am thirteen again, lying in the darkness, trying to pretend I'm asleep but hearing him in the room with me. His hand is under the covers, his fingers touching, caressing my skin as he whispers to me... You're the good one, Hannah. You're my good girl. Tell me that you love me...
'Let go of her,' George says, loudly, pulling me back into the hallway, into here.Today. It's not 1956 anymore. It's 1969, and I don't have to be that frightened little girl anymore.
'Please, Hannah,' my father says, his fingers are still wrapped around my wrist. I look down at it. In my hand, I still have the cardboard photo frame. I've been holding onto it for dear life this whole time.
'You have a daughter of your own now. My granddaughter. You can't really--'
'Let go of her arm,' George repeats.
'--want it to be like this between us. Hannah, for Gods sakes.--
'Let--'
'This is nothing to do with you!' he snaps at George, yanking my arm, trying to get me away from him. The force of it makes the photo frame slip out of my fingers and fall face down on the floor. 'Don't think I approve of what you've done with my daughter. Get out of this house before I call the police!'
'Don't...' I whisper.
'Let go of her, now,' George says, anger flaring and his voice rising. 'Can't you see what you're doing to her? This is how she is, because of what you did. This is how she has to live! Let go of her arm, or I will make you let go of her!'
He takes a step towards him but my father stands his ground.
'You should be fucking ashamed,' George continues, bearing down on him. 'What sort of father does that to his own daughters? You're an old man, but I will fucking hit you if you don't take your hand off her, RIGHT NOW!'
'Who do you think you are, coming into my house and making disgusting allegations?' my father snarls back at him. 'I know your sort. Getting girls pregnant when you're married yourself. You'll be moving onto some other tart soon, no doubt. Leaving my daughter to raise your bastard on her own!'
'Don't talk to George like that,' I say, finding my voice and somehow finding it calm and even. 'And don't call Bobbie that word either. You will never know her. You will never meet her. And after today, we will never see each other ever again either.'
He stares at me, shocked. I pull my arm out of his grip easily and let go of George's hand so I can stoop and pick up the photograph. I glance at it, at Minnie smiling and laughing at Alfie as he took our picture.
'Start again? No,' I say, coldly. 'No, it would be impossible. I could never forgive you for what you did to us as girls, but even without that, I could never forgive what you did to Minnie. You hold Alfie Gallagher responsible for Mum's death, but you are responsible for Minnie's.'
'I--' he begins, but I won't let him speak. I hold the photo up to him.
'Remember this... Dad... Minnie is dead because of what you did. I want you to remember that always. Remember that to the day when you're lying on your own deathbed, because when that day comes, I won't be there to remind you. And that is also why I'm not there. That is why I will never see or speak to you again, because of what you did - to the both of us, but moreso, because of what you did to Minnie.'
I turn back to George. 'We can go now,' I say to him, my resolve and courage wavering as my voice does.
George takes my other hand and we step past Beryl, still a witness to all this. She looks pale and sick, her face white.
'Hannah--' My father says, behind me.
'The photos on the wall,' I say to Beryl. 'Are they yours? Are they your family?'
She stares at me, without reply.
'If you have any teenage girls in your family, you need to keep him away from them. Keep him away from all girls. Don't bother hanging pictures of my sister and me over the fire to help his broken heart. He never had a heart to break in the first place. Ask him why we ran away from him. Ask him why we had to.'
In one hand, I hold the black and white photograph of Minnie and me when we were children, a cardboard frame, stamped with the name of the photo studio on the back. In my other hand, I hold George tightly as we walk out of the house and into the sunshine outside. I know this will be the last time I'm ever here.
*
We drive away from Liverpool. The roads are empty this early, and it isn't long before we're on the main road which will take us back to Appleton. We turn onto a narrow country lane, lined either side with tall hedges and punctuated by the occasional oak tree. George suddenly veers the car off the road, into a lay-by, breaking hard to bring the car to a juddering standstill. He flicks the car's hazard lights on and switches the engine off as he leans on the steering wheel, resting his forehead on his folded arms, hiding his face.
'George?' I ask, confused.
He ignores me for a beat and then sits back in his seat, grips the steering wheel in both hands and turns his head to look at me.
'Don't you ever do that again,' he says and although his voice is calm, the amount of anger in it takes me aback.
'What?' I ask, astonished.
He takes one hand from the steering wheel and rubs his jaw, blinking hard. 'Just what the fuck did you think you were doing? I swear, Hannah--'
'I don't--'
'--sometimes you are such a selfish cow! Do you ever pause to think about anyone but yourself?!'
'Why are you so angry with me?' I cry. 'What have I done?'
George stares at me in disbelief. 'I went everywhere looking for you this morning,' he says, struggling to keep his voice level. 'Everywhere I could think of. Down to the docks, all over the fucking park--'
'What park?'
'Calderstones Park, where do you think?! The boating lake by the tree, where you told me about what your dad used to do to you. I was about to go back to Appleton and call the police! If I hadn't just thought there might be the slightest, albeit unlikely, chance you would have gone to your father's house, then--'
I frown. 'The police? Why would you--'
'What the hell did you say to my mother?!' he shouts, with a level of anger that is so uncommon coming from George that it brings tears to my eyes.
'I, uh... Well, I just--'
'She woke me up, nearly hysterical, saying you had run away and she was afraid you were going to do something stupid!'
I shake my head. 'Like what? Did you think I was going to drown myself in the lake or something?' I try to laugh but George glares at me, furious. 'George, I wasn't going to do anything like--'
'Is it really so fucking unbelievable?' he spits at me. 'She said you were talking about how you don't want Bobbie, saying you can't look after her and how I probably wish I'd never met you, which believe me, Han, is something close to the truth right at this minute!'
I fold my arms, defensively. 'Well, that's just daft. I wasn't going to kill myself. If your mother misunderstood me, that's one thing, but I don't know why you'd think it.'
'Me?!' he says, full of incredulity. 'Hannah, I have no idea what goes on inside your head these days! Last night you were talking nonsense about bloody... "umbrella men" or whatever and behaving like... Like you were...' He stops abruptly.
'What?' I ask.
'When my mam said you'd gone and she was frightened about what you were going to do...' He turns his head away from me, looking out of the window at the side of him. He fold his hands in his lap. I can't see his face properly, but he sets his jaw. 'I thought about what we did last night and I thought... you were saying goodbye to me,' he finishes, quietly.
Neither of us speak. George exhales.
'I'm... I'm sorry, George,' I say.
He doesn't respond. He remains still, staring out of the window.
'I'm sorry for making you worry, but I wasn't... I didn't mean what I said to your mum in that way. I never said I was going to do anything like that. And I didn't say that I didn't want Bobbie. I said that she doesn't want me and--'
'Do you realise what you sound like when you say crap like that?' he asks, snapping his head round to me, his anger flaring again. 'Do you know how fucking self-centred and mean you sound? She's a baby, Hannah! She doesn't like or dislike anyone. Of course she fucking wants you! She needs you, you're her mother. You're all she knows.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Don't keep saying you're sorry when you're blatantly not! If you were, you wouldn't keep doing shit like this. You can't keep running away every time something happens.'
'I didn't run away. I mean, I did-- but I was coming back again. Afterwards.'
He turns and studies me in a way I don't like.
'Do you love Bobbie?'
'What?'
'It's a simple question. Do you love her?'
'Yes,' I say, my voice wavering. 'Of course I do, but--'
'There shouldn't be any "but," Hannah. You don't act like you love her. You don't play with her, you don't speak to her. You won't pick her up or touch her, unless you absolutely have to.'
'That's not true!' I cry, my voice cracking. George glares at me stonily. 'It's not! I talk to Bobbie all the time. I can't talk to her like you and everyone else does. I just don't know how to, but that doesn't mean I don't talk to her. I haven't been around her lately, but I've had to deal with Minnie and... and...' I sniff and cover my nose and mouth. 'Like mother, like daughter,' I say, behind my hand.
'What does that mean?' George snaps.
'I'm going back to London,' I tell him, angrily. 'And I am never coming back to Liverpool, ever again. I'm going to get Bobbie and we're going back to London today.'
'Alright then,' George says, flatly, but a lot calmer. 'We'll all go.'
I shake my head. 'You stay here if you want to--'
'We will all go, together,' George repeats, firmly. 'You're not going anywhere on your own, and I am definitely not letting you take Bobbie away somewhere alone.'
I stare at him. 'What do you think I'm going to do?'
'Quite honestly, Han, I don't know what you're going to do from one moment to the next. Yesterday you were nearly passing out with fear at seeing that man, today you're going round for a cup of tea and a chat?!'
'Hardly,' I say, icily.
'What were you doing there? Why did you go there? My mam said you ran out of the house like you'd gone crazy. You couldn't wait and tell me where you were going? I would have come with you. What if something had happened to you?'
'I didn't want you to come with me,' I say, calmly, although there is a hard lump in my throat. 'I wouldn't want you - or Bobbie - anywhere near him. I had to do it on my own.'
George huffs, not satisfied with my answer.
'Your mother said I should think about Bobbie,' I continue. 'That I have to do what's best for her, and... It might not seem it to you, but this is that. I know I have to... let go of the past. Minnie said the same to me before she died. I realised I can't do that, while there's so many unanswered questions. More, now Minnie's gone. I had to see him to ask him the truth, face to face. He's the only one who could answer my questions. Everyone else is dead. I left the house like that because if I'd stopped to think about it, then I might not have gone at all. I'm sorry you were worried. I'm sorry I've made you so angry - again. I don't expect you to understand.'
George doesn't say anything for a moment. He studies me, his eyes soft but not giving me any clue to what he's thinking. 'And did he answer your questions?' he asks, eventually.
'I don't know,' I say, honestly. 'Partly.'
George sighs and looks away. Neither of us speak, then George reaches for the keys in the ignition.
'There's no justice, George,' I say before he turns the key. He pauses. 'He won't ever pay for what he did to us, but I wanted him to know... I wanted to look him in the face and tell him that Minnie is dead because of him. Because of what he did. Her death is on his conscience and he has to live with that. He was quick to blame Alfie, that man at Minnie's funeral, for my mother's death. I don't know if that's true or not, but he is to blame for Minnie.' I give a hapless shrug. 'I don't know. Maybe he doesn't care. Perhaps he doesn't feel guilt or regret, like other people do, like I do, but I had to say it to him, George. I had to tell him.'
We're silent again for a moment.
'Hannah...' George says, softly.
'She took too many pills,' I cut him off. 'That's all. Just a couple too many. They were barbiturates. She started taking them after Howard. Do you remember him?'
George shakes his head.
'The guy who followed her to Miami? John was there and he punched him, remember? Howard raped her, you know. In New York. He attacked her after the recording of one of the shows, and then he followed her to Miami.'
George shifts uncomfortably. He clearly didn't know.
'After Miami, that's when she started being unable to go on stage and sing live. He'd been in the audience at the Ricky West show and she couldn't shift the thought of him watching her like that. She went to the doctor and he gave her pills for her nerves. But what happened with Howard just pushed her over the edge. She's already been clinging on by her fingernails. The real reason she had to take those pills, the root of all that evilness, was him. It was always him. I had to tell him that. I had to say it...' I run out of words and out of the strength to say them.
George unfastens his seatbelt and reaches for me. I let him put his arm around me and he pulls my head into his chest, like he expects me to cry, but I haven't got any tears left. I just feel empty.
'They're all gone, George,' I murmur. 'Except for you and Bobbie, everyone I have ever loved is dead. My mother. Minnie, and... and Bobby. Bobby Teale.' I haven't said that out loud before. I haven't even admitted it to myself, that Bobby might be - probably is - dead.
'Bobby?' George asks, confused. 'Bobby is dead?'
'I think so. And Maurice is too. My old manager. He died years ago and Ricky never told me.'
'You think Bobby's dead or you know he is?' George asks, holding me away from him, so he can see my face.
'He was supposed to have been released from prison after the Krays trial ended and I think he was, but... I went to see his brother, David, after the baby was born, and he hadn't heard from him, didn't know where he was. No one's heard from him. No one's seen him.'
'It doesn't necessarily mean that anything has happened...'
'I think it has, though. I can just... feel it. He's not here anymore.'
George thinks for a moment. 'Yesterday, at the funeral, there were some flowers - white lilies, without a card or a name on them. I thought they might have been from Bobby.'
I stare at him. I don't. I don't think they were from Bobby.
'You know, like he wanted to let you know he was there, but he can't contact you. I don't know if you noticed, but there were some flowers the same at the hospital when Bobbie was born. No card then either. They have to be from someone who knows you.' He gives me a small smile.
I nod. 'Yes. Maybe,' I reply weakly.
'Love,' George says, moving closer to me. 'It's been a bad few days. Worse than bad. Fucking horrible. But you can't keep on doing things like this, and just... You have to be careful what you say to my mother. Don't upset her. She's not been well.'
For just a split second, a glimpse of something crosses George's face. Something he's not shown me before, a look of fear. It's gone before I'm sure I've actually seen it.
George has been so strong for me. Since Minnie died, since Bobbie was born, since we got together again, he's done everything for me, and it's been completely one sided. I think about when George left the Beatles, right at the start of all this, and we went to meet them all to discuss if he'd rejoin the band. He wanted me to go with him then. He'd needed me to go with him. I realise I don't know what's happened since then. They're recording a new album now, surprisingly soon after the Get Back sessions, considering they were so unhappy. But I don't know why. I don't know how it's going. I haven't asked him.
I've been so wrapped up in my own problems, I haven't even found out what's wrong with his mother.
'Your mum's alright, though, isn't she?' I ask, carefully.
George nods. 'She just gets bad headaches sometimes,' he says, but his voice betrays his worry. There's more to it. 'She's not really... herself at the moment, so don't upset her, okay?'
'I won't. I'm sorry, George,' I say, sincerely.
He leans to kiss my forehead, then starts the car again.
*
We drive the remainder of the journey to George's parent's home in silence. When we get there, George parks the car carelessly on the drive at the front and gets out without waiting for me. I can hear Bobbie crying from outside. George leaves the door open for me and I follow him inside, a few steps behind. I close the front door quietly behind me, feeling rather foolish and embarrassed now I have to face everyone again.
'Did you find her?' I hear Louise ask George as he goes into the front room.
'Yes,' George replies, dully, as I come to the doorway of the room.
'Oh, Hannah! Are you alright, love?' Louise asks, when she sees me.
I force a weak smile and nod. Louise sits on the sofa with Bobbie in her arms, trying to rock and comfort her. Bobbie is bright red from all the crying she's been doing. George's father sits next to her. They're both fully dressed now. Guilt and remorse twist my stomach when I see the expressions on both their faces.
'I'm so sorry for causing so much trouble and making you all worry,' I say. No one replies. I'm not sure they hear me over Bobbie's screams. 'I didn't intend to...'
'I can't get her to settle,' Louise says to George, sounding fractious. 'She's not hungry, she's not wet, but she won't stop crying.'
George takes the baby from her, shushing her, and rests her on his shoulder. He jigs her up and down and rocks her, whispering to her like he normally does, but it's to no avail today. Bobbie still cries.
'Give her to me,' I say, my voice very small and unsure.
George glances at me but ignores me, putting his back to me.
'Give her to me,' I repeat, louder.
Turning around, he sighs and passes Bobbie to me.
As I take her from him, I get an odd sensation of relief, like finding out your worst fear is unfounded. You haven't left the gas on, you haven't left the door unlocked, the person you love is safe and well and everything is just as it should be.
I hug Bobbie to me and carefully lower myself into a nearby armchair. As I cradle her, her cries die down and then stop. I smile at her, she returns it and I feel a swell of emotion. I'm suddenly overwhelmed by how much I've missed her, how much I love her. I feel an irrational fear that someone or something might try and hurt her and I silently resolve that I won't let anything happen to her. I'd die to protect her if I had to. I find I'm blinking back tears as she looks up at me with her soft brown eyes.
When I look up, everyone's watching us. George smiles at me. Bobbie babbles, happy now.
'She stopped crying,' I say, as if I can hardly believe it.
George nods. 'She wanted you,' he says, softly.
'Ma,' says Bobbie. 'Ma-ma.' I look down at her again.
'See, that's you,' George says, grinning. 'She knows you're her mam. She knows who you are.'
'Ma-ma-ma,' Bobbie repeats.
I don't know if she's really trying to say a word or if she's just gurgling, but it doesn't matter. I can't reply to George because of the enormous lump in my throat. Tears run down my cheeks, but I don't care. I don't wipe them away because I'm holding Bobbie too tightly.