Meet Me at the Pier Head by Ruth Hamilton Page B

companion sang with her, and she descanted over him in parts. She began to suspect that she was actually enjoying herself.
    A Benny arrived with his tea chest bass. He complained loudly about having been refused access to two buses because of his instrument. The Lonnie Donegan song died while Benny waxed
Scouse-lyrical about the state of the bloody country and bloody bus conductors who thought they had God-given power over travellers. ‘It’s only a sodding box,’ was his final stab
at Liverpool’s transport personnel. ‘You’d have thought it was a bomb.’
    Theo turned down the amp. ‘Hi, Benny. This is Tia, and her sister on drums is Delia. They’ve escaped from Kent.’
    Tia giggled. Theo was joking, yet he had hit the nail so hard on its head that it was buried in a wall.
    ‘Well done,’ Benny grumbled. ‘Just don’t take anything bigger than a matchbox on a Liverpool Corporation bus.’ After delivering this piece of advice, he surveyed
the company. ‘What a motley crew,’ he pronounced. ‘We’ve got a third of the Travelling Turnarounds, half of the Skiffling Skittlers, Quintessential Quinn, two birds from
Kent and a Quarryman. Who let you in, Lennon?’
    ‘Nobody,’ answered Banjo John. ‘I just materialized.’
    When Benny had settled down next to Delia, the band made its less-than-perfect way through ‘Rock Island Line’, ‘Lost John’, ‘Diggin’ My Potatoes’ and
‘Gamblin’ Man’. By the end of the set, they were beginning to sound something like a band.
    They had a beer-and-crisp break during which Theo had the opportunity to study covertly his tenant/probationary teacher. He wondered whether her hair felt as silken as it looked, noticed that
her eyes were less violet and nearer to blue, as if they reflected the colour she had chosen to wear. She was stunning, perfect figure, beautiful face – and she could sing.
Theo, you have
dug a hole where your heart used to be, but are the sutures refusing to hold?
    Just once, she turned away from Banjo John and looked at Theo, their gazes locking across the room. He smiled at her; she raised her beer bottle at him. Corkscrew, now trained not to bite
through bottles when ladies were present, also had his eyes pinned to her. She was used to this, was becoming inured to it, though Theo was . . . different, noticeable, sad even now.
Be brave,
Tia. Go and talk to him.
    She followed her own orders. ‘This is fun,’ she told him. ‘He plays the banjo and the guitar.’ She waved her free hand at Banjo John. ‘Such a talented
man.’
    ‘And you’re a good singer.’
    She smiled. ‘We sing well together, don’t we?’
    ‘We certainly do.’
    Tia studied a map of old Liverpool on the wall behind his head.
    ‘Yes,’ she murmured, feeling that they were talking about something else altogether. Changing the subject, she asked about the various bands represented here.
    ‘Liverpool’s full of them,’ he told her. ‘We move about sometimes to practise or just for fun, but a couple of the groups are established and doing well. I play and sing
for charities, but it’s not my life.’
    ‘Teaching’s your life, then?’
    ‘For the most part, though I do have an extra string to my guitar.’
    Tia grinned. ‘Body parts? The locked room?’
    ‘Precisely.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Right, boys and girls. Let’s have another go at murdering “Rock Island Line”.’

Four
    He was Uncle Miles. Uncle Miles was always nice to me till he stopped being Uncle Miles and started being Daddy. If I forget to call him Daddy, he gets mad. I am getting
adopted by him, so he’s my pretend daddy. I never had a real one.
    We used to live somewhere called Everton, not far from here, and we moved to the Lady Streets when Mammy married him. The rent’s cheaper here. I have learned the Lady Streets cos I am
clever. Nana told me I am a clever girl, cos I could read before I was three and I am five now, nearly ready for school.
    The Lady Streets are