Free The Seven Streets of Liverpool by Maureen Lee Page A

vitally important people like doctors. It was about time they acquired more sand and she reckoned that was Nick’s job, not hers. She didn’t know anyone with a car. But it was Sunday, and yet again he wasn’t coming home.
    Eileen sniffed and blinked in an attempt to prevent herself from bursting into tears. Something was wrong, it must be. It wasn’t just that nowadays he only came home to Melling once a month when it used to be once a week, but once here, it was obvious he’d come to see his son and not his wife.
    Could he have met someone else? Did he have another woman down in London? It was impossible to believe. Just thinking about it made her catch her breath, almost choke with disbelief. Not Nick, not the man to whom she had given herself for ever, in sickness and in health, in every single conceivable way. She had imagined them together in the cottage; extending it when they had more children, growing old here.
    She watched through the window as Nicky left the sandpit and made his steady way down the garden, calling, ‘Gwandad!’ He was having trouble with his r’s.
    Her father pushed the spade into the earth so that it stood on its own and held out his arms as the little boy approached.
    ‘You’re a great little lad, Nicky Stephens,’ she heard him say. He picked up his grandson, threw him over his shoulder and came marching up the garden towards her, Nicky squealing with delight.
    They arrived at the open kitchen door. ‘Where’s that bloody husband of yours?’ demanded Jack, making Eileen want to cry again, though her father would cringe with embarrassment if she did.
    ‘He has loads of work to do,’ she muttered. ‘He’s overwhelmed with it.’
    ‘You said that last time I asked – or it might have been the time before.’ He nodded towards the hall. ‘If I call him on that thing in there, will he answer?’ He meant the telephone, which he only used occasionally because it made him nervous.
    ‘He’s not allowed to take calls in the office,’ Eileen said.
    ‘Then how the hell do you speak to each other?’
    ‘It’s not really allowed, but he can call me when the woman on the switchboard goes for her dinner and some other woman takes over who doesn’t mind. There isn’t a phone in his digs.’
    ‘Has he called over the last few days?’ Jack put Nicky on the floor and the boy immediately tried to climb back up his legs.
    Eileen hung her head as if she’d done something wrong at school. ‘No,’ she whispered.
    ‘Bastard,’ spat her dad. ‘I never thought I’d use that word about Nick Stephens.’
    Eileen lost her temper. ‘And you shouldn’t now,’ she snapped. ‘Something might be wrong and he doesn’t want to worry me. And what makes you think he isn’t genuinely overwhelmed with work?’
    Her father’s cheeks were red with anger. ‘Then he’s been overwhelmed a bloody long time. What’s wrong with him? Have you asked him straight? If you haven’t, then next time he deigns to show himself, I suggest you do. If you won’t, I’ll do it meself.’
    ‘Oh go away, Dad. Leave me alone. Anyroad, I’ve got to get ready for Mass.’ She picked up Nicky and almost ran out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.
    Ten minutes later, when she and her son were ready, she returned to the kitchen intending to apologise, but her father wasn’t there, nor was there any sign of him in the garden, or of his bike.

    Things couldn’t go on like this. When Nick had first started not coming home as much as he’d used to, he’d always phoned to let her know. But now he no longer bothered. Twice he had turned up unexpectedly on a Sunday afternoon, as if he’d found himself with time to spare and thought he might as well go home and see his wife and child, even if it only left him with a couple of hours in Melling before having to return to London.
    Mass over and back home again, Eileen sat down and wrote him a letter. It was the only way she could be sure of getting in touch.