Free That Liverpool Girl by Ruth Hamilton Page B

Nellie Kennedy, ask her to bring a large, loud family to live in the empty cottage. He wished he might speak directly to her daughter, but the reason for that was a mile away from Elsie and her lashing tongue. He paused for a fraction of a second before passing Elsie’s house. He would deal with her in a minute. Yes, he definitely would.
    Keith entered his own house first and laid a fire to be lit later if needed. Evening came earlier now, and there was sometimes a chill in the air. Why did he keep seeing her face? Not since the death of his darling Annie Metcalfe of Bromley Cross had he looked with real desire at any woman. Annie’s death, some twenty years earlier, had left a hole in him. She had been stricken with a kind of blood poisoning after suffering a burst appendix, and she had been his soulmate. Her photograph, in faded sepia, still took centre stage on the mantelpiece. They had never married . . .
    Her name was Eileen, and she had three sons and one incredibly talented daughter. When alone with Eileen for a few precious seconds during the visit, he had fallen hook, line and sinker for a woman who spoke what was tantamount to a foreign language, who had difficult boys, the eyes of an angel and hair like gossamer silk. She was bloody gorgeous. He did not trust his feelings. This kind of stuff happened in daft books written by daft women for daft women. Yet he was persecuted by visions of her in his bed, his house, his life. He pictured her at the sink, saw himself creeping up behind her to fold her in his arms, pull back her hair, kiss her neck. He was daft. Love at first sight? Not again!
    Keith Greenhalgh almost laughed out loud. Women found him handsome; he found women silly or nasty, like the old bat he would be visiting shortly. For sex and companionship, he had enjoyed a ten-year relationship with a childless woman whose husband did not quite satisfy her hunger. It was a good friendship, and there would be little acrimony should a parting of their ways occur. So he wasn’t looking for anything shallow, was not looking for anything at all. It was the same with most aspects of life. ‘Search for a lump hammer, a great huge article you’ve owned for years, and it’s disappeared off the face of the earth. When you don’t want it, you fall over it in the shed doorway,’ he told Annie’s photo.
    But Eileen wasn’t a lump hammer; Eileen had heart and soul in her eyes, a delicate, beautiful face, and a body that should be on cinema screens. He was glad she wasn’t on cinema screens . . . What if she already had somebody? No. He’d overheard Nellie saying to Jay that Eileen steered clear because of her boys. Did he have a chance? Did he? He hadn’t ached like this for years. ‘I want her,’ he said aloud. ‘I want a bloody woman I don’t even know. She talks funny, she’s got terrible sons, and I bet she knows as much about estate management and farming as I know about delicate embroidery. I need my head examining.’
    However, none of this was useful. He should take a short walk and impose himself on Elsie Openshaw, hag of this parish, self-appointed queen of all she surveyed, miserable old woman with a black heart, a face like a giant plate of stewed tripe, and her husband’s teeth. She didn’t like to waste anything, so she’d taken them from the mouth of a corpse, and had spent several years trying with a marked lack of success to break them in. She was horrible.
    She opened her door before he had time to knock. As usual, she had been at the window keeping an eye on her territory. ‘I’m coming in,’ he said, trying not to recoil too obviously when brushing past her hugeness. That was a good name for her. Her Royal Hugeness. It should be patented and hung round her neck with a bit of rope. Or a garrotte. He walked through the small shop, once a parlour, into the kitchen-cum-living room. The house smelled unclean, like rancid butter, dirty cloth and old paper. He turned and faced her. ‘I’m