The Seven Streets of Liverpool Read Free Page B

fought in a war, married your mother, fathered two daughters and a son – but I don’t think I’ve ever been as pleased with meself as having grown me own sprouts and picked them on Christmas Day.’
    Eileen finished washing the dishes and began to dry them. ‘You’re a daft bugger, Dad,’ she said fondly. She looked at the sprouts. ‘I can’t wait to eat them. They’ll probably taste better with a little lump of margarine on.’
    Jack nodded. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll take these to Sheila’s and another lot for our Sean’s lot. There’s plenty more out there for you – I’ll pick more before I go.’ He’d promised some to a couple of mates, too.
    ‘All right, Dad,’ his daughter said serenely. ‘Take whatever you like.’
    He looked at her and frowned. ‘You can always come back and have your dinner with us, girl,’ he urged. He was having his at Sheila’s. ‘It’s a bit lonely here; too quiet.’ Jack was used to being surrounded by people, usually very noisy and argumentative. All that could be heard here were the birds and the very occasional car passing, though the fresh air was almost as inebriating as fine wine. He sniffed to remind himself.
    ‘Dad!’ She looked at him indignantly. ‘I’ve got me husband here, fast asleep in bed at the moment, and Nicky is in his play pen with the blocks you made him. Nick would’ve been up by now if he hadn’t got back so late last night – you can imagine what the trains were like from London on Christmas Eve. Then he had to walk from Kirkby station carrying a suitcase.’
    ‘All right, luv.’ He couldn’t very well point out that Nick hadn’t been himself since his plane crashed and he lost his arm, and the little lad was too quiet by a mile.
    ‘Would you like some brekky, Dad?’ Eileen enquired. ‘The people next door with the hens gave us half a dozen eggs for Christmas. D’you fancy scrambled eggs on toast?’
    Jack fancied them something awful, but he said, ‘No, ta, luv. Just the toast’ll do me fine, particularly if I can have jam on it.’ He’d sooner his grandson had the eggs.
    ‘I’ve plenty of jam – home-made,’ Eileen assured him. ‘I’ll wake Nick up with a cup of tea. Perhaps you could go and talk to Nicky for a while. I’ll bring the tea in a minute.’

    A cheerful fire was burning in the large, comfortable living room where fifteen-month-old Nicky sat in his play pen with the bricks Jack had made him for his birthday.
    The little boy chuckled when his grandad came in. ‘Ba,’ he cried and sent the pile of bricks flying. ‘Ba.’
    ‘Ba yourself.’ Jack picked up the child and sat him on his knee. He really should have a bit more conversation than ‘ba’ at his age. He was a beautiful little boy, though, the image of his father with his dark curly hair and huge brown eyes. Nick Stephens was Greek; his real name was Nicolas Stephanopoulos.
    ‘When’s he going to learn to talk?’ called Jack.
    Eileen appeared in the doorway. ‘Whenever he wants to,’ she said. ‘He talks now when he’s in the mood.’
    ‘What does he say?’
    ‘Quite long words, like “Merry Christmas”.’
    Jack met his grandson’s eyes. ‘Say “Merry Christmas”,’ he demanded.
    ‘Ba,’ the little boy shouted and twisted Jack’s nose.
    Eileen laughed. ‘He’s obviously not in the mood just now.’
    Nicky wriggled out of Jack’s arms and began to walk quite steadily around the room. Jack got up and stood in front of the fireplace. Although there was a fire guard there, the metal would be too hot to be touched by little fingers.
    Napoleon, Eileen’s giant ginger cat, strolled arrogantly into the room. Jack, who didn’t like cats, made a face at it; he could have sworn that the animal made a face back before flopping down on the mat.
    He heard Eileen go upstairs, and then the voice of his son-in-law, Nick, asking, ‘Is Jack here?’ When Eileen replied in the affirmative, Nick said, ‘I’ll have that downstairs,