Runaway in the Night

By Bearraigh Lunt

Peter Finnegan runs away to Liverpool to escape a life on the wards at Warrington General and to get back to his native Eire. Along the way, he finds love and happiness in the shape of Jill Hughes, who quickly ditches the boyfriend she already has. He wont be spending Christmas alone, not if she has anything to do with it, and she wasnt afraid to face his mom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Apr 24, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524598358

Bearraigh Lunt

Bearraigh (Barry) Lunt was born in 1971 at Liverpool Maternity Hospital. He initially attended Pleasant Street Primary School because, at the time, it was only one of two schools that had a Language Unit. Even at the age of five, he couldn’t talk properly. His first teacher was a Barbara Garrett who hailed from down south, which probably accounts for his refined Liverpool accent. He also has Asperger’s Syndrome, a form of autism, which he was diagnosed with at the age of thirteen but wasn’t told about this until he was in his twenties. This is his first novel.

Book preview

Part One

One: 1976

Peter was twenty-two and very insecure about his future as a medical student at Warrington General. Although his dad was a doctor, he didn’t want to follow in his footsteps. No, he’d decided that life on the wards just wasn’t for him any more, despite having made a few friends along the way. So, on the night of December the third, after a blazing row with his parents, he took a few quid with him and made his way to where his uncle Jim worked – the depot of Crosville Motor Services in Chester Road.

It was around ten o’clock on this cold and drizzly Friday night and Jim was on his way to the garage when he noticed Peter, dressed in an old army overcoat, denim flares, a white spotted shirt, navy tank top and a pair of trainers, walking along a damp Wilderspool Causeway.

Peter, what are you doing out? I thought ye were at work! he called from the platform. Jaysus, the boy would catch his death, he reckoned.

Ah, sure I’ve had enough o’ that lark, uncle – I’m runnin’ away. How much all the way ta Liverpool? Peter was anxious to get away. However, the grey-haired Irish conductor wasn’t happy about his nephew going to Liverpool without anything to eat so he offered to get him something at the depot canteen.

Why your man went into medicine, I don’t know, Jim reflected over his cup of tea, amid the sound of fruit machines and lively banter of his colleagues. Of course, he could understand why Peter wanted to get away – because of his mammy. So, with something inside him, the young Irishman was soon on his way to Liverpool, safe in the knowledge that his parents wouldn’t know. The money he took with him didn’t last long and was used to buy a pen and notebook, together with a couple of books on trains. After all, that was his hobby and how he would spend the day, going from station to station. By night, he would kip wherever he could on the concourse or, if he was moved on, somewhere else.

A couple of days later, Peter was at Liverpool Exchange, a rambling Victorian terminus on the edge of the city centre that had seen better days and didn’t have long to go before closure. Only half of the station was used for trains, the rest was a car park. On the whole, it was a very gloomy place to be – especially at ten to midnight, when the last train of the day rumbled out of platform five for Bolton, the platform gates slamming shut as Peter walked down the concourse to the waiting room to get some sleep. However, it wasn’t long before he was moved on, so he got up and started walking the streets. As it was minus two degrees Celsius and raining heavily, Peter was glad when he kipped down in the doorway of the AA shop in a cold and empty Derby Square.

He hadn’t long got off to sleep when he felt someone shoving him – it was yet another copper moving him on. The last buses left three quarters of an hour ago, so Lord Street was a very quiet and lonely place to be as he made his way to Horne Bros, a mens’ outfitters on the corner of Paradise Street. But, no sooner had he kipped down in the doorway here than he was moved on yet again! It seemed as if there was no place for this young Irish runaway – even in a city with Irish connections. Finally, at ten past two on Monday morning, after walking the silent, rain-soaked streets, he settled down for the night in the doorway of the Methodist Central Hall in Renshaw Street.

Before long, the doors flung open and he was awakened by another voice, but this time, it was the caretaker, telling him that he could sleep here until the morning when he would do him something to eat.

I only wanted ta be near the trains, sure I’d be soaked ta death in this weather! Peter was certainly glad to get out of the rain, at least he wouldn’t catch cold. In the relative warmth of the darkened meeting room, he was finally able to get some undisturbed sleep. At around nine o’clock, the jangling of keys roused him from his slumbers – it was the caretaker opening up the building, who, in between speaking to others who had come in, asked the bleary-eyed Irishman if he’d had a good sleep.

Aye, that I did, Peter was now introduced to the minister of the Hall.

Nice ta meet ye, Father, he smiled, shaking him warmly by the hand, I’ve run away from Warrington and I was moved on from the waitin’ room at Exchange Station last night – sure I would have frozen ta death outside! However, this cut no ice with the Methodist minister, who told him with firm authority to get something to eat and move on. This may have been a house of God, but it wasn’t a doss house.

With something warm inside him, Peter did just that…to Lime Street where he did more train spotting. However, while taking down numbers of trains coming and going, he pondered what he would do next, now that he’d run away. Would he go back to Warrington and move in with his uncle or return to his native Cork? One thing was for sure if he wanted to go back to the old country then he would have to see his uncle, because the last person he wanted to see now was his dad. If so, it would have to be on neutral ground…like the Crosville terminus at Mann Island, where he could be sure of a good meal. So, having spent most of the day at Edge Hill station, he headed there, looking for a certain busman.

Indeed, he hadn’t been waiting long when, having just got off a double decker on the aitch twenty-five, a weary-looking Jim walked into the canteen, managing a smile when he saw his haggard nephew sitting at a table with a cuppa. He’d recognise that wavy mass of hair anywhere!

Jaysus Pete, ye’ll get me into trouble one o’ these days! Still, he didn’t mind, as he sort of knew his situation. But the young Irishman had been doing some thinking and asked his uncle if he knew anyone back home in Cork.

Well, me boy, if ye want ta work on the buses, both your cousin Dónal and uncle Sean work for CIE. But ye would have to speak ta yer dad first. Naturally, Peter shook his head at this.

Ah no, I’m not goin’ back ta Warrington – I can’t face either me dad or me mammy! The last thing he wanted to do was go back home – especially back to work. Jaysus, he’d sooner jump in the Mersey! However, Jim had an idea and, in his broad Irish brogue, said that he might be able to persuade his dad to meet him halfway at Edge Lane garage.

"By the way, me boy, ye look terrible. Ye haven’t shaved for a few days and ye’re beginning ta smell like ye came out o’ the peat bogs!" Not having had a bath for days, Peter was indeed beginning to smell like a tramp, as well as look like one. So, after arriving at Exchange Station a short time later, which seemed to be his base now, he went into the station hotel where he plaintively asked Reception if he could use a bathroom.

Initially, the receptionist was a bit reluctant, but he could see that he was dealing with someone who had fallen on hard times.

Ah, that’s grand. I’ll clean up after meself, said a grateful Peter, as he took the key to unoccupied room one-oh-two. Of course, his thoughtfulness humbled the receptionist so much, that when he handed the key back after a short while, he was asked if he would like to use the hotel restaurant. After all, he must have been hungry.

"Thanks, ye’re too kind – I thought I would have had ta use the buffet." Naturally, he wasn’t going to turn this offer down!

With something hot inside him, the lonely Irishman sat himself down on a bench on one of the platforms, watching the trains come and go, just as he had done since about half nine this morning. However, it wasn’t long before an older Irish voice startled him from his trance-like state; only this time, it wasn’t his uncle…

"Peter Finnegan, is this what ye do now? it was his dad Kevin. In contrast to his brother, Kevin Finnegan, who was in his early fifties, had short, dark hair with equally short sideburns and wore a black leather coat over his white shirt and tie. He’d come straight from work, as Jim explained, adding that he couldn’t be persuaded to go to Edge Lane. Besides, he had a feeling that Peter would be here anyway. No, this consultant gynaecologist had come in peace and, with that, outstretched his arms. Come here son, I just want ta talk."

Needless to say, it was too much for Peter, who cried muffled tears into his dad’s shoulder. Indeed, he’d come to regard his dad as an ogre. Meanwhile, Jim gave some nosey passengers a stare that would have reduced fare dodgers to quivering wrecks.

Jaysus, haven’t youse ever seen an Irishman cry on a station platform afore? It would seem to him that they hadn’t! However, in the station buffet, the one place where Peter felt at home, it soon became clear to him what his dad wanted, as taking a look around him, he remarked that the station was no place for a Finnegan.

Dad, I ran away in the first place ta be alone for a while. Peter was quick to point out.

Being two years older than him, Jim knew what Kevin was like and warned him not to pressure the lad or he would never speak to him again.

"Ye’re no brother o’ mine if ye do that – can ye not see the boy needs time?" After all, he was more of a friend to his clearly troubled nephew than he ever was.

To make that point he now pressed his hand reassuringly on Peter’s. "Listen, me boy, I’ve spoken ta Sean and he says, that if ye want, there’s a job waitin’ for ye at the garage in Cork – I put ye under no pressure. He then went on say that, if he wanted to work here, then he would put in a good word at the depot.

Naturally, these were touching words for the young Irishman, who now sobbed loudly, burying his head in the Formica tabletop. Meanwhile, a couple of young diners sitting elsewhere looked in the direction of the table and sniggered, not caring about what he was going through.

"Can a young man not sob in feckin’ peace ‘round here – what’s wrong wit youse, is this off-limits to Irishmen?" Jim wondered, his eyes flashing with contempt for the indifference shown. Was this city really welcoming? He wondered.

Kevin was also disgusted. Jaysus, if this was Warrington General, sure I’d tell youse to feck off – I wouldn’t treat people like yourselves who laugh at a poor Irish boy! However, his scowl soon turned to a smile when he heard a Scouse voice pipe up in sympathy.

Leave the poor troubled lad alone, oughta be ashamed of yerselves!

It was the woman behind the counter, who also took a dim view of this lack of compassion. If that was their attitude, she thought, they could leave right now! Meanwhile, as the Irish trio got up to go, Peter told his dad that he would come home when he was ready and that he wouldn’t be rushed.

Well, don’t leave it too late – it’ll soon be Nollaig! After all, it wasn’t that long to go to the festive season and, although he didn’t show it, he did miss him.

Back on the still-busy platform, Peter continued to write down the times and numbers of trains when one of the porters came up to him, asking if he would like a look in a signal box. Besides, he’d already guessed that the young Irishman liked trains and went on to say that he once took a little lad up there, who also hung around the station some days.

That’ll be grand, the last time I was in a signal box, ‘twas in Cork afore I came over here. Naturally, Peter wasn’t going to turn this down, as it wasn’t everyday that something like this came his way. So, with that, the porter shouted a mate over.

Les? Can yew take this Irish feller over to number two box on the approach fer a look inside?

This was one of the gangers, he explained, while apologising for not going with him.

Sure that’s fine, fair play to ye for offerin’ ta take me anyway, was the grateful Irish reply. Besides, it was nice to be asked, he thought. However, because Peter didn’t have an orange vest, to avoid being hit by any trains, he was then guided out of the station and across the wide expanse of track.

Gawd, not another one! groaned one of the signalmen, wondering if they were running guided tours lately. Les was quick to explain that Peter was one of the down-and-outs who kipped on the station and that he liked trains, before asking if he wanted his picture taken.

Yis, one inside and one of me outside, please.

Armed with the pictures, Peter went back to the waiting room where he had tried to sleep last night. He would probably get moved on from here again tonight, he reckoned, so, with that, decided to try the buffet at Lime Street station. But, as he left, the woman from the buffet ran out after him, offering to let him kip in there tonight. After all, she didn’t want the Transport Police moving him on.

"Ah, you’re too kind, I’ll be back later – I’m off ta the buffet at Lime Street for a bit of supper!" Naturally, the female buffet attendant wasn’t having any of this.

"Yew’ll catch yer death of cold out there, it’s five degrees yew know – frost is likely and it’s a long way ter walk. No, I stuck up fer yew earlier – I’ll do yer supper!" she’d already made up her mind.

Tears welled up in Peter’s eyes, because how could he refuse such a kind offer as this from a local woman who was concerned that he might get pneumonia? Maybe Liverpool wasn’t such a bad place, after all, he reckoned.

"Sure ye’re better than me mammy", he sobbed, touched by this act of kindness.

This is Liverpool, son an’ we don’ tern strangers away. Well I don’t, anyway. Come on, don’ cry, she soothed, rubbing his serge-covered back.

The name’s Barbara, Barbara Hughes, what’s yours?

Peter, Peter Finnegan, he answered, after a couple of minutes.

Though in her mid-to-late forties with auburn, shoulder length hair and oozing that natural female scent, Barbara looked younger for her years. Indeed, what she wore suggested that; a satin cyan blouse and navy A-line skirt that came down to just below the knee, together with flesh-coloured tights and black patent ankle strap sandals.

"If yer do go back to Ireland, remember me, won’t yew?" she asked cheerily. Naturally, Peter wasn’t likely to forget such a lovely lady as her in a hurry – not when she offered to put him up in the buffet overnight! Having cheered him up, she now asked what he would like, her high heels clip-clopping on the bare floor as she went back over to the counter.

A nice cup o’ tea an’ a tea cake would be grand! While tucking into his supper, Peter couldn’t help but notice her voluptuous physique and asked if she was married.

I’m forty-six but I still look the same as did when I was in me therties – yes love, I’m married. Me ‘ubby doesn’t notice me ‘alf the time. Barbara smiled back, fluffing her hair up at the compliment. "Yew don’ want someone like me nearly pushin’ fifty, you’re a young lad – I’ve gorra lovely daughter around your age." Indeed, she was old enough to be his mum!

Oulder women have more experience! Peter grinned, not having had much experience with the opposite sex. Naturally, Barbara had guessed this and in a quiet, almost whispery, voice, would make him even happier.

I close at eleven an’ I’ll meet yew in the waitin’ room. If ye’re willin’, I’ll give yer an early Christmas present. Oh yeah, don’ worry about me ‘usband.

Later on, having locked up for the night, Barbara sprayed herself with perfume and touched her lipstick up before sauntering over to the empty waiting room, her high heels echoing on the practically deserted concourse. Usually, she didn’t bother, but tonight, for a certain young runaway who took an interest in her, she made an exception. Peering into the gloom, she asked in a whispery voice if he was there.

Aye, I’m over in the corner, came the equally quiet Irish reply. Indeed, he hadn’t been waiting long. As they walked away, she expressed her concern about using the kitchen area, even if it was only ten past eleven. Peter agreed, saying that the last thing he wanted was for her to get the sack. Barbara immediately placed her cherry red lips on his. "Peter, you’re a gent!"

Across the road, at the Bradford Hotel, a fairly large, two-star hotel on the corner of Pall Mall and Tithebarn Street, she asked her friend Linda, who sometimes worked in Reception, if there was a vacant room where she could take Peter.

He may look like a tramp, but he’s a perfect Irish gent, Barbara didn’t like the look her friend was giving him. Anyway, I won’ tell on that barman yew once ‘ad in one of the rooms.

Naturally, this threat of blackmail had the desired effect, because Linda’s face suddenly turned ashen when giving her voluptuous friend a key to a room on the third floor. However, she wanted to know why they couldn’t use the waiting room at the station. Having spent most of yesterday there, Peter sought to remind her that it was a bit early yet.

In room forty-two, a single room with an en suite off to the left, Barbara slowly unbuttoned her blouse before allowing Peter to press his hands against her ample, thirty-eight inch bust. The Irishman never thought he’d be doing this, but here he was, caressing the breasts of a woman in her forties and enjoying every minute of it. But this was just the start because, dropping her skirt to the floor, Barbara pushed him onto the bed, widening her slate-shadowed eyes. "Now, I’m goana make yew a man, Peter Finnegan!" Indeed, this was the ‘early Christmas present’ she was on about!

After half an hour of intense passion, Peter and his shapely buffet attendant went back to the station as if they were just friends, albeit close friends. By this time the platforms were completely deserted, with the last train of the day having left for Southport. The serving area of the buffet was where he would rest his head tonight.

"When I open up termorrer, I’ll do yer a nice breakfast – goodnight love", Barbara promised, giving him a goodnight kiss.

That night, Peter considered himself lucky. Only twenty-four hours ago he was being moved on from place to place, not getting any sleep at all. But, thanks to a woman who spoke up for him when he was at his most tearful on a chilly Monday evening, he was now snug in a warm sleeping bag on an otherwise cold floor of a railway station buffet. Although it was minus two degrees outside and colder than ever tonight, that didn’t bother him – at least he wasn’t freezing to death or being moved on!

At ten to seven on a cold and dark Tuesday morning, the sound of the door opening, the clip-clop of high heels on the bare floor and Barbara’s cheery voice roused Peter from his slumbers, asking him if he’d had a good sleep.

Aye, slept like a babby, I did! Indeed, soon after she left, he went out like a light! Through his sleepy eyes, he could make out her auburn hair and her rouge red smile, grinning down at him. Shame, I was expectin’ to see a bare chest! Still, he was a down-and-out. However, the grin disappeared when, while getting the buffet ready for business, she heard the door open.

Come back when I’m ready! God, just because the first trains of the day had not long started didn’t mean that she was ready for business.

"Sorry, love…some people. They see the lights on, the open door an’ they think I’m ready!" she half-smiled to Peter, who now wondered if he should go. However, Barbara was adamant and said that he wasn’t leaving until he had something inside him. Besides, he was her special customer – her Irish gent and, to prove it, she did the full works when serving him breakfast a few minutes later. She even gave him a Danish pastry for afters.

"Ah, sure you’re me second mammy", smiled a grateful Peter. Begorrah, this was better than yesterday, he thought; all he had was a couple of rounds of toast and a cup of tea at the Central Hall. While tucking in with gusto, he remarked that Barbara looked slightly different today.

That’s because I’m wearin’ me jumper terday, love – it’s cold, yew know, she said pointedly.

While drinking her coffee, she wondered if he was off to Lime Street today. After all, she’d guessed that’s where he was heading.

That I am, sure I can’t stay here all day – I might go down ta Mann Island, Peter mused, looking round the buffet. It was as if she could read his mind.

Mann Island? Oh I know, the Crosvilles stop there, Barbara suddenly realised before thinking on. Listen Pete, if yew want somewhere to chat wid yer uncle, I don’ mind yew stoppin’ ‘ere. I’d marry yer dad – I like yew that much!

However, this made her think of her own marriage and she now admitted to Peter that she wasn’t telling him the truth last night. She and her husband had been separated for a few days now so she could have taken him back to theirs. Of course, with this in mind, she decided to ask how old his dad was, as she quite liked Irishmen.

Fifty-two, I’ll get me uncle Jim to ask him for ye! Peter answered, before getting up to clean his plate. Pete, what are yer doin’? What’s the rush? Have yer Danish – no one comes in ‘ere much durin’ the day! it didn’t take Barbara long to realise what he was about to do. However, the young Irishman was adamant; he’d cleaned up after himself yesterday when he had a bath in the station hotel, he told her, so he would do the same again today.

Barbara smiled humbly at this; however, the smile soon disappeared when she heard the door rattle yet again.

"Alright, alright, I’m still drinking me coffee…Gawd, some people!" Reluctantly admitting the customer, she curtly asked what they wanted.

Bacon butty please and I thought the buffet opened at seven. Of course, Barbara was quick to point out that, although it was ten past seven, she was still having her coffee, so she’d be with him when she’d finished. Meanwhile, Peter was still in the kitchen having his Danish when she came in, quietly gesturing to her first customer.

Yew’ll ‘ave to stay in ‘ere while I serve Mr Impatient out there…sorry, love.

"I’ve waited ten minutes for this to open, I don’t normally stop here but I had no breakfast and I’ll probably miss my train!" Understandably, this was the last straw for the auburn-haired buffet attendant, whose blue eyes flashed with annoyance as she clip-clopped her way over to where he was sitting with a polystyrene cup of tea and pointed to the door.

"Right, that’s it, out – ye’re barred for today!"

"I asked for a bacon butty nicely!"

"It was the way yew spoke to me, ‘I thought this opened at seven’!" she said, rocking her head in a mocking way. As the commuter stormed out the buffet, Barbara walked back into the kitchen and, as she sat down, it looked as if she would cry.

This buffy’s goana open at ‘alf seven in future – not havin’ this! needless to say, her voice trembled with emotion. The day hadn’t even started and already she was getting stick off the public.

"Ye’ve had a hard mornin’ so far, I’ll go and sort that gobshite out for ye!" Peter offered, soothingly putting his arm around her.

Aww Pete, you’re a star, Barbara smiled gratefully, giving him a gentle kiss. Aww, this was dead nice of him, she thought.

See ye later, I’ll be off now! With that, the young Irishman made his way out, advising someone he saw heading for the buffet to be nice to the attendant.

While spending some of the morning at Lime Street, Peter wondered whether he should spend some nights at the YMCA, halfway down Mount Pleasant. But what would he tell his new friend Barbara? After all, she’d provided him with somewhere to sleep and eat, as well as somewhere to have a chat with his uncle. After a short while, he made his way to the Irish Centre for a drink. Situated in the Georgian assembly rooms near the top of Mount Pleasant, this was like a club for the Irish community and the ideal place to come – or so he thought… Because of the way he looked, the steward turned him away, telling him to come back when he was more decent but asked where he was from.

Warrington, but originally from Cork. Peter answered, explaining why he ran away.

Well, ye look like an ould mariner from Dublin Bay. Get a shave, man – ye’ll give us Irish a bad name! the steward advised. It was bad enough being Irish in Britain, what with the train bombing in London in March and the pub bombings of two years ago. As a dejected Peter made his way back to Exchange Station, a Crosville bus pulled up and a beaming Irish voice called out.

Peter me boy, jump on, where’re ye headin’? It was his uncle from the open platform of a double decker on its way to Mann Island – another one of the young Finnegan’s haunts.

I want ta have another talk, but not in the canteen. How does the buffet at Exchange grab ye? he ventured cautiously.

He needn’t have worried of course, because, hearing his stomach rumble, Jim announced that he was due for something to eat himself, so that place would be grand. However, as they set off for the station, an inspector asked him where he was going, because he normally had a cuppa here.

Exchange Station, wit me nephew here.

"And what’s wrong wid our canteen?" the inspector wanted to know, narrowing his eyes sceptically. It was family talk, he was told somewhat assertively.

Okay, but don’ be long – ye’re back on duty in twenny minutes! he warned, glancing at his watch, calling Jim a cocky Irish bugger under his breath.

They hadn’t got far when Peter was beginning to have second thoughts about getting his uncle to have lunch elsewhere. Jim now sought to put him at his ease.

"Peter me boy, will ye not worry? I get on grand wit inspectors, but that particular man, he’s a prick. Sure he doesn’t like me ‘cause I’m Irish. I get on grand wit Inspector Murphy at Edge Lane, even though he’s from Dublin. Now, come on, let’s get to Exchange!" Jaysus, he thought, what a worrier!

Meanwhile, after what had been a turbulent start to the day, Barbara was her usual self…especially when her favourite Irishman walked into the now busy buffet that lunchtime. With a breezy smile, she asked him what he wanted.

A nice cup o’ tea would be grand, was the equally breezy reply. Looking over, Jim asked about some breakfast.

Yeah sure, I’ve got our Jill to ‘elp out. Barbara smiled, sitting opposite Peter, while introducing herself to what must have been his uncle. After all, she overheard them chatting yesterday.

Seamus, Seamus Finnegan, but I’m known as Jim on the buses where I work… Yet there was no need for an explanation, as Barbara could tell that – just by his uniform. Needless to say, she wasted no time in asking if Kevin was married.

That he is, me darlin’ – her name’s Stella, but he could do better, a lot better, Seamus thought looking at Barbara. Besides, she had a much nicer personality than Stella.

I’m married meself, but my feller doesn’t notice me an’ I’m quite good-lookin’ for me age, Barbara said eagerly, before turning to Peter and holding his hand tight. Pete’s noticed. Indeed he had; but he was now anxiously eyeing the young blonde behind the counter, who was all in black, wearing an A-line skirt with roll-neck jumper, barely black tights and black patent boots.

It’s Peter, isn’t it? It’s awright – I’ll go out wid yew, she’d been told a bit about him already.

Two years older than Peter, Jill Hughes was slightly slimmer than her mum, being a size twelve and quite a good looker as well, having a thirty-six inch bust. Plus, at five foot five, she was also slightly taller, with a long, shiny pageboy, blue-grey eyes and a warm personality. Glancing over at her, Barbara whispered in Peter’s ear that she never wore a bra – only occasionally.

However, Seamus’ breakfast was only half eaten and he apologised to both women for not finishing it.

Look, Peter, we’ll meet here later wit your man. I have ta go, ‘bye! With that, he hurried off. He’d been gone more than twenty minutes.

Soon, it was time for Peter to leave as well, but this time with Jill and back to hers for a shave, because he did indeed look like the Ancient Mariner.

"I’m Jill by the way, I don’ care what yer say, yew’ll never find women like me or me mam in Liverpool. I’ve gorra fella, but I’ll finish wid ‘im!" Jill said adamantly, her high heels clip-clopping furiously on the stone flags, as they walked briskly along a busy Tithebarn Street in the direction of the tenement blocks looming over the horizon. She was certainly determined not to break his heart.

Bathroom’s on the left, use me dad’s razor! she called, when they got home – a two-bedroom prefab on Christian Street. Looking out onto the street, the living room was spacious but Spartan with bedrooms and a bathroom leading off a short corridor and a kitchen at the other end. Admittedly, it wasn’t much of a home and, although Barbara liked it, she had aspirations to live elsewhere.

Thanks, was the grateful Irish reply, as she made him yet another cuppa. Indeed, that wasn’t the only thing that awaited him… Soon, a soft female voice beckoned from the living room – it was Jill, but sitting cross-legged on the sofa in her skirt and, this time, a black bra.

"Cold outside, but in ‘ere it’s always cosy – touch me if yew want", she invited seductively, eyeing her large bust.

There, that didden ‘ert, did it? she smiled soothingly, feeling his hand resting on her left breast as he leaned across to kiss her. Peter had to agree but wondered what the smell was, although really he should have known.

"The smell of a gorgeous woman, Peter – a woman who wants yew. Have yer tea, I made it especially. Cradling his head in her arms, Jill asked what brought him to Liverpool, especially Exchange Station. We got the train to Southport from there when I first came over. I didn’t want ta work in a hospital, but me mammy…" Naturally, Peter got quite wound-up when explaining why in between sips.

"An’ yer dad wanted to please yer mam. Gawd, she’d give us women a bad name!" Jill’s blue-shadowed eyes narrowed angrily in response to this adverse female influence. Just wait until Stella came down here, she thought.

After his cup of tea, she took Peter by the hand and lead him into her room, which, typical of a woman of her age, smelt of perfume and had a white louvered wardrobe on the left hand side, as well as a dressing table at the foot of the bed. Plus, there were posters everywhere – mainly of David Cassidy, who she liked until recently. Pressing herself against the wall, the blonde lustily invited Peter to undress her before getting into bed, doing the same with him. While they lay in bed, the Irishman wondered if she was dating him out of pity. He’d come across girls like her before. However, stroking his head, Jill sought to reassure the disaffected medical student, who was on the verge of tears.

"Aww, honey, don’ cry. Look, when I saw yew before, I thought ‘nice lad’. I’ve ‘ad a few fellers before but you’re different, ye’re the ferst Irish lad I’ve gone out with. So, dry yer tears get that idea right outa your ‘ead!" No, she was here to stay.

Of course, that was more than could be said for someone else in her life, because just then, there was a knock at the door. It was her current boyfriend asking if she was in. Naturally, Jill was determined that he wasn’t going to see her in her underwear. So, throwing her quilted housecoat on and putting the telly on to make this look good, she went to the door making sneezing noises.

Look Dave, I’ve still got this cold, aah-choo! Muss be this weather, eh?

Yew’ve gorra feller in there, ‘aven’t yer?

"Ooer, cheeky swine, would a gerl ‘ave a fella round if she ‘ad a cold? Is there anyone on the couch?" she said acidly in response, inviting him to look around.

Indeed, her lying seemed to have paid off, as Dave sheepishly apologised, accepting her word. However, before he had a chance to doubt her, she shut the door after him.

Anyway, I’ll be goin’ round to yours soon, see yer! Very soon, it was going to be a case of ‘Goodbye Dave’.

"I haven’t really gorra cold, honey, but I cudden ‘ave ‘ im ‘round ‘ere – not wid yew, anyway", she told a puzzled Peter, while getting dressed in front of him. Naturally, Peter knew this and was quietly looking forward to being there while Jill broke it off with Dave. As they left the house, she noticed that some lads were staring at them.

"What are yew lot gawpin’ at?" Looking at Peter’s overcoat, one of them asked if he was in the army.

It’s cold, yer know, ‘e might be cold. Go on, piss off – nosey parkers! They were probably sagging school, she thought. On the way over to Dave’s, Jill told her new boyfriend something that he’d already guessed; she’d be taking him off the streets. Needless to say, Peter didn’t argue about this because things would get better from now on.

Jaysus, looks like the council estate in Cork where I was born! he remarked nervously, soon after they arrived at fifty-two Gerard Crescent, a 1930s tenement block in this, a rough part of Liverpool where Dave lived with his mum Eileen. While ringing the bell, Jill sought to reassure him.

"Don’ yew worry, I’m ‘ere an’ don’ blub either!" She also knew how sensitive he was and what Dave was like – a world away from her! Indeed, that was about to be proved, when, as Eileen came to the door, she asked if Dave was in.

"Come in, I’ll sort ‘im out if ‘e says anything", she assured Peter, taking his hand. Being four years older than him, she knew how to handle Dave.

Eileen Hall, a formidable-looking woman in her mid-fifties with short, dark hair and an icy personality, was just about to invite them in. But hearing Peter speak, she shot him a grimace that would have killed him stone dead.

I’m not havin’ Micks in ‘ere! It was clear that she didn’t have much time for the Irish; yet at the same time, Jill didn’t exactly like her new boyfriend being skitted either! So, with her temper about to crack, she told Eileen that she had something to say to her son, who, dressed in an adidas sweatshirt and jeans, now appeared at the door.

Anythin’ yew ‘ave to say ter me, yew can say in front of me mam! It was as if Dave had been listening. Needless to say, this wasn’t going to be a social call. So, knowing exactly where she stood, the blonde spelt it out, by telling Dave that they were finished. "I’ve got someone else now – a real gent. He winges like, but that’s ‘ow ‘e is!"

What, this fella ‘ere? He’s just an Irish tramp! Dave smirked, nodding his head at the sensitive Irishman. As far as the blonde was concerned, this was the last straw and, taking Peter’s hand, she shot her skittish ex a grimace. C’mon Pete, we’re gettin’ away, don’ know what I saw in ‘im! Had she been a bloke, she’d have laid him spark out for that! However, as it was now three o’clock, Peter glanced at his watch; he was anxious to do some more train spotting.

Anyway, I need to speak wit me uncle an’ me dad! Besides, there were some things that hadn’t been sorted out yet.

Well, we can go ter Lime Street, honeybunch. The buffy’s bigger there – I’ll treat yer! Jill now suggested. She’d do anything for him; she’d even walk through Church Street semi-naked, she loved him that much.

Over tea and a mince pie in the buffet at Lime Street, situated in the former station hotel, the blonde reflected on the day that had been so far.

"Peter, sweetheart, your life is changin’ for the better. Today, yew ‘ad a lovely breakfast served up by me mam then, later, I came on the scene!" her blue-grey eyes twinkled with delight as she pressed her ruby-tipped hands on Peter’s.

I wanna tell the ‘ole werld. Well, everyone ‘ere. D’yew mind, honey? she added excitedly, looking around the room. Naturally, the Irishman didn’t mind, as he never thought he’d be this happy. So, clinking her cup and gesturing to him, that’s just what she did.

"Listen everyone. A few hours ago, I, Jillian Charlotte Hughes, met this nice Irish feller who was livin’ rough an’ I took ‘im off the streets. He’s goana ‘ave a promisin’ future an’ ‘e won’ be spendin’ Christmas alone either!"

Peter joined in, explaining his circumstances until now, his tremulous Irish voice breaking up with emotion, while Jill watched for anyone who dared to laugh. It was all for nothing of course as a gruff male voice soon piped up, echoing what Barbara said last night – that he was in a city where they didn’t turn strangers away. Needless to say, the whole place erupted in supportive applause and cheers. However, the pair were just about to leave when Jill asked the staff behind the counter if she could ring the buffet at a certain station. After all, she just couldn’t keep this to herself.

Meanwhile, over at Exchange Station, Barbara was just about to serve another customer when the phone rang.

"Hi mam, it’s Jill ‘ere. I’m wid Peter in the buffy at Lime Street. Listen, did Seamus give yew a number fer Mann Island? Only Peter wants ter speak to ‘is dad an’ I think yew wanna talk to ‘im as well!" she certainly would, if today’s conversation was anything to go by. Naturally, Barbara was curious to know how it went but changed her mind; this could wait until they got here, she thought. Indeed, she was about to put the phone down when in walked a busman with another man in a leather jacket – it was Seamus with Kevin in tow.

Hang on queen, they’re ‘ere. Gerra taxi to Exchange – I’ll pay! However, Jill had already made her mind up – she would pay instead.

Having told Peter that his dad and uncle had just arrived at the buffet, she jumped into a taxi in Lord Nelson Street, down the other side of the station, telling the driver to go to Exchange Station. However, the smile disappeared from her face when the cabbie said that it was quicker to walk. Yet the blonde was a woman who meant business and pointed out that they didn’t have the time.

"Look, juss get us there, will yer!" Not wishing to incur her wrath any further, the cabbie set off and, before you could say ‘Inter City’, they had arrived at the station that seemed to be their base now. In addition to the two pound fifty fare, she gave him an extra two quid. After all, he did get them here nice and quick.

Sitting down at the same table as before, a smiling Peter came to a decision. After much thought, he told his dad, he’d decided to stay in Liverpool for now, as he’d found himself a girlfriend, or rather she’d found him!

"Well me boy, ‘tis your life and you can stay here for as long as ye like!" Kevin had certainly changed his tune; only yesterday, he was telling his son to be home for Christmas! Still, as long as Peter was happy, that was all he cared about. Indeed, glancing at Barbara, he had some news of his own.

"She’ll be your new mammy one o’ these days!" In the past few minutes, the two of them had been doing quite a bit of talking and quite a bit of holding hands too. Needless to say, the young Irish response was instant – tears.

"And we don’t want ta hear a single snigger – our boy is sensitive!" after yesterday, neither Kevin nor Seamus were taking any chances.

"Irish boys are looked after by their mammies, Barbara…or supposed to be. Seamus’ wife Grainne was more o’ a mammy to him. As for Stella, I don’t know now why I married her. She wasn’t like me own mammy – heart of stone, that woman!" There was a note of contempt in Kevin’s voice as he spoke, ruing the day that he ever got married to Stella. Thinking about what he asked his uncle yesterday, Peter had something else to add. He’d decided that he wanted to go back home to Ireland and what was more he’d be taking Jill with him.

"Now, who’s the one cryin’ now, me darlin’?" he laughed, seeing black streaks of tears run down her face. Needless to say, this was