“It’s quite an important exhibition in the Wirral area,” said Connie, “you’ll enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Her cousin Virgil closed the book on LS Lowry and placed it on the coffee table.
“Do you ever paint in Lowry’s style?” Connie wanted to know.
“I’ve tried but I’ve never managed to get the figures right. It’s important for artists to develop their own style rather than copying other people.”
“Well you’ll see all sorts of styles tomorrow. I thought we could catch an early train from Southport – if we get to the pier just as the morning rush ends we’ll get over to Birkenhead while there’s time to have a good look at the exhibition before lunch. Then we can decide what we want to do for the rest of the day.”
“And this friend of yours who’s coming with us – does she live in Southport?”
“Yes, nearer the station than we do. She’ll meet us there. You’ll like her. We’ve been friends since we started junior school. She lost her Mum a couple of months ago and she’s been a bit of a hermit since; I said it would do her good to come out with us.”
“If anyone can cheer you up it’s my cousin – he’s great company.”
***
“Oh dear, what a disappointment,” said Nina, rubbing margarine into a bowl of flour; she always liked to make traditional English food when Virgil was visiting and she knew he particularly liked her chicken and leek pie.
“I suppose I should have seen it coming,” Connie sighed, “we’ve got so many people off sick at the library just now. I suppose I’d better go and tell Virgil. See you later Mum.”
***
“So I can’t go tomorrow. I’m sorry, Virgil. What do you want to do? Shall I arrange with Chris for us all to go another day? The exhibition still has a couple of weeks to run. Unless you want to go on your own? I know you’re happy to mooch about in glorious solitude, especially when there are paintings to look at.”
“Well …,” said Virgil thoughtfully, “would Christina be happy to come with me? I know she doesn’t know me - would she be okay going to Birkenhead with a strange man?”
“I’ll ring her and ask her,” said Connie. “I know they don’t come much stranger than you but Chris is very broad minded.”
“Gee, thanks for that,” said Virgil with a grin, “though it’s nothing compared to what Alan says about me.”
Five minutes later Connie switched off her mobile phone and smiled happily.
“Done and dusted,” she declared. “She’ll hedge her bets and go with you. I don’t have to be at the library till ten so I’ll come down to the station and introduce you then I’ll clear off to work and you two can go off and enjoy yourselves. Not that I’m madly jealous of course...”
***
Christina was waiting for them outside Chapel Street station. She was a small, unobtrusive girl with short, wavy brown hair. It was a dull day, threatening rain, but it was still fairly mild for the time of year and anyway they would be under cover for most of the day.
“Hi Chris, this is Virgil,” said Connie, pushing him forward.
“Pleased to meet you Chris,” he said, holding out his hand.
She took it and Connie noticed she blushed slightly; well that wasn’t unusual when she introduced him to any of her friends. He was handsome in a quiet, distinguished way and he had such a calm, gentle manner. Then there were his lovely eyes ….
“Connie tells me you’re an artist,” Chris went on, having recovered.
“I paint but mainly I’m into music.”
“Oh yes, Connie said you play the piano. But you’re a lecturer in engineering aren’t you?”
“I teach online courses,” he said, thinking he had always felt he should accompany that statement with a glance Heavenward and a muttered Forgive me but of course it was necessary because International Rescue’s personnel and location had to remain secret.
“Right,” said Connie looking at her watch, “I’d better shove off. Have a good day both of you, don’t fall in the Mersey. See you back at base camp in time for dinner – don’t forget you’re coming back to our place, Chris, Mum’s cooking heaps while Virgil’s here and we need someone to help us Hoover it all up.”
With a smile, a wave and a toss of her long dark hair she was gone.
“Well,” said Virgil, “I should get our tickets.”
“I’ll get mine,” said Chris hastily.
“No, I was going to treat us all anyway; you find out which platform we need and I’ll queue at the machine.”
***
It was a half-hour ride to Liverpool Central, through places with amusing names like Blundellsands and Crosby. The short diesel units which rattled up and down the Sefton coast were notoriously noisy with no excuse because even the more primitive technology of the 20th century had eliminated most of the noise problems on trains. This, however, was an advantage because it rendered conversation on the difficult side of impossible and spared them the necessity to indulge in small talk; it was a little early for that.
From Liverpool Central they emerged from the tunnel which ran beneath the city and walked to Albert Dock where the ferries departed for Birkenhead and other places such as Belfast and the Isle of Man.
“Connie tells me your family was originally Irish,” said Chris, running slightly to keep up with him.
Virgil slowed his pace a little; he was inclined to forget that not everyone had his advantage of long legs.
“Yes, from County Kildare,” he replied and the rest of the walk to the dock was taken up with him telling her the saga of how his great-grandparents had left Ireland and settled in the Merseyside area. Only once was the tale interrupted and that was when they came to cross the horrendously busy main road and Virgil concentrated on getting them both across safely, putting a gentle hand on Chris’ shoulder and guiding her safely over the tarmac to the other side.
At the dock they stood watching the ferry approach from across the estuary. It docked to the accompaniment of Ferry Across the Mersey.
“They still do that,” said Chris with a wry grin. “My Dad hates it – he doesn’t approve of people living in the past. But it’s part of Liverpool’s heritage, I suppose, like the Beatles. Funny, he doesn’t seem to mind their songs being played all over the place.”
Virgil laughed.
“I like the Beatles,” he said. “My brother Scott got hooked on their music when he was at university in Oxford; he still likes it. He likes a lot of 20th century popular music, like Simon and Garfunkel.”
“I’ve heard of them,” said Chris. “When we get on the ferry you must tell me more about them. It shouldn’t be too noisy for us to talk this time.”
They enjoyed the crossing, they enjoyed stopping for coffee in Birkenhead’s busy shopping centre and they enjoyed the walk to the park where the art gallery stood in a beautiful green area. Virgil was ecstatic over the exhibition. He went round three times, showering admiration on nearly all of the paintings, saying he could hardly believe they were all the work of local amateurs, and Chris followed him feeling this was a Day of Education – first the information on Simon and Garfunkel – and other 20th century bands – and now she was having her eyes opened to the beauties of art. Then suddenly they realised it was well past one o’clock.
“I bet all the cafes in Birkenhead are chockers,” said Chris anxiously. “Look, Virgil, I’ve got a suggestion – how about getting some sandwiches and fruit and bringing it here? The weather’s cheered up now – look, the sun’s trying to break through – we could sit here and have a picnic then have a walk through the park before we go back for the afternoon ferry.”
“That sounds like a plan.”
“Right. I’ll run back to the shopping centre. Lunch is on me as you bought the tickets, and the coffee remember. You wait here – see if you can find a good spot to sit.”
When Chris returned Virgil was sitting on the horizontal trunk of a tree which had been felled by a gale and left as a refuge for wildlife. He was busily occupied with a small pad and a pencil.
“Oh – you’ve drawn the park – that’s lovely. Do you always carry your drawing stuff about with you?”
“Yes, I never come out without a small sketchbook and a couple of pencils. It’s why I like jackets with big pockets. What have you brought for us?”
“Two packs of sandwiches, tomatoes, some cakes and a bag of pears – real English ones, thought you’d appreciate that. And two bottles of Pellegrini.”
“Great. That’s my favourite. Okay if we sit here?”
“Yes, this trunk’s as good as anything. If we have to go hunting for a bench I’ll die of starvation before we find one.”
She felt much more relaxed in Virgil’s company now. She realised that as well as being handsome, kind and generous he was a mine of information and as enthusiastic as a little boy. They gathered up the wrappings from the sandwiches and the pear cores and dropped them in a convenient bin. Then they needed to decide how they were going to spend the remaining hour before they left for Liverpool.
By now the day had metamorphosed into a beautiful autumn offering. They followed a circuit round the park and were at the port in time to buy cups of tea from the cafe near the boarding point.
“I thought Americans only drank coffee,” said Chris with a grin as Virgil put the cups on a wooden table with bench seats.
“We have an agent near London who arranges all our teaching schedules and she taught us all to drink tea,” he grinned. “Her catchphrase is ‘everything stops for tea at four’.”
“Virgil’s an unusual name,” said Chris suddenly. “What made your parents choose it?”
“I’m named after Virgil Grissom, the astronaut who died in the Apollo 1 fire in 1967.”
“Oh, I wondered if there was some classical connection – you know, Virgil the Roman poet.”
He laughed.
“No thank Heaven,” he declared, “or they might have been tempted to name me Hector, or Priam.”
The Royal Iris V came in and they boarded. There was a padded bench in the corner of the lounge so they made for this.
“Virgil,” said Chris carefully, “I want to ask you something. You can tell me to mind my own business if you like but I’m going to try. Connie told me you lost your Mum when you were small.”
“That’s right. I was five.”
“Hm, here I was feeling sorry for myself for losing my Mum when I was twenty and you were only a child ….”
“It doesn’t matter how old you are when it happens,” said Virgil, “it hurts just as much. I was sorry when Connie told me about your Mom. I wondered whether I should say anything to you but I decided it was more diplomatic to leave it to you to bring up the subject.”
“Do you remember your Mum?”
“Oh yes, quite well. I still remember her voice. I remember her playing the piano … she’d just started teaching me when she died. My two older brothers remember her well – Scott was seven and John was six. Gordon was only three so he doesn’t remember her well and Alan was just a baby.”
Most of all Virgil remembered the silence. It was not complete silence, of course, no house populated by five small boys could ever be totally noiseless. But there was a quietness, a sadness which hung over the Tracy home. There was no music. Elizabeth, Jeff’s widowed mother, left her own home and moved in to help bring up the boys. Many conversations between Jeff and his mother went on long into the night as they tried to steer a path through the arduous task of keeping the boys’ lives stable and helping the older ones to come to terms with their situation. The two younger ones were not such a problem; Gordon’s memory of his mother was becoming fainter by the day and Alan now knew nothing different from their present circumstances, besides which he was a sunny-natured child who rarely became upset over anything. Gordon was a basically happy boy. Virgil was not such a pressing problem either. Always the most affectionate of the boys, he would happily climb onto Elizabeth’s knee and sit there watching her as she tried to knit without dislodging him; if he broke one of his toys he would cry torrents, which he had never done before, but Jeff was convinced this was his way of letting out the grief. John had always been rather aloof, not given to displays of affection, and his analytical mind meant he asked questions about his mother – where was she now, what was she doing, would she ever come back to see them? A calm, logical explanation would always satisfy John and there were few outbursts of emotion once the initial shock and the funeral were over. The principal problem was Scott. He was like a clam.
“What should we be doing with him?” was a constant question which Jeff and Elizabeth asked each other.
He backed away from his friends in school, he hardly ever interacted with his brothers, he pushed his luck with his behaviour as if daring his father or grandmother to punish him. Always a voracious reader, he seemed to seek solace in books. Jeff ensured he had plenty of reading material and waited to see what would happen.
Nothing happened until a wet Saturday afternoon about a year after Lucille’s death. Bored with his toys, Virgil wandered over to the piano and began to pick out a tune. Scott, sitting in the corner of the lounge reading, suddenly hurled the book to the floor, raced across to the piano, shoved Virgil as hard as he could with his shoulder and fell on him. Virgil’s yells brought Jeff, Elizabeth and John running into the lounge. Jeff seized Scott by his tee-shirt and hauled him to his feet, Elizabeth marched Virgil into the bathroom where she could deal with his bloody nose. Jeff and Scott were secreted away in Jeff’s office for the best part of three hours.
“I know you’re hurting, Son, we all are,” said Jeff, “but that doesn’t give you licence to let fly at your brother, specially when he’s two years younger than you.”
It was a blessing that Virgil was a big, sturdy child for his age.
“If you want to have a hissy fit,” Jeff went on, “go to your room and have it there. Or come in here and let rip in my presence. But don’t take it out on any of your brothers. You haven’t behaved well over the past year, Scott, and Grandma and I have made allowances for this but now it’s got to stop. You need to understand that these things happen to some people and we just have to bite the bullet and get over it. As for the music, you’ll just have to live with it. I’ve found a music teacher for Virgil and he’ll be starting lessons again next week. If you don’t want to hear anything go to your room but I can’t sit back and let Virgil’s talent be neglected any longer. I want you to promise me you won’t freak out when the music teacher’s here.”
“Okay Dad.”
Well that was one blessing; Scott always kept his promises. The last thing they needed, Jeff thought as he watched him, still subdued, slinking out of the office, was two boys rolling around on the floor beating each other to a pulp on the teacher’s maiden visit.
That was the turning point. Since then Scott had adopted a protective attitude towards Virgil. It amused him but he never mentioned it to Scott. Some matters were best not talked about.
Chris barely stopped talking over dinner. She related everything they had done and seen, except the conversation she and Virgil had held on the ferry returning to Liverpool. Later when it was time for her to go home everyone debated who should walk home with her; eventually it was democratically decided that Connie and Virgil would do it. Her father invited them in but they refused the offer of coffee because Connie would be back at work the next day and it was getting late.
“Thank you for a lovely day, Virgil,” said Chris, standing on tiptoe and kissing him. “I enjoyed it all so much. Thank you for buying the train tickets, the coffee and the afternoon tea – and for everything you’ve taught me; honestly, Dad, I’ve learned such a lot about art, and music, and half a dozen other subjects too. Can we do it again next time you come Virgil?”
“Sure,” he grinned. “Thank you for buying lunch. And knowing exactly where we needed to go when we landed in Birkenhead.”
She and her father stood at the door waving as Connie and Virgil left.
“He seems a nice young chap,” said her father. “He’s very quietly-spoken for an American.”
“Virgil’s a sweetheart,” Chris declared. “Now – I must go upstairs and send an email to Leah.”
That was a change, her father thought, as he locked the door and pulled the curtain across in front of it. She had rather cut herself away from her friends after the loss of her mother; perhaps she was picking herself up now and starting to live again.
As she opened her laptop and switched it on Chris thought she owed Virgil far more than she could ever tell him. Well not yet anyway. Perhaps later, when they knew each other even better. She liked the idea of that. In the meantime she would make a very great effort to start living again. It was what her mother would have wanted. And no doubt it was what Virgil’s mother would have wanted for her offspring too.