A Liverpool Girl Page 3

  Babby humphed.

  ‘And fetch me the iodine’ said Violet. ‘How did you do that? Playing steeries again? I don’t know, five of you crammed into the pram – not even in the pram, on the pram – sitting on a couple of wooden planks, pushing it down the hollow; no wonder you get yourself in a mess.’

  Babby poked at the graze and a dribble of blood ran from her knee down her shin.

  ‘Don’t do that, you daft apeth! You’ll make it worse!’

  ‘I wasn’t at the hollas. It was Johnny’s fault. We were playing,’ she lied.

  ‘Kick the can,’ whispered Patrick, under his breath.

  ‘What’s that, Pat? What did you say?’ said Violet.

  Babby blushed and her eyes darkened.

  ‘Did you get the message from the Co-op, Babby?’ asked Violet.

  ‘I tried. But they kept shoving me to the back of the queue. That Mrs Liddy’s got a beak on her like a flamin’ tin opener. She could open a tin of beans with that nose.’

  ‘Don’t curse. Mrs Liddy’s nose is no reason not to get the messages.’

  ‘I don’t like the way she looks at me, like they all do at school …’ Babby sighed. She dropped her head and started poking at her knee again. ‘Cos we’re too poor to have dinner money.’

  Violet reached out a sympathetic hand to her daughter’s arm. ‘Look, love, we can’t afford to behave like we’ve got fancy hats. When your dad was around things were different. Don’t forget, when he started off in the pens on the dock road and stood in line, waiting to see if he could get a day’s work, sometimes three weeks on the trot he came back with nothing. You come from dust. You end up as dust. We’re all the same. It’s what happens in between that makes the difference.’

  ‘Should have just stuck to the pens instead of singing at the Boot,’ said Pat.

  ‘Yes,’ Violet answered sadly.

  ‘I could do that,’ piped up Babby. ‘Sing. Miss at school says when I sang ‘Ave Maria’ it made her cry.’

  She looked at her mother who was smoothing down her dress, picking off a loose thread from her skirt, and letting it swirl in a shaft of sunlight. Babby knew her singing was the one thing that hurt her mother more than anything else. It should have been a comfort when she sang. Other people said she had a voice that was clear and pure and true, just like her father’s. But it pierced her mother’s heart to be reminded of her beloved husband and Babby knew that she wished she would save her singing for their infrequent outings to church, or the tin bath on a Friday.

  Babby watched Violet stand up to clear the tea things, but panic rose to her mouth when she saw her stop and pick up the pair of battered school shoes by the scullery door, lift them to the light, turn them over and examine the soles.

  ‘Have you not been to school again today? Babby, I’ve told you!’

  ‘Mam, no! It – it …’ Babby stammered. Her mother should get a job as a detective. How was it that a scrape of mud on her shoes would have said so much?

  ‘I don’t want to hear!’ Violet said. ‘Git! Upstairs to your room and don’t come out until after supper!’

  Later that evening, Violet shut the front door on her sister Kathleen and said goodbye with a sigh, turned off the oil lamp and made her way up the stairs. She stopped outside Babby’s bedroom door.

  ‘Love,’ she said, twisting the handle, ‘are you awake?’

  She heard the bedsprings creak. Pushing open the door, she saw the mess of Babby’s hair all tangled up in the sheets, her face pressed down into the pillow. Babby stirred and briefly raised her head, turned and looked towards the direction of the light that was spilling into the room. Violet hesitated. No words were sufficient to describe how much she loved this child. But she was at her wits’ end as to what to do with her.

  ‘Just seeing if you were asleep.’

  ‘Well, I was, but I’m not now! Is that why you woke me? To see if I was asleep?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what did you want?’ Babby asked, fighting a yawn.

  ‘Nothing,’ Violet replied. She went towards the bed and pulled at the eiderdown, tucking it in around the edge of the straw mattress. After pushing a piece of hair behind Babby’s ear and planting a warm kiss on her forehead, she left, closing the door with a soft click.

  How could she tell Babby that her sister Kathleen had said yes to taking in Hannah and Pat, but had refused to have her? Her aunt had said the same, and she barely knew her because she lived twenty-five miles away in Preston. Only Pauline, now. Babby was a wild one, all right. Violet turned over the letter she had begun to write to Pauline, felt it going damp around the edges in her sweaty hand. She would ask Pauline one more time and hope to God she said yes.

  Chapter Four

  Thank goodness, the sun was shining. Violet rounded the corner of Bevington Bush, nearly careering into the West Indian man with his gold tooth who was setting up a low table for the wooden dolls. Every day he was there, whatever the weather, dancing and clattering them up and down an old plank in the hope of raising a few pennies to buy himself a glass of his rum tipple. Liquid sunshine, he called it. She smiled as he winked at her and rattled his tin box.

  ‘I haven’t got a bean, love,’ she said. Never mind. She was determined today was going to be good day. A fresh start. It wasn’t much, but it was a new beginning. She had arranged for her sister, Kathleen, to come over and look after the kids this week, so at least that was taken care of. For now.

  When she entered the wash house, the noise of the machines was overwhelming but the women’s chatter as they washed and scrubbed their laundry in the huge industrial-sized sinks, their laughter and gossip, was lovely. She knew a good few of them and nodded hello to her neighbour, a woman for whom the Temperance Society came knocking at her door. Some arrived carrying bundles on their heads, but most wheeled them in prams. There was genuine pleasure that Violet was going to be minding them.

  ‘Eh, Vi, perhaps you can make a better job of stopping the thieving varmints than the last useless cow,’ said a woman, up to her elbows in milky foam as she lathered a slab of carbolic soap. Violet laughed. The woman continued, ‘Some of these kids are pure bad. Just like those gangs of nippers who hang around outside the football ground on Saturdays, offering to mind folks’ bikes for a penny, even though everyone knows it’s them who’d nick them if you didn’t come up with the goods. Flaming protection racket, that’s what it is. Start ’em early, round here.’

  Two women laughed in agreement whilst holding a crisp white cotton sheet at its four edges, walking towards each other, then moving apart – an elaborate dance of folding, flapping, folding, underscored by feet slapping at the tiled floor.

  Violet went on. Matron was sitting at her desk in a small office, surrounded by papers stuck on a spike and spread across the table. A rusting mangle was pushed up against the window.

  ‘I’m Violet Delaney …’

  ‘Ah. Well, hello, Violet. You’re on prams. Let’s see how it goes and then, for a few extra bob, we’ll put you on sheets … Sheets was where I started. And look at me now.’

  Violet had heard about Matron and how she prided herself on being the only one in Liverpool who knew how to treat the infected sheets when cholera broke out. Violet assured her she could rely on her to prove herself with the prams, that the sheets sounded grand. She took her place on the small stool in the outside yard and lifted her face to the sun, lolling her head back against the wall. The rays felt warm against her cheeks and she rolled up her sleeves, exposing her flesh. Yawning, it occurred to her that the hardest thing about this job would be staying awake. She rubbed her eyes and blinked them open; falling asleep would be a disaster. She was exhausted after being up all night with Hannah who had a nasty chest cough, but she must stay awake. Had to stay … awake …

  Jolting upright and leaping off her stool, hearing a squeal, followed by another, she spun on her heels to see a gang of kids yank a pram away around the corner and go racing down the hill. Bleary-eyed, she p
icked up her skirts and gave chase. Had she fallen asleep? If she had it had only been for a moment or two. But they were gone. Panic gripped her. What if the foreman came out? Or Matron? Her first day and she had failed miserably in the first twenty minutes of the job. She wanted to cry. She had no idea what to do. Would the little devils bring the pram back? That’s how it usually went, but she couldn’t be sure. Should she risk not saying anything and hope it would be returned before its owner came out with her washing? Good God, how could she have been so stupid and fallen asleep? She felt her cheeks flush crimson, tears stab her eyes.

  ‘You all right, lovey?’ said a kind voice. It belonged to a woman who had arrived with three bundles of sheets to be service-washed and ironed.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Violet. ‘Leave that here. I’m doing the pram minding …’

  The woman reached into her pocket, gave her a threepenny bit.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Take that for your trouble.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble. Just doing my job,’ replied Violet, feeling sick with nerves, a sharp pain gathering with intensity in her stomach.

  At Joseph Street, in the back bedroom, Babby took an intake of breath. She looked at the clock, opened the latch to the window, climbed on to the ottoman and perched her bottom on the sill. From there, she heaved herself out of the window and on to the roof of the privvy. Scrambling down the drainpipe, she left the house without her Aunty Kathleen knowing she had gone. At the end of the road, she went down the passage into Havelock Street, past the hospital, and headed off towards the hollas.

  Down by the dock road, with its piers of stone and granite masonry, there were narrow streets lined with small, dingy houses that no amount of scrubbing and sand-stoning their front doorsteps would ever make look clean. Soon she arrived at the waste ground.

  ‘Did you get that from the wash house?’ she said, trying to catch her breath. She had found what she had feared – the Kapler gang, Johnny Gallagher and his brothers who lived in Cicero Terrace, and a couple of boys who lived in Kapler Street, with the Irish girl from Tommy White’s estate.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Johnny. He had a bottle of ginger beer with him. His friend Dougie was sitting in the pram with his legs dangling over the side. He shook the bottle, put his thumb over the end of it, and let it squirt out like a fire extinguisher into his mouth.

  ‘Give the pram back!’ cried Babby. ‘Me mam’ll lose her job over this!’

  ‘What’s it worth?’ asked Johnny Gallagher, pulling the pram towards him. He started to laugh.

  Babby sighed. ‘I haven’t got nothing – and neither has me mam!’

  ‘Aye, everyone knows you’re brassic, round here. Is that why your dad never had a proper funeral?’ said Dougie.

  Babby shrugged. She had no idea how to answer that, but guessed he was probably right.

  ‘We’ll give it back after one steerie. Gerrin’ the pram with Dougie,’ he said, pulling at his baggy shorts.

  Dougie laughed again, beckoned her over and wriggled his bottom up to the hood.

  ‘Come on lass, gerrin. I don’t bite.’

  ‘Stop messin’ about!’ said Babby.

  There was a pause. ‘Give us a cuddle, then,’ said Johnny.

  Babby frowned. A cuddle? These were the boys she was used to hanging out with at playtime in school, playing Kick the Can, or Grandmother’s Footsteps, or Knock-Down Ginger. Why would they want a cuddle? The thought of it was unsettling.

  ‘Well, I’d rather do that than gerrin’ bloody pram with that soft Olly,’ she said, gesturing to Dougie with the stupid grin on his face. At least a cuddle would be over and done with more quickly than a steerie, and she could get the pram back to Violet.

  Johnny grinned. ‘Come here then, love …’ he said.

  Babby went over to him. She stood in front of him, stiff as a board, arms clamped to her sides, not quite knowing what to do. ‘But no kissing,’ she said. ‘I’m not bloody kissing no one.’

  ‘No kissin’ …’ said Johnny, laughing.

  He pulled her to him, his strong arm snaking around her waist, his hips pressed into hers. The other boys gathered around, gawping and laughing as he bent his head towards the nape of her neck.

  ‘I said no kissing!’ she said, slapping his hand away.

  ‘I’m not!’ he said, grinning back at the gang.

  ‘What are you doing, then, shoving your face in mine? Having a good sniff of me or summat?’

  The boys jeered. This was good fun. A right laugh. Even more fun than playing steeries.

  ‘Now you put your arms around me waist …’ said Johnny.

  Babby raised her eyes and did as he asked. With his arms firmly around her now, Johnny began to sway.

  ‘Sing that song, Babby. The one about the sailor. I’ve heard you sing it before. Famous, you are, round here, for your singing. Like a bell, me mam says. Sing it in me ear, go on.’

  Babby raised her face to his. She pushed the tangled web of hair away from Johnny’s eye. ‘Well, now, me lads be of good cheer, for the Irish coast will soon draw near. Then we’ll set a course for old Cape Clear. Oh, Jenny, get your oatcakes done,’ she sang softly.

  Johnny grinned. It was true her voice was beautiful and for a moment he was enthralled, lulled by the sweet sound of it.

  What a flaming fool, she thought. Now’s my chance to get the pram back. ‘You bloody gobshite!’ she cried, and brought her knee up to his crotch, swiftly with one blow that left him reeling, crying out in pain, and falling to the floor.

  The crowd erupted with delighted squeals of laughter. This was the funniest thing that had happened to them all week. Maybe all year. Babby, meanwhile, shoved spoon-faced Dougie out of the pram and ran with it, unable to get the thought of Johnny out of her head, his arms around his waist, face close up against hers. And for the life of her, she didn’t know what to make of it all.

  Violet came back out of the wash house. Miraculously, there it was. In exactly the same place that it had been before she fell asleep. She recognised it straight away, the silver hood and calfskin lining filthy – not that a bit of spit wouldn’t remedy that. ‘Oh, thanks be to God!’ she cried, her hands flying up to her face.

  ‘Thank me, not God,’ said Babby, stepping out from the shadow of the horse and cart that the rag and bone man was manoeuvring into place in front of the prams.

  ‘Babby!’ she called. ‘Babby, I’ll bloody swing for you. You should be at school! What are you doing here?’

  ‘Johnny Gallagher and his mates took the pram. I got it back for you – aren’t you happy?’

  ‘I don’t care, Babby! I’m sending you to your Aunty Pauline’s. No, not another word!’ she snapped.

  Babby gawped at her mother with a mixture of horror and confusion. How bloody unfair! She dropped the stick of larch that she was clutching, in shock. ‘What about school?’

  ‘What about it? We’ll find you another, we will.’

  ‘Mam, if we need money, I could sing at the Boot Inn. I could learn to play Dad’s accordion properly. Please – let me …’ she pleaded.

  ‘No! Put those ideas out of your head. That accordion looks like a cash register and sounds worse. If I could get any money for it, I’d have pawned it long ago. Forget it, Babby. Pauline said perhaps you could move to the convent school near hers. I wanted you to pass your eleven plus and become a teacher. Or a nurse. So this will be like a second chance – if they’ll have you.’

  Babby paled. ‘I’m not going to that prison! I hate the hats they have to wear. They say all those stupid things like you can’t wear patent leather shoes because your knickers reflect in them, and you have to sit with a telephone directory on your knee in case a gust of wind blows your skirt up. And I hate those awful navy-blue dresses. Like flippin’ sacks, they are. And I hate the girls – I’ve seen them. Their noses stick up. They’re boring and snobby!’

  Violet sighed. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’

  Babby reached into her
pocket and handed her mother a dog-eared piece of paper.

  ‘What’s this?’ Violet said, her voice rising in pitch, as she scanned the note. ‘From Gladys Worrall? Is this a joke?’

  ‘I can sing. I know I can. I’ve told Rex and Gladys. And she said I can collect the bottles and sing.’

  ‘Over my dead body! After what happened to your dad? You stay away from that place, you hear?’ As she said it, Violet’s hand gripped Babby’s arm so tightly, she made little crescents of white in Babby’s flesh where her nails dug in.

  ‘Gladys had no right saying any of that. Look at you, Babby. You’re a child, but already boys are buzzing around you like bees around a honeypot. You haven’t noticed, but don’t think I haven’t seen them. And these are men in the pub. It’s no place for a child.’ She paused for effect. ‘And believe me, I know, love …’

  Chapter Five

  The next day was a Saturday. Violet was out with Pat collecting the groceries, and Babby was looking after Hannah who was having an afternoon nap curled up on the battered armchair. She covered her with a crocheted blanket and then mixed a cup of Camp coffee with three sugars stirred into it to disguise the bitter taste. Having drunk it, she went upstairs and into her bedroom, dragged the accordion out from under the bed and opened its case. It was wrapped up in an old moth-eaten man’s scarf, patterned with flamboyant green peacock feathers, and with hand-knotted fringes at each end. She remembered her father wearing it, and when she unfurled it she buried her face in it, breathing in the smell of him – cigarettes and camphor oil.