A Liverpool Girl Page 4

  The mother-of-pearl keys caught the light and it looked beautiful. Babby slipped the leather straps over her shoulders and when she pulled out the bellows to prepare to play the first notes, it made a groan as if it was sighing with happiness. The buttons of the Italian Coronado piano accordion felt smooth under her fingertips and she opened the bellows wider, as wide as they could go, stretching the instrument across her chest. Watching herself in the bedroom mirror, co-ordinating the mother-of-pearl black-and-white piano keys in her right hand, with the buttons in her left, the accordion looked like a beautiful giant fish. Its keys became the fish’s teeth, and the diamanté inlay looked like its glittering scales, the curving bellows like its fat, striped body. Babby felt for the indented button that told her where to place her fingers, and idly ran her right hand up and down an octave. She was enjoying the cascading notes, chords piling upon chords, enjoying the fact that she seemed to have an instinct for the music that her father used to play.

  She began to work out the tune to a sea shanty and, as her fingers skittered across the keys, she thought back to him singing low and sweet into her ear, a kind of musical sorcerer, whose voice made her feel hopeful and happy.

  ‘Come on, Babby, love,’ he used to say, as he pulled her to him. ‘Wriggle in beside me. Put your hands through the straps. I’ll play the keys, you play the chords.’ He would rest his chin on the top of the bellows and his long mane of sandy-coloured hair would flop forward as he ran his fingers over the keys. The grate that needed cleaning, the scrubbing of the step, the pop bottles that needed returning, the pots that needed washing – everything would be forgotten and they would spend hours together like that.

  She began to sing. As she did so, Hannah’s head came around the door, thumb stuck in her mouth. Babby smiled and Hannah grinned.

  When she stopped playing, Hannah clasped her hands, and cried, ‘Again! Again!’

  ‘Now Delaney had a donkey,’ sang Babby, louder, more joyful.

  ‘That everyone admired,’ chorused Hannah, with delight. And then Babby laughed, and ruffled her mop of tangled hair, pulled her to her. ‘Me ma’s chubby, me da’s chubby, and I’m chubby,’ she said into Hannah’s face. It always made her giggle. ‘You’ve got a bum, I’ve got a cherry,’ she said, squeezing her little sister’s chin. Hannah let out an explosive yelp of delight and chuckled. But then suddenly Babby heard a noise downstairs, stopped, cocked her head, and listened. It was the clattering of pans, and the whoosh of water from the faucet.

  Followed by the chilling sound of Violet’s voice: ‘Babby!’ she called.

  Babby, panicked, struggled to shut the bellows. It made a honking sound, like a goose, all the beauty going out of it in an instant. ‘Shush, Hannah,’ she said.

  ‘What was that sound?’ Violet asked Pat, who had followed his mother into the house with a bag of provisions.

  ‘Not sure,’ came the stuttered reply from Pat that said nothing but told Babby that he was frightened as to what was coming next. Then she heard Violet’s footsteps pounding up the stairs. She pressed her fingers to her lips, indicating to a bewildered Hannah to be silent.

  ‘Babby! Are you up here?’ cried Violet, her voice sounding more strident.

  When Violet twisted the doorknob and flung open the door, Babby dropped one end of the accordion in shock. It let out another discordant, crashing moan as it flumped open. Babby stood there, trying to read the extent of Violet’s anger from her flashing black eyes.

  ‘M-Mam … I’m s-sorry,’ stuttered Babby, grasping for an excuse or explanation.

  Violet stood frozen to the spot, watching Babby staggering to the bed, struggling to put away the accordion away in the case.

  ‘How long have you been playing that thing?’ Violet said, gasping for breath.

  Babby trembled. ‘Not long. Found it in the cellar …’

  Violet shuddered.

  ‘How long?!’

  For a moment, it was as if Babby had lost the ability to speak.

  ‘Put it away! I don’t want ever to see you with that awful instrument again,’ said Violet. ‘You know how it upsets me,’ she continued. ‘And it upsets you, love, I know it does, even now, after all this time. Well, just the sight of a Union Jack flag or someone singing “God Save the Queen” upsets you because it reminds you of that dreadful day when your Da died, but that thing! Do I have to relive every … every …? Oh, Babby,’ she murmured, tailing off into a more defeated tone. She paused, knowing that this was a moment that she should take advantage of. ‘Now Babby, I need you to go to Pauline’s. She’s said she will have you until Christmas. You’ll like it there, I promise. I-I can’t look after you like your dad would want me to, so will you go, love?’

  ‘What about our Pat?’

  ‘He can look after himself. He’s fourteen.’

  ‘But Hannah. What will she do without me? Hannah and I, we’re more than sisters. I’m like her second mother …’

  ‘And that’s not right. You’re only a child yourself. You shouldn’t be taking care of a toddler.’

  Babby sniffed. ‘If I do go, will you promise you will come and get me at Christmas?’

  ‘I promise, love. It’s not forever, I promise. I do love you …’

  Babby felt the weight of her mother’s solicitude. ‘Suppose I could give it a try … I’ll not be eating her revolting dumpling stew, though. Or her mouldy semolina.’

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged. So that’s settled, then?’

  And before Babby had time to reply, Violet promptly left the room to write Pauline the letter.

  Chapter Six

  Two weeks later, when Babby returned home from school, she found her mother kneeling in front of the hearth, leaning over an open suitcase.

  ‘What an earth do you think you’re doing, frightening me like that?’ said Violet. ‘You don’t go creeping up on people! Could give me a heart attack and then what would you have done? Here, come and help me with this case. I’m packing it for you, ready for Pauline’s.’

  The suitcase had a curved handle, a polished silver buckle, a lock with a small silver key, and a mirror when you opened it up, on the inside of the lid. There were little elasticated pockets for lipsticks and powder puffs, and it had stains of make-up on the pale-blue satin lining.

  Next to the suitcase there were piles of clothes that Violet had decided Babby should take. They included the coronation dress, far too small now; elasticated skirts and shorts, three pairs of navy-blue gym knickers, and the baggy, shapeless tunic that Violet had knitted for special occasions.

  ‘You’re not making me take that thing!’ said Babby.

  Violet had used cheap green nylon wool that she found in the bin at Blackler’s Department Store. She had threaded blue ribbon around the collar and around the hem and tied it in bows, but it looked ridiculous.

  ‘There’s no point, Mam. I’ll never wear it. It’s itchy and scratchy and brings me out in a rash the minute I put it on. I’m itching just flamin’ thinking about it!’

  Violet ignored her, folded it, and put it into the case.

  ‘What about this?’ asked Violet. She held up a white dress draped over the back of the chair, made from the gown she wore when she had married Jack. She had nipped it in at the waist and shortened the sleeves and raised the hem to just below Babby’s knees.

  ‘Still looks like a flippin’ wedding dress, all that white stuff.’

  ‘Tulle, it’s called.’

  ‘I don’t care. If I didn’t want to wear it for the Queen of the May procession, why would I want to wear it now?’

  ‘Perhaps Pauline might have better luck with you Babby,’ said Violet, with a sigh. ‘But you need at least one best dress for church.’

  ‘Church?’

  ‘You can’t go to convent school and get away with not going to church.’

  ‘We don’t go to church any more, not since Dad died.’

  ‘Yes, well. Perhaps we should start again. The Delaneys need to make some changes
.’

  Babby curled her lip and watched Violet put the other carefully folded items, the dresses, the navy blue brushed cotton knickers and socks, into the small case. It seemed like an impossible task. The case was straining its sides.

  ‘You need to sit on it,’ said Violet. Babby humphed, did what she was instructed to do, but it still didn’t close.

  ‘Shove up,’ said Violet, and she sat down on the case beside her. Finally, she managed to click it shut and twist the lock. Panting and wiping her forehead she declared, ‘There. Thank you, Babby. Teamwork.’

  Babby stood and turned to leave.

  ‘Wait. We’ve not finished yet,’ said Violet and she dropped a bundle of navy-blue serge material, a half-finished skirt with elastic threaded around its waist, at her feet.

  ‘Put that on. Stand on that chair so I can get the hem straight. I want to make a good job of this.’ Some hope, thought Babby. Her mother was useless at sewing, cooking, or anything else that was vaguely domestic.

  ‘Why do I have to wear this?’ asked a reluctant Babby, wriggling into the skirt.

  ‘Stand still,’ replied Violet through a mouthful of pins, tugging the skirt one way and then another. ‘I just want to get this hem straight …’ Instinctively, Babby backed away as her mother jabbed a pin into her leg.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Don’t be daft. That didn’t hurt.’

  Violet sat down at the table. She was reading the instructions on the sleeve of the Simplicity pattern for the skirt, squinting at it and frowning.

  Babby sat back down in the chair, tilting back in it and trying to balance as she gripped the table with her fingertips.

  ‘Don’t do that, you’ll break the chair,’ said Violet without raising her eyes.

  Babby groaned again. She played with a ribbon, twisted it round and round a purpling finger, then she said, ‘What happened to Dad that night at the Boot Inn?’

  Violet jerked up her head. ‘Why are you asking me that now?’ she asked.

  ‘Just something Dougie said the other day. About the funeral. Why wasn’t I there?’

  Violet tutted. ‘Those McLaughlins are troublemakers. Don’t listen to anything Dougie says. You were too young. It would have been upsetting.’

  Babby fiddled with a tendril of her hair. ‘Do I really have to go to Pauline’s?’ she asked plaintively. ‘She’s not even my real aunty.’

  ‘As good as. We agreed. You’ll like it. It’s near the beach and the sand dunes, Saint Hilda’s and the pinewoods. Babby, it’s no good you playing out in bomb sites. You need fresh air, get some colour in those cheeks …’

  Babby sighed. She could feel tears stabbing her eyes. She still didn’t understand why she had to go to this woman’s house, to a town she barely knew – like an evacuee, except there was no war; at least, not one to speak of yet.

  Chapter Seven

  It was decided that Babby should travel to Pauline’s on her own, for reasons she didn’t quite understand, but it had something to do with her mother needing to see a man about five bob and a favour. Word had got around that they were selling knock-off nylon stockings at Great Homer Street market and, if it was true, Violet wanted to be the first in line to find out. So after tearful farewells and reassurances that it was perfectly fine making the four-mile journey from Liverpool to the town of Waterloo, Violet walked her to the tram and said goodbye, promising she would come and see her just as soon as she was able to.

  The train ride to Pauline’s took no longer than an hour but it seemed like a lifetime. First, she took the overhead railway from Huskisson Dock. As she looked out of the window at the Tate and Lyle factory, she drifted off into thought about Johnny Gallagher’s cousin – the one who fell in and drowned in the vat of sugar. She wondered if it was true. When she took the train from Seaforth the noxious smell of damp grain from the breweries was soon behind her and the ships and cranes became indistinguishable. Dilapidated tenements and bomb sites turned into houses with porches and jauntily painted garden gates leading to neat front lawns with lovingly tended rose beds and colourful dahlias. The sooty red-brick buildings of the warehouses and docks became clumps of trees and green fields, and the train rocked onwards on its tracks, with sand dunes on one side towards the sea, and the open marshes on the other.

  Waterloo was a bleak and windy coastal town that had seen better days since the slave traders and ship owners had packed up and left. Down by the shore there were wide, tree-lined roads with huge detached eight-bedroomed houses, sand building up in heaps around their gateposts and doorsteps, their bay windows staring mournfully out to the steel-grey sea. Some had been converted into flats, convents, or nursing homes for war casualties. Pauline lived towards the railway line where the houses were much smaller – rows of shabby Edwardian terraces with tiny gardens in the front and narrow lawns at the back that sloped down to the railway track. Babby remembered, from her last visit, that the house had sagging floorboards, mushrooms growing in the kitchen, and squirrels in the loft, all of which she had thought were amusing anecdotes that she had shared with Johnny Gallagher on her return from a day trip. But now she might actually be living here, it filled her with dread. Not only that, the fresh air made her feel queasy. The smell of the sea and the sound of screeching gulls was unfamiliar to Babby and she preferred the city’s dust in her lungs and the black soot in her nostrils and under her fingernails.

  How long had it been since she had last visited here? Two? Three years? As she approached, the road leading to the house curved into a crescent. She could see the building ahead, dull and squat, with a crumbling chimney. Her heart pounded. The garden was more overgrown, but nothing much had changed as far as she could remember. There was the same lilac bush poking up between the cracks in the neglected paving stones of the front path, the same peeling woodwork, faded red door, broken gate, loose on its hinges. Babby arrived at the house and stood in the porch, with the smell of damp from the sticky slime-laced windowsills and rotting wood. She pressed the broken bell with the heel of her hand, then after waiting a moment or two, rapped gently on the door that had been left ajar.

  ‘Who’s that?’ called a voice, from beyond. ‘Come in …’

  Babby put her hands deep in her pockets to calm herself. The door swung wider on its hinges when she pushed it open gently with her foot.

  Pauline appeared with a mop in her hand. She had a thin, pointed nose that stuck out like a little beak from the middle of her face, and when she spoke, she tilted her head from one side to another and thrust her chin back and forth, like a strange, pecking bird.

  ‘Good God, it’s you, Babby. I wasn’t expecting you so early,’ said Pauline.

  Babby wondered if she should apologise.

  ‘And here you are, just standing on the doorstep,’ said Pauline. Thoughts began to rearrange themselves in Babby’s head as Pauline talked in a volley of words about wiping her feet, the electric meter, suitcases, and lights out – all the time underscoring her instructions with lively gesticulations.

  Babby stepped further inside the hall. The house smelled of unfamiliar smells and there was a holy water font screwed into the wall, a framed picture of the smiling Pope above that, and a wooden crucifix on a stand. She could see into the room beyond which had a badly made-up bed in it, pushed up against the wall. A couple of cushions had been placed on it, but it did nothing to disguise the bed as a sofa, and she dreaded that this might be where she might be sleeping. There was a smell of antiseptic, Vim, and cigarette smoke and she could hear Pauline’s breathing standing this close to her – steady shallow breaths.

  ‘What have you got on?’ said Pauline. ‘You must be sweltering in that get up.’

  Babby fingered the belt on her gabardine mac. She was about to say that her mother told her to wear it, but she didn’t. Pauline commented, ‘Ooh, it’s got Violet all over it! Still, you’ll grow into it one day, no doubt. Well,’ she concluded with a sigh, ‘you better make yourself at home.’

  Babby didn’t
answer.

  ‘So how long will this job at the wash house last?’ Pauline asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Babby.

  ‘Well, neither do I. No one tells me anything.’

  ‘Nor me,’ replied Babby.

  Pauline humphed. ‘You actually look smaller – can that be possible?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe you’ve got taller.’

  ‘Unlikely. You’ve not been eating properly I suspect. Spam fritters and jelly and custard aren’t going to do much good to a growing girl.’

  I wish. Spam fritters and jelly sounds delicious, thought Babby.

  ‘Well, we’ll soon change that,’ continued Pauline.

  ‘Mam said I should give you this,’ Babby said, taking out a packet of fig biscuits from her pocket and handing it to her.

  ‘Where did she get these from? Jacob’s?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Babby. This wasn’t the conversation she wanted. She wanted the one about where she would be sleeping, and was it really true that Pauline had persuaded the local convent school to enrol her, taking up one of the charitable places for deprived city girls? Violet had told her she should be grateful but Babby didn’t want to be anyone’s charity, and everyone knew these places were only an opportunity for the schools to get money to supplement the education of the girls who were paying the fees. She might as well just turn up with a sign over her head saying I AM POOR. Just like when Violet had got the shoemaker to hammer nails into the heels of her shoes to make them last, and they clattered when she walked up the aisle at church and made everyone turn and look at her.

  She followed Pauline into the kitchen as she was instructed. Whatever it was that Pauline had been using to clean the floor – Ajax, probably, judging from the traces of white powder around the skirting board and the feeling of grit underfoot – it was making her nose itch and her eyes water. She tried to hold back a sneeze and failed.

  ‘Bless you,’ said Pauline, without looking over her shoulder.