A Liverpool Girl Page 5

The statue on the mantelpiece of a bearded Jesus pointing at his bleeding heart, his eyes rolling back in his head, made her grimace. Why does Jesus always have to have that mopey look on his face? That wouldn’t convince anyone to mend their ways. Wet as a haddock’s bathing costume, she thought.

  ‘Hang your gabardine on that coat stand … Can you manage?’ asked Pauline.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Babby, flatly. The coat stand was groaning with two musty-smelling moth-eaten fur coats, umbrellas with handles carved into birds’ heads, a cane, woollen scarves, and it even had a set of rosary beads dangling from it. As she stood on her toes to hook her mac over one of its pegs, it toppled towards her.

  ‘Sorry!’ she said, catching it. This house is so full of stupid clutter, Babby wanted to say. Crucifixes, glass fish, ornaments of china dogs and cats. You could hardly move without knocking something over.

  ‘Wait there,’ said Pauline, bustling out into the kitchen and coming back with a plate of food. She placed it on the table which was covered with a wine-coloured chenille tablecloth. Babby stared at the meat, potatoes, and vegetables, baked under a crust of pastry. She looked from the plate to Pauline’s expectant face and felt desolate. It was so quiet here. She was used to arguments and shouting and laughter. Only the sound of the ticking clock punctuated the awkward and yawning silence.

  ‘Sit down and tuck in,’ said Pauline, brightly.

  Babby slumped down on the chair Pauline had pulled out for her, stuffed the napkin into her collar, and raised the fork to her mouth. The bits of kidney were disgusting and the meat was so tough she might have been chewing the sole of her shoe; she had to swallow it in lumps. To think she usually moaned about Violet’s dumplings that floated in doughy puddles in a sea of greasy gravy – now the memory of it made her feel homesick. She would even have swapped the green potatoes – with shoots growing out of them – and corned beef from rusting tins from the out-of-date bucket at Kerryson’s the grocers, for this.

  With a forkful of pie hovering between plate and mouth, she felt herself retch. It was a gagging reflex that she had little control over and she mumbled an apology as she took a small tentative bite and felt the gristle between her teeth, the pastry going dry and sour in her mouth.

  ‘You don’t have to eat it,’ said Pauline. Her voice sounded softer. Babby could see she was trying to be kind.

  ‘I’m just not very hungry,’ she said, laying down the fork.

  ‘Leave it, dear,’ said Pauline. ‘It’ll keep until tomorrow,’ and she swept the plate away, covering it with a tea towel and putting it in the larder. She returned a moment or two later. ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ said Pauline with bustling enthusiasm.

  She produced a long, shapeless navy-blue cable knitted cardigan from behind her back. ‘It took me three months to finish it! I unravelled an old sweater of mine and re-knitted it, but it’s all coat on me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Babby, struggling to be polite.

  ‘Try it on,’ said Pauline, running her finger down her pointy nose.

  Babby nodded, slipping her arms through the sleeves. She put it on in a daze. It looked ridiculous.

  ‘It’ll be perfect for school. Saint Hilda’s has a place for you. You’ll like it there,’ said Pauline, standing back and admiring her handiwork.

  Babby was still trying to grapple with the idea of Saint Hilda’s. She was already missing her old school with its muddy sandpit and the smelly toilets at the other side of the playground – freezing in the winter – and taking it in turns with the register and the handbell at dinner time. This cardigan was enormous. The sleeves were so long they flapped about the tips of her fingers and the thought of wearing it was appalling. The grey flecks in the wool made it drab and the flat brown buttons were incongruous. Not only that, Pauline had sewn large linen cuffs on the sleeves which made it even more ludicrous.

  Yet Pauline was smiling at her hopefully. ‘This isn’t going to be forever,’ she said. ‘And I’ll be glad of the company.’ She leant in to her, and Babby noticed that her steel-coloured hair, all matted and wiry, smelled of the sea.

  ‘Take these up to your room. The one with the door with the broken handle,’ Pauline said, handing her two pairs of shoes. One was a sturdy pair of ugly lace-ups, the other pair old-fashioned, with a T-bar and a buckle; both of them looked more like boats than shoes.

  ‘Why do I need two pairs?’

  ‘Indoors and outdoors. Saint Hilda’s is very particular.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Babby. ‘Mam told me.’ She cast her eyes down to the floor. She knew that if she looked at Pauline directly, she might either cry or hurl something across the room.

  Pauline continued, ‘But the nuns are kind. There are a few lay teachers, old birds you know, who were in the WAAF and whatnot who are fond of tweed and sensible shoes.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Babby. It sounded horrible.

  Pauline licked her finger, rubbed at a mark on the table and added casually, ‘Your mother doesn’t deserve what some are saying about her. Especially those dreadful gossips at the Boot Inn. Besides, Gladys Worrall, is a right old teapot …’

  What on earth was she talking about? thought Babby. Gladys Worrall? What was she saying about Violet?

  ‘… squeaky clean on the outside, filthy on the inside. Don’t know how your mother can stand it. Vi made the best of what God gave her, all right, and what’s wrong with that? ’

  And then suddenly, in waves of panic, Babby’s lip trembled and her shoulders shook.

  ‘What is the matter?’ asked Pauline.

  ‘I w-want to go home,’ stammered Babby. She could feel the blood rush to her cheeks.

  Pauline frowned but didn’t say anything, just patted her shoulder. Then she stood up and opened the sewing basket on the sideboard. ‘When I’ve finished darning these socks for you, I’m going out to the shop for a pound of lard so you go upstairs and unpack.’ Then she sighed. ‘Your mother will come and get you in time, chicken.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to that awful Saint Hilda’s school,’ said Babby, suddenly. ‘I swear, I won’t step foot in that place!’ She jutted out her chin in defiance.

  Pauline didn’t even look up from the sock. She had been warned about Babby’s temper.

  ‘Don’t talk nonsense. Of course, you will.’

  ‘I don’t want to. You can’t make me!’ Shaking, she watched Pauline place the sock and the needle on the table, then very calmly cross her legs and fold her hands in her lap.

  ‘That’s certainly true. Babby, you do have a choice. Your mother has asked me to make sure you go to school, but do you know what the alternative is?’

  Babby shrugged. ‘Go home. Help Mam with our Hannah and Patrick.’

  ‘No. The alternative is Saint Sylvester’s orphanage. Now, I could take you straight there myself, but it’s full of wayward abandoned girls and boys and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Neither would you.’

  ‘I thought the wayward girls went to Saint Jude’s?’ Babby remembered Violet pointing out Saint Jude’s Mother and Baby Home when they had gone for a walk to the beach on their last visit. A building that looked as grim and foreboding as the fate of the poor unfortunate girls who ended up there.

  ‘Let’s just say that they start off at Saint Sylvester’s – but some get to Saint Jude’s eventually,’ she said ominously.

  ‘I don’t care. I’m not going to Saint Hilda’s!’ shouted Babby, leaping up and slamming a fist on the table. ‘Why doesn’t Mam want me?’ she wailed. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Y’s a crooked letter and you can’t straighten it,’ Pauline answered firmly, trying to end the conversation.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Pauline reached a hand out across the table but Babby drew hers away sharply.

  ‘Oh, of course your mother wants you,’ said Pauline. ‘It’s just that it’s impossible, right now. Impossible. You’ll understand in time.’

  Babby stamped her foot and kicked at the hearth.

/>   ‘That’s enough now!’ cried Pauline. Seeing Babby’s furious temper played out before her – all flailing arms and tossing of hair and humphing – was an unsettling sight. Pauline was already beginning to regret taking in the girl, even though she had been told she would be useful, what with her own failing eyes and water on the knee. ‘Go to bed right now, Babby!’

  Babby blinked away the tears. She didn’t want Pauline to see her crying. She didn’t want to tell her that she suspected that her mother was hiding something. She had no real evidence, except that at the very moment that her mother had said things would start to get better, they began to fall apart.

  Babby lay on her bed, repositioned the small brass lamp with its flickering bulb encased in a metal rose, and read the list Pauline had left on the bed for her. It was a list of the things she was required to bring to school with her the next day: plimsolls, navy shorts, navy gym knickers, plain white cotton vest, navy drawstring bag (clothing and bag embroidered with name in pale-blue chain stitching), apron, compass, ruler, eraser, fountain pen, Bible, service book. Well, Pauline wasn’t half optimistic, thought Babby. Violet had packed none of these items and Babby had no reason to think Pauline would provide them. She wondered how well Pauline knew her mother.

  Half an hour later, when she heard the front door open and the chink of coins in a tin, Babby crept out of the bedroom, stopped and squatted, hands clenched around the bannisters, peering down at the scene below. The woman with hair like a hat, who stepped into the hall and, with annoying precision, removed her gloves finger by finger, spoke in hushed tones. Pauline took the small red mission box that was on the hall table, tipped out the pennies and a button, and gave the coins to the woman.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Babby recognised the blue sash she wore over her shoulder – she was one of the Mission collectors who come from the Legion of Mary to collect money for fatherless children. Why couldn’t they just give it directly to the Delaney family? thought Babby.

  ‘Is the girl here?’ asked the woman, folding up the gloves and carefully putting them in her crocodile-skin handbag.

  ‘Yes. Best she’s away from her mother, what with this latest business,’ said Pauline in hushed tones. ‘Anyway, the school will be good for the child – she needs routine.’ There followed an animated conversation about geranium cuttings and gooseberry jam, but soon veered back to fallen girls, like the ones in Saint Jude’s, and scarlet women. Unnerved and fearful of being noticed, Babby returned to her room and quietly shut the door. Was everyone talking about the Delaney family? What had Violet done that was the cause of this gossip? Why was it best she was kept away from her mother? She felt as though she was going to be sick. Actually sick, all over the balding candlewick bedspread.

  She paced the room, tearing around the skin of her thumbnail with her teeth like a wild animal. She could, of course, go home. She could just get on the train and go home. Or she could write to Violet and she would come and get her; surely she would do that if she knew what a terrible mistake this was? If Violet was in trouble, she needed Babby to help. She couldn’t waste time at awful Saint Hilda’s. Saint Hilda’s. The words turned bitter in her mouth, like the sour pastry.

  That night she wept tears of frustration until the thin bed sheet was sodden. She had heard stories of evacuees being beaten and made to do terrible jobs, like scrub the bedpans or dig in the fields. She could have fought back against that kind of regime, but how could she fight back when everyone was saying that they were only doing the best for her? Didn’t they know she was so lonely here that it was making her feel physically sick? She twisted the sheet until she could wring nothing more out of it. And as the night wore on, tears turned to anger. She had seen the way Violet looked at men, doe-eyed, pursing her lips, tilting her head to one side in a show of innocence. Is that why she had been sent here? So her mother could make a fool of herself? It had only been a few years since their father had died. How could she do this to her?

  Chapter Eight

  Babby woke bleary-eyed, tired before she had even got out of bed. The school uniform was put on in a daze – navy calf-length pinafore and white shirt, the lace-up brown leather shoes, the blue and silver striped tie, the ugly battered hat with a stupid gold badge on it saying Respice Finem. Breakfast of a fried egg, fried black pudding and gristly bacon with lumps of white bone in it was eaten silently, satchel was packed, and all the time Babby was wondering how could this be happening to her.

  She headed off to the school bus stop, with directions scribbled on a notepad and instructions to come straight home after lessons.

  ‘Don’t go anywhere near the beach,’ shouted Pauline from the garden gate, as an afterthought.

  Babby stopped. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘The dunes. They move. Open up and swallow you. And the tides. The currents. It’s a dangerous place.’

  Intrigued, and deciding Pauline was probably exaggerating, Babby shrugged and nodded. Already the navy velour hat, squashed firmly on her head with the elastic band cutting into the flesh under her chin, was beginning to chafe and scratch. What the gang at the hollas would say if they could see her in this frightful get up, she could only imagine.

  There was a crowd of dark-blue blazers waiting for the forty-three bus to arrive. Amongst the claque of hats and hockey sticks, was a cluster of maroon jackets. They belonged to the grammar school boys of Saint Paul’s. For a moment, Babby considered sauntering over and striking up a conversation – she had always preferred the rowdy rough and tumble of boys to girls – but faced with the glossy hair, confident smiles, and fat, knotted ties, not the scruffy, rag-tag mob she was used to, her courage faded. And anyway, what boy would want to talk to her? What would she even talk about? The hollas? The Boot Inn? Her mother dumping her here? The tragedy of her new life with Pauline?

  Babby said nothing, just twisted a piece of her wiry brown hair round her finger, moving away from the crowd, conveniently allowing a group of boys to separate her from the girls. A green double-decker arrived and started to fill up. She shuffled reluctantly to join the queue. Inside, there were already girls sprawled on the back seat. The braver ones, she noticed, had stuffed their hats into their blazer pockets. One had stretched her long body across three passive twelve-year-olds and banged on the window gesturing for the others to come and join her. Another girl waved a hockey stick and shouted at the boys three seats away to move up. Meanwhile, Babby made her way down the bus and sat, squashed up against the window.

  A tall girl with greasy red hair and clothes even shabbier than Babby’s – flapping shoes, frayed collar – was coming down the gangway. The bus shuddered when the driver accelerated and the girl was thrown headlong on to the floor; a riotous cheer went up. A penknife and pencils spilled and flipped from her blazer pocket as she landed in an undignified, crumpled heap, navy-blue knickers and milk-bottle thighs on full view.

  ‘All right Frying Pan?’ cried a voice from the back.

  The girl seemed undeterred, leapt up and started brandishing her hockey stick. ‘Call me that to me face!’ she yelled in a thick Dublin accent. ‘Sure, if you lot had shoved up, I would’ve been able to sit down and this wouldn’t have happened!’

  There was another explosion of laughter.

  ‘There was loads of room,’ chirped a spotty thirteen-year old. ‘Turn sideways and you’d be marked absent, Frying Pan. I’ve seen more meat on a butcher’s pencil!’

  Ha ha, so bloody funny, thought Babby. It wasn’t the girl’s fault she was so skinny. Just didn’t have enough food, probably. And also probably couldn’t afford shampoo. Just like her.

  Babby turned around and looked at the two imperious-looking girls sitting behind her who were sniggering.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ asked the first girl. She had sleek blonde hair and an appraising gaze that made Babby feel uncomfortable. ‘Are you new? Don’t recognise you …’

  Babby turned away.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ said the girl, laughing a
nd poking her between her shoulder blades.

  Babby shrugged. ‘It wasn’t funny, that’s all. Stop laughing at her, just because she fell. You’re the only ones having the craic here.’

  A group of smirking moon-faced boys exchanged looks. Meanwhile, Frying Pan was scrabbling about for the pens that had rolled under seats or lodged in the slatted grooves of the aisle.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t hear you. Did you say something?’ the blonde girl asked Babby again. Then turning to her friend, she added, ‘What did she say?’

  ‘I said nothing,’ mumbled Babby. She busied herself by pulling up her socks which were bagging around her pink, freckled ankles.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. I—’

  ‘Ooh, it talks,’ said the girl as she licked a finger and ran it over her arched eyebrow.

  The second girl sniggered. ‘Bit of a Moody Margaret this one, don’t you think?’ she said.

  The first girl grinned. ‘Probably just got the Curse.’

  The second girl cackled. ‘Yeah. You’re right. Probably got the Red Cabbage. You got your Aunty Mary, love?’ She giggled. ‘You can tell us. We’re your friends here …’

  Frying Pan, stuffing her pens into her ink-stained pockets, hauled herself up and loomed up over them. ‘Leave her alone!’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Babby said to the girl quietly, when she took a seat beside her.

  ‘Me name’s Mary, but everyone calls me Frying Pan because of me greasy hair.’

  Babby hesitated. ‘I’ll call you Mary,’ she said.

  ‘That’s nice,’ replied Mary. ‘But I don’t care. You can call me Frying Pan if you want – I’ll not let it get to me. They’re all stuck up feckin’ eejits here, not worth the bother. What’s your name?’

  ‘Babby.’

  ‘Short for Barbara or summat?’

  ‘No.’ Babby smiled. ‘Though me mam loves Barbara Stanwyck, you know, from the films.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘Because for ages I was the baby and that’s what me dad called me. Then our Hannah came along as a kind of mistake, but by then everyone had got used to Babby and my real name, Jeanie, sounded peculiar.’