A Liverpool Girl Page 7

  ‘That job, collecting the glasses? Johnny Gallagher told me about it. Is it still going?’ asked Babby, straightening her skirt.

  Gladys’s blank expression gave nothing away.

  ‘I said, that job – is it still going?’

  Gladys stretched out her legs and crossed one over the other. ‘It is if you’ll sing for us, love,’ she said.

  Elsie raised her eyebrows and admonished her with a look. ‘Don’t be a devil, Glad. She’s only twelve! Is she allowed?’

  Gladys looked Babby up and down, fascinated by the thrust of her hip, the toss of her hair, the sheer bloody nerve of her. ‘Does your mother know you’re here?’

  ‘Course,’ Babby lied.

  ‘So, if I said, “Violet, your Babby is singing in the pub”, she’d be fine with that?’

  ‘Dandy,’ replied Babby.

  It was as if a new source of courage had taken over Babby’s body. She placed a fist on her hip, cocked her head to one side.

  Gladys smiled, thinking she’d do anything for a pretty young girl to liven this place up – and even though this one was a tomboy with scuffed knees and ragged clothes, she would scrub up all right.

  ‘Well, I could get you a job at the Tap down the road. Keep your mother happy. Doing the bottle washing and the coal-hole. Or I could get you one singing here.’

  ‘I’d rather here,’ said Babby her eyes widening.

  ‘Let’s hear you, then.’

  ‘What, now?’ asked Babby.

  ‘Why not? There’s the stage,’ she said gesturing towards the far end of the room.

  It’s hardly a stage, thought Babby, as she looked over to a couple of upturned packing cases with a few planks laid over the top. She eyed the pub nervously. There was a man sipping a pint of ale with a bulldog sleeping at his feet and a couple of dockers in their work clothes, faces covered in soot, glanced over in her direction.

  Gladys turned to Elsie. ‘You ever hear Jack Delaney singing “Liverpool Girl”?’

  ‘Not had the pleasure,’ Elsie replied.

  ‘Babby, you know that one?’

  Of course she knew it. How could she not? It was the last song that her father had sung to her before he died. A memory flashed into her head of him singing it into her ear, of warm sunshine, her coronation dress, and of red, white, and blue bunting.

  ‘Do it for Elsie,’ said Gladys.

  Babby felt her knees trembling.

  She made her way to the stage, stepped up on to it, and cleared her throat nervously.

  ‘’Twas a Liverpool girl who loved me, oh she loved me, my Liverpool girl.’

  Her voice was clear and true and even the bulldog pricked up his ears. The dockers paused, their pint glasses held somewhere between table and lips for a moment. Babby grew more confident, sang louder and sweeter – and beamed as Elsie and the customers gave her a round of applause when she finished.

  Gladys smiled. ‘Come back Saturday and do the same again for us? I’ll pay you half a crown.’

  Babby was so happy she could have hugged her.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Worrall. Thank you!’ she said.

  Gladys Worrall tutted and shook her head.

  ‘Thank you,’ she repeated. It was not exactly the job she had come here for. But it was the job that she really wanted. Surely enough time had passed since her father died and as long as she went back to the school on the hill and kept up with her homework, Violet wouldn’t object? Would she?

  Chapter Ten

  Babby turned, ran out of the pub, over the tram lines, through the passage way that led to the piece of wasteland, then back towards Joseph Street. The sharp intakes of breath as she gulped air stabbed her throat as she charged on. It was good to be home. She was certain that, despite Pauline’s doubtless fury on discovering she had run away from school, having a job and earning money would change everything for her mother and she would be allowed to come back. The smell of coal and smoke was welcoming. There was the spot where Patrick had smashed his football through next-door’s side window and Violet had walloped him for it, the corner where they had been caught by the police with pockets full of apples they had stolen after scrumping at Croxteh Hall, the dent in the door where a game of Kick the Can had become overly exuberant and the can had shot all the way over the road and Pat, as he returned from Boy’s Brigade, had ducked to avoid it and sworn. It was all reassuringly familiar. She knew every nook and cranny of this place, which was why she loved it here. She would tell Violet she was home, that she was going to work hard at school and could also earn her keep. It would make her mother happy to know she had a job; all would be forgiven and, when Violet was happy, it was blissful.

  The sounds of the rag-and-bone man calling, ‘Any old iron! Any old iron!’ for pans with bottoms that needed mending, or old clothes that he would pay a penny for, morphed into a one-syllable guttural cry, and made her heart leap. She thumped the rusting bell with the heel of her hand, knocked on the window and called. There was no reply, but making her way down the side of the house, she saw the back door was ajar. She shoved it open. ‘Flaming heck,’ she murmured, reaching out to catch a broom propped up behind it. It knocked over an aspidistra in a raffia pot that sat on a wooden plant stand, which upturned itself on to the worn peg rug.

  ‘Mam!’ she called. ‘Mam, I’m back!’ trying to scoop up the plant. There was no reply, but inside the living room, the fire had been made. She made her way into the kitchen and noticed there were dirty cups and saucers in the sink, a frying pan with a single shrivelled piece of blackened bacon coagulating in white lard, and an empty bottle of Vimto on the draining board. It had only been two weeks since she had been here, but as she stood there, looking around the room, it seemed different – a chair moved to the corner, the vase sitting on the sideboard instead of the windowsill, the hatstand pushed up against the far wall.

  She made her way upstairs, taking them two at a time. But then, when she came upon one of Violet’s blouses lying crumpled on the landing floor, she hesitated. Consternation rippled through her and panic lodged in her throat. Through the door that was slightly open, she saw, to her horror, the shape of an unfamiliar body lying on the bed face down, saw bare shoulders and a string vest, an expanse of white flesh. Worse than that, as the body shifted, she saw that there was another underneath. Her mother’s.

  There was movement in the bedroom. Babby stood, frozen. Her feet felt as if they were stuck in cement, claggy and immovable. She watched as the man heaved his legs over the side of the bed, grunted, pulled up his trousers and rose to his feet, braces looping around his thighs. She felt herself trembling. She couldn’t see his face, but then she didn’t know if she wanted to. The man shifted again. Strands of Violet’s hair fanned out on the sheets and, for a second, Babby thought she should just burst in and to hell with the consequences. But even she didn’t have the courage for that and she turned to leave. The board on the top stair, the one she should have remembered was loose, creaked loudly as she trod on it and from inside her mother’s room she heard coughing and footsteps. Terrified, she slipped into the cupboard on the landing and shut the door.

  She waited, open-mouthed, hardly daring to breathe, every hair on her body standing up stiffly as a porcupine’s needles. A door squeaked on its hinges and the footsteps were in the hallway now, passing inches away from her, and stopping at the top of the stairs. Babby closed her eyes and prayed. Then there were more footsteps, now going down the stairs, and the man’s voice shouting up to her mother, ‘See you, Vi’, as he walked out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Meanwhile, Violet wrapped a bed sheet around her body. She had heard the creak on the landing and knew for certain that someone else was in the house. She came out just as Babby was trying to creep down the stairs. ‘Bloody Nora. It’s you!’ she exclaimed.

  Babby froze, then turned around, and stuttered a lame hello, but could think of nothing else to say. She gawped at her mother, her hair dishevelled, red about the eyes and mouth
, the chafe of a man’s beard flushing her cheek.

  ‘What in the name of God are you doing here?’

  ‘Come home,’ Babby mumbled, biting her lip to stop herself telling her mother what she had just seen.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ said Violet.

  ‘There are lots of things that are ridiculous,’ Babby said.

  For a moment, Babby considered running straight back out of the front door, but despite the awfulness of the situation, she decided what she wanted to tell her mother was more important. She had come here to announce that she could help look after the family and get a job, so that they could all be together again and be happy. And that was what she was going to do. The fact that she had found her mother ‘making the beast with two backs’ as Johnny Gallagher put it, wasn’t her fault.

  ‘How long were you spying on us?’ said Violet.

  ‘I wasn’t, Mam! I didn’t know that you were …’ What didn’t she know? The words stretched away from her. How could her mother do something so disgusting, so abhorrent, to be doing it, because that’s what it looked like, with a man, out of wedlock? She felt her cheeks burn with shame. The girls at Saint Hilda’s were right. Her mother was ‘loose’.

  Violet went back into her bedroom. Babby was deliberating what to do when she heard Hannah, in the back bedroom, let out a chesty cough. She went into the room. ‘Hannah?’ she said. Curled up on the low bed wrapped up in an old blanket and Violet’s astrakhan coat, Hannah looked up at her. She was wearing the grubby old blue smocked dress that Babby recognised as once having been her own. A tendril of her curly hair was stuck against her wet cheek.

  Babby sat beside her on the bed. ‘Why aren’t you at Aunty Kathleen’s?’ she murmured as she drew her towards her. She looked around. There were no toys, or children’s books. Just a crucifix and an empty gin bottle. There used to be a brightly coloured spinning top on the mantelpiece above the grate, and a mobile hung with fish and ducks that, when the lights came on in the street outside, made strange-shaped patterns across the ceiling. Had Violet been selling things from the house? What was going on? Were they really that poor?

  ‘What’s been happening?’ she said to Hannah gently.

  Hannah didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. Her glassy eyes just filled with tears.

  ‘Oh, Hannah,’ said Babby. ‘Don’t be sad. I’m not cross with you. Come on, let’s get you some fresh clothes and a cup of milk. This is a right godawful show …’

  Hannah nodded seriously. No one was going to argue with that.

  When Babby went into the parlour she found Violet pacing, now dressed in an old kimono. She was expecting more tears, perhaps Violet begging for her forgiveness, perhaps an explanation for the horror she had just witnessed. Instead, Violet turned away, presenting an indifferent back, that was hard to read. On the stove, there were tatties cooking in a pan of greasy water. Violet prodded the potatoes with a fork, licked its prongs, and announced quietly that Babby should forget everything that she had just seen, just put it right out of her mind, she couldn’t hope to understand.

  ‘Mam, I just want to come back. I hate my new school, the girls are vile to me. It’s like a prison. There are actual bars on the windows. Flipping nuns giving me the evil eye. They make me feel like I’m something they’ve stepped in.’

  Violet laid down the fork. ‘Love, I’m sorry you don’t like your new school, but who likes school? No one. You’re not supposed to like school. Running back here complaining won’t make any difference to anything at all, you still can’t stay.’

  Babby threw herself on the chaise longue and groaned.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Babby. Get over yourself. You look like you’ve knitted your face and dropped a stitch. Go and do the fire and make sure you pull the newspaper.’ Babby sighed, wondering if it would be better if she just left, but compliantly she took the shovel and, with a newspaper across it, used it to draw the fire, watching it catch fire and disappear up the chimney.

  Violet, awkward, sat down. Then she casually took the mouldy fur off the top of the jam with a knife and scraped it on the side of the plate before spreading a fresh dollop on the heel of a stale loaf.

  ‘There’s lots of things you don’t understand, Babby.’ she said through a mouthful of jam. ‘You’re too young …’

  ‘What would Patrick would have to say about it? Does he already know? About your fella?’ asked Babby.

  Violet took a scent bottle and, pumping the small crocheted ball, started spraying perfume down her cleavage. ‘Until you know the truth of the thing, there is no point getting upset or involved in a grown-up’s problems, dear.’

  In response, Babby stood. She said nothing but banged the dishes in the sink, screwed up her eyes, and fixed her mother with a look.

  ‘I came home because I thought you needed me,’ sighed Babby.

  ‘I need you to do what I tell you for once,’ replied Violet.

  There was a pause. Violet softened. She came over to Babby who had now slumped into a chair. ‘Love …’ she said. But Babby shoved her away, slung her legs over the side of the armchair, stood up and announced she was going off into the back yard for a breath of fresh air.

  ‘Bring in the coal bucket,’ called Violet after her.

  The following morning, Violet knelt at the hearth, using the bellows to help the fresh coal catch fire. ‘About yesterday. I’m sorry you had to see that, love,’ she said to Babby, finding it difficult to meet her eyes. ‘But it’s not only about you, you know. The world doesn’t revolve around you.’

  ‘But I hate Pauline – and Saint Hilda’s! And I miss Dad and Hannah and Pat – and even Johnny!’ said Babby. Violet listened and sighed, and nodded. ‘I miss this place an’ all, Mam.’

  ‘I understand all of that, but you have to trust me to know what is best for you, and whilst I will love you forever, right until this hair turns white, I can’t have you just jumping on a bus home when you feel like it. Maybe Saint Hilda’s was a mistake.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Pauline always said it would be. I was the one who persuaded her it might work. But the fact is she spoke to me a week ago about you wanting to leave Saint Hilda’s and advised me to make alternative arrangements. So, this time, as long as the priest at Saint Patrick’s still agrees, you will be going to Holy Island in Anglesey, to one of the homes that the sister’s run. They need a girl.’

  ‘A home? Like Saint Jude’s?’

  ‘Of course not like Saint Jude’s. That’s for unmarried mothers, you silly girl. God forbid you ever end up there. In fact, that’s precisely why I’m doing this. To tame you, Babby. To keep you out of that place. It’s for your own good. No, this is somewhere for children whose families can’t look after them. The nuns teach the children and when they are old enough they work on the farm. You can stay for five weeks or five years, depending on your circumstances.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes, Babby.’

  ‘I’m only staying until Christmas.’

  ‘Then what? No, I’m afraid, this time it will be for good. Or at least until you finish your schooling.’

  Babby opened her eyes wide with fury.

  ‘Anglesey? I don’t even know where Anglesey is!’

  ‘North Wales. Across the water. It’s an island. Pauline says it’s lovely.’

  ‘No! Pauline’s lying!’

  Violet, despite everything, feeling sorry for her, tried to placate her by placing a calming hand on her chestnut brown curls, but Babby sprang back as if she was on a coil, and asked, ‘What about Hannah and Pat?’

  ‘What about them? Pat will go into lodgings, Hannah will go to Kathleen’s.’

  And you will carry on with your fancy man! thought Babby, deciding that, actually, the last place she wanted to be was Joseph Street.

  ‘You might like it,’ said Violet. ‘It’s very green.’

  ‘I’ll only go if I can take Dad’s accordion.’

  Violet sucked in air. ‘Why would you want to dra
g that old thing all the way there?’

  ‘It would remind me of home. Of Dad.’

  Violet sighed. ‘We’ll see,’ she said.

  It really was a hopeless situation.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘I worry about Hannah. She’ll be so confused and sad,’ said a fretful Violet, when she told her sister, Kathleen, about sending Babby to Anglesey. ‘I know it’s for the best, but Hannah will miss Babby so much. Those two are joined at the hip. She’s nearly three years old, but she follows Babby everywhere, she’s like a limpet. I feel sick at the thought of separating them for longer than a few days. It was bad enough whilst Babby was at Pauline’s. Hannah is such a fragile little poppet.’

  ‘I certainly can’t be looking after them both,’ Kathleen replied, unmoved, bustling around the kitchen, rinsing out dirty teacups and sticky glasses.

  ‘Pauline has also said I will have to drag myself off to Mass. And to confession. Apparently, I have to say to the priest that I’m sorry for turning my back on the church and then we can all start afresh. That’s if I want them to sort Babby out for me. Angelsey, I mean.’ She sighed. ‘I swore I was done with all this God stuff after Jack died.’

  ‘Sounds a good idea. Father O’Casey always seems to know what to say. They have an instinct about these things.’

  Violet wasn’t convinced. She suspected Kathleen was more worried about her ongoing love affair with Spanish brandy and what that was doing to them all, than the business with Babby. God knows what she would have had to say if she had had walked in on her as Babby had done the week before. Kathleen had wanted her to go to talk to the priests and the nuns since Jack died.

  ‘But it’s been so long since I’ve been anywhere near a church. What will Father O’Casey say to me? Will he even remember me?’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll ever forget you, Violet.’

  ‘It’s all very well, Pauline made it sound so simple, but they might take a very dim view. The last time I had a proper conversation with Father O’Casey was at Jack’s funeral – and that ended badly.’