A Kiss and a Promise (31 page)

Ginny had accordingly asked and been given an old tobacco tin and a quizzical glance from Aunt Amy’s small, bright eyes. ‘You’re learnin’, queen,’ she had said, quite gently for her. ‘There’s no thievery in this house; your money’s as safe in that tin as if it were the Bank of England.’

Ginny had felt her cheeks burn. ‘I know, Ivy told me,’ she had muttered. ‘But wi’ Granny Bennett … well, it were different. There weren’t nowhere in the house that she’d not search.’

Aunt Amy had nodded grimly. ‘Aye, an’ well I know it. I feel downright sorry for poor Mary. There’s the money she takes in the canny house as well as your Uncle George’s wages which have to be – to be kept safe. Still, the old gal’s got her pension, and knowin’ George, he won’t interfere wi’ how she spends it.’

Ivy turned over restlessly once more, bringing Ginny’s mind abruptly back to the present. It still puzzled her how Uncle Lewis explained away the fact that despite having a well-paid job, his wife only received a modicum of his wages, or so Ginny imagined. She decided that at the very next opportunity she would try to find out a bit more about the household finances. It might actually be possible to ask Aunt Amy outright about her own father’s contribution. She had noticed that Aunt Amy was almost easy-going when she was doing some simple domestic task, such as preparing cake mix to carry up to the baker or making drop scones on the hot griddle. Yes, next time her aunt was in a really good mood, she would see what she could find out.

Satisfied, Ginny relaxed once more and was soon asleep.

‘Here you are, Aunt Amy … by golly, but this bag’s heavy.’ Ginny heaved the big marketing bag on to the kitchen table and then took the packages from Ivy’s arms and set them down beside the bag. ‘I wish we had a pram; although Ruthie walks as far as she can, she’s only got little legs and I do have to carry her from time to time. Haven’t you ever thought of getting one? My pal, Danny, back in Victoria Court, shoves the younger ones into this big old pram and then piles the messages round ’em.’

It was a warm day and Ginny mopped at her brow with the back of her hand, then began to empty the marketing bag, chanting out the list of contents as she did so. ‘Ten pounds of flour, two pounds o’ raisins, two pounds o’ currants and a five pound slab of margarine.’

Her aunt, checking the shopping and the prices with her, said musingly: ‘Aye, a lorra folk I know use a pram and I must say when the messages is heavy, like today, you could do wi’ some help. You didn’t think to ask Norma to go along, or Belle?’

‘They’re in bed still,’ Ginny said briefly. She did not add that the last thing she wanted was Norma’s spiteful and grudging company. ‘You might think about a pram, Aunt Amy; you can pick one up cheap at Paddy’s Market, any day o’ the week.’ She looked curiously at her aunt, then decided that the moment was ripe. ‘You could use some o’ me dad’s money; I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. Now that I know his address I could write and ask him, if you wanted.’

Aunt Amy laughed, sounding genuinely amused. She must have realised, Ginny thought, that her niece still did not know exactly what her father’s contribution was, and was curious. She must also have realised that Ginny could not possibly ask such a question herself, though she knew that father and daughter now corresponded quite regularly.

‘Well, I’ll think about it, have a word wi’ your Uncle Lewis,’ Aunt Amy said.

‘Thanks, Aunt,’ Ginny said demurely. ‘Uncle Lewis has got a real good job, hasn’t he? I’ve heard you say so, many a time. I expect he gets good wages as well, doesn’t he?’

Her aunt glanced round the kitchen but the room was empty save for Ginny and herself. ‘You’re sharp as a monkey, Ginny Bennett,’ she said, almost approvingly. ‘You’ve lived wi’ us a fair while now, more ’n four months, and you’re beginnin’ to wonder why we lives squashed into this house, considerin’ the money we’ve got comin’ in.’ She had been rolling out pastry but now she stopped work and looked Ginny straight in the eye. ‘Can you keep a secret, queen?’

‘Yes, I’m sure I can,’ Ginny said readily. She had kept Uncle Lew’s secret, hadn’t she? ‘Wharris it, Aunt Amy?’

‘The fact is, chuck, I were a country girl before I married your uncle and I’ve always hankered after livin’ in the country again, so we’re savin’ up, your uncle and me. That’s why he works away, weekends. I miss him, o’ course I does, but it’s in a good cause.’

‘Gosh,’ Ginny breathed. ‘I’d like to live in the country an’ all, Aunt Amy. As you know, my daddy’s got a farm in Ireland so I’ve read up on it quite a lot. But would the rent be so much more than this house costs? And how would me uncle get to his work? And there’s your work too; how would you manage, eh?’

Her aunt smiled a trifle grimly and began to line a tin with pastry and to pour golden syrup and breadcrumbs into it. ‘That’s the whole point, chuck,’ she said. ‘What we’re after ain’t just a house in the country, it’s a farm … well, I suppose it’s more like a smallholding … which your uncle’s had his eye on for many a long day. We wouldn’t need to work outside o’ the place because farmin’ is a full time job. I’d have charge o’ the fowls, we’d keep pigs, goats, cows … and there’d be plantin’ out crops such as corn an’ barley. It ’ud be hard work, I don’t deny that, but we’d be workin’ for ourselves, d’you see? We wouldn’t need to leave the place, though at first Lew might have to keep on his weekend job, just until we’ve got the farm sorted out.’

‘It sounds wonderful,’ Ginny breathed. ‘Would you rent it, Aunt Amy?’

‘Normally we’d rent, that stands to reason, but this place has been abandoned – the old couple what owned it died eighteen months back – so it’s on the market. It ain’t a big enough acreage for most folk but it ’ud suit me and your uncle down to the ground.’

‘I say! But how long will it take you to save up enough money?’ Ginny asked breathlessly. Her aunt’s exciting news had put all other worries out of her head. ‘I’d dearly love to live on a farm, wi’ pigs and cows and that. So is that why Belle and Norma and their mam live wi’ you, Aunt? And when you and me uncle get the farm, will the Franklins come too?’

‘No, they’ll be stayin’ here. Ellen will take over the rent of the place and she means to let rooms, ’cos the three of ’em, all bein’ female, can share the room Uncle Lew an’ meself has now an’ let out the others for a decent rent.’ Aunt Amy had recently bought a contraption called a camp oven which could be suspended over the fire and in which one could bake cakes, pies and so on, provided one kept a careful eye on them, turning them if a side browned too quickly. Now, she took her treacle tarts, placed them in this contraption, and turned back to her niece. ‘So you see, there’s a reason behind everything we’re doin’,’ she said with a touch of complacence. ‘Ellen’s stayin’ in this house because she don’t want to see the landlord rentin’ it to someone else an’ I purrup wi’ your uncle bein’ away weekends ’cos the money’s goin’ towards our new life. Gerrit?’

‘Yes, I understand a lot more now, Aunt,’ Ginny said. ‘Will – will it be long before you can afford to buy the place you’ve got your eye on, d’you think?’

Her aunt shrugged. ‘That’s your Uncle Lew’s business, queen. He’s waitin’ till the price is right. The farm’s a long way from here – it’s over the border, into Wales – which means it’s cheaper, so you never know. Every time he comes home, I look at him and he gives a little shake o’ the head so I know it ain’t yet awhile. But I’m content to wait ’cos I know we’re headin’ in the right direction. An’ now let’s gerron with gettin’ dinner ready or the kids will be comin’ in an’ not so much as a spud cooked.’

It was not until she was in bed that night that Ginny had the leisure to think over what her aunt had told her. She had been carried away by the thought of living on a farm in Wales because she felt that it would be a much pleasanter life than the one she now lived. She thought a small village school would suit her a good deal better than the one she now attended, and, as she had told her aunt, she had now started reading books about farming from the Seaforth library in Crescent Road, so that if her father ever came for her, she might be useful.

But of course, if Uncle Lewis was using his spare money to keep his Crosby family, then the farm was no more than a cheap way of keeping Aunt Amy quiet and this was wickedly unfair. She knew her aunt frequently handed at least a portion of her own wages to Uncle Lewis to put in the Post Office, and she felt furious at the thought that this money, too, could be being misappropriated.

At first, she had not liked her aunt at all, much preferring friendly, easy-going Uncle Lewis, but as time went on she had begun to appreciate her aunt’s many good qualities. She did not see why Uncle Lewis should get away with his deception and wondered, again, why Aunt Mary, who had appeared to know all about it, had seemed to consider it of no importance.

She was still undecided whether it was any of her business when she saw the boy getting off the bus. She had been going, attended by the two older Bennett children, to the Broadway Cinema on the Stanley Road. The Saturday rush usually included a comic film and quite often a western, but on this occasion it was to be the adventures of ‘Rin Tin Tin’. She and Ivy were discussing the marvels the dog could perform when a bus pulled up beside them and a number of people got off. One of these was a boy of twelve or so, holding a child of four or five by the hand, and one look at the older boy’s face made Ginny stop in her tracks. He had blond wavy hair, very blue eyes and a cleft chin. For a moment, she thought she knew him, then realised he was a stranger but must bear a strong resemblance to someone she knew, or had known once. She was still staring at him when the younger boy spoke. ‘If we’s goin’ to see the fillum, where’s the sweeties Mammy said I could have?’ he asked aggrievedly. ‘Don’t you be mean to me, Stevie Bennett, or I’ll tell Mammy when we get home and she’ll gi’ you a good clack.’

Ginny gasped; she could not help it. All of a sudden, a number of things clicked into place. The boy’s resemblance was to Uncle Lew and since his surname was Bennett it seemed likely, too, that he and the small boy were the people Uncle Lew had been visiting when she had seen him in Crosby a few weeks earlier. Ginny fell into step behind them, listening intently. Was it possible that these boys were actually some sort of cousin, that Uncle Lew had just been visiting them as an uncle might? But she remembered the little lad calling him ‘Daddy’, and also the affectionate way in which he had hugged the plump blonde woman. What was more, she had never heard of any Bennett relations living in Crosby. But the younger boy was speaking again, and this time Ginny realised that she recognised the petulant whine of his voice.

‘Where’s the sweeties, I say?’ he said querulously. ‘Daddy give us money for sweeties, you know he did.’

‘I’m goin’ to buy you some sweeties when we reach the shop near the Broadway,’ the older boy said patiently. ‘You’re a spoiled brat, Roly, but I’ll buy you some anyway. And when we get in the picture house, you’re not to start whining that you’re bored or that you want the lavvy, understand?’

Ginny now turned her attention to Roly. He was not particularly like his brother, save that both were fair and blue-eyed, but he was, she realised, very like Ruthie. The likeness, Ginny concluded, was in their features.

Ginny and her small cousins were now on a level with the two boys, as if about to pass them, and Ginny was just wondering whether she could start a conversation when Ivy piped up, reaching out to tug at the bigger boy’s sleeve as she did so. ‘Hoy, mister, if you’re going to buy the kid sweets, why don’t you come wi’ us? Mrs Butler across the road on the corner of Malvern Road sells the best taffy in Liverpool and you gets a great big slab, enough to last right through the Sat’day rush, for a ha’penny. We’ll show you where she is, won’t we, Ginny?’

After that it was easy. The five of them strolled along the pavement together and bought slabs of toffee at Mrs Butler’s. Without having to ask too many questions, Ginny learned that Stevie and Roly did indeed live in Crosby, in the very street where Ginny had seen Uncle Lewis. Stevie – who preferred to be called Steve – explained that his mother worked in a factory during the week so he had to keep an eye out for Roly and that his father was a travelling salesman, who was only ever home weekends. ‘Me dad’s savin’ up so’s we can buy a little farm in the country,’ he said confidingly. ‘Me mam were a country girl afore the war but then she wanted to do her bit so she took a job in a munitions factory in Liverpool and that’s where she met our dad. He were in the Navy. Because he ain’t home much, he an’ Mam usually have a day out on a Sat’day, so I get to take care of Roly all day long,’ he explained rather gloomily. ‘Roly’s awful spoiled. He’ll have a trantrum if his will is crossed, I can tell you, so me pals don’t want him taggin’ along with them, which is why I’m bringin’ him wi’ me to the Sat’day rush, even though he’ll be a blamin’ nuisance once the fillum starts.’

‘But there’s a picture house in Crosby, isn’t there?’ Ginny said. Steve’s mention of the farm had brought cold certainty into her mind. Uncle Lewis was playing a deep game which she did not understand, but it worried her. ‘Why don’t you go there? It’s a long way for you to come just to see a film, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it’s a fair way, but the picture house in Crosby is showing
Nanook of the North
and one of me pals told me that the Broadway is showing a Rin Tin Tin film this week and I think that dog’s grand. If I ever had a dog, it ’ud be an Alsatian an’ I’d train it to obey only me. Not that there’s much chance of me having a dog until we get the farm,’ he added sadly.

‘Did – did you tell your dad you were comin’ into Liverpool?’ Ginny asked curiously. Her uncle must be well aware of the extraordinary likeness between this boy and himself, so surely would not encourage Steve to go to the very cinema his other family frequented. She gazed enquiringly up at Steve and was not at all surprised when he shook his head.

‘No, I didn’t tell him we were comin’ into the city because he always says it’s a dangerous place, full of lads what’ll start a fight wi’ a stranger at the drop of a hat. He and Mam think we’ve gone up to Southport … not that I telled any lies,’ he added virtuously. ‘Because when I asked for money for a bus fare, they sort of took it for granted that we were goin’ up to Southport for the day and Dad gave me a bob so’s I can buy us dinners, an’ off we came.’