A Liverpool Lass (36 page)

‘A bit of good luck,’ she said jubilantly. Until the doctor proposed his solution she had not realised just how much she was dreading the evening to come. ‘I’m to go for a maid in Rodney Street, just till Nell gets back. I’ll give me rent to old Ma Lennox, as usual, but can you keep an eye on the house, Art? I could leave you the key, then you could see me letters was safe, ’cos there’s money in some of ’em.’

‘I’ll see to it,’ Art said grandly. ‘But I’ll miss you, our Li!’

‘No you won’t, because I’ll still be in school, and I reckon I’ll be in and out,’ Lilac said. ‘Come to that, I’ll miss you.’

‘But you’ll be a deal safer, till Nell gets ’ome,’ Art said wistfully. ‘I ’opes as how it all goes smooth for you, chuck.’

‘Well, I’ve not met them yet, but Dr Jacobs, who found me the place, is the nicest man in the world, I should think. Want to walk me to Rodney Street? Only
we’d best take a tram most of the way, or they’ll wonder what’s keepin’ me.’

‘I better,’ Art said, falling into step beside her. ‘How’ll I know where you are, else? I say, ain’t Rodney Street where the Culler is?’

‘That’s right. It’ll be strange to be living there again, but as a proper person and not an orphan.’

Art walked along the pavement with her, then, when they reached the house, he took a long look at it, grinned and waved. Lilac stood watching until he had disappeared onto Leece Street once more, then, with a small inward sigh, she climbed the clean whitened steps and lifted the bright brass knocker. She knocked rather hesitantly and was admitted to the tall, imposing house by a girl not a lot older than herself in the standard uniform of a dark dress with white collar and cuffs, an all-enveloping white apron and lace-up shoes. She had a small, round face, screwed up and puggy, a fringe of shiny black hair and a pair of bright, slanting black eyes. She was also wearing clothing which had clearly been made for someone at least a foot taller and quite a lot fatter than she. She grinned cheerfully at Lilac, however, held the front door wide, and after a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, sank into a deep curtsy.

‘Welcome, me lady,’ she giggled. ‘You’ll be the gairl what’s come to take Joan’s place, and a good thing too, if you asks me. Joan was that idle, no one but the mistress would ’ave stuck her for two minutes. Oh, I’m Polly ... Polly Clark. What’s your name?’

‘Lilac Larkin. I’ve got a letter for Mr and Mrs Matte-son.’

‘Oh aye? Give it ’ere, I’ll tek it through when I tell
’em you’ve arrived. Ah, ’ere’s Mrs Jenkins, the ’ousekeeper. She’s the boss, fierce ain’t the word.’ She giggled again, turning to the gaunt elderly woman approaching them across the sweep of the polished parquet flooring. ‘She’s come, Mrs J! She’s called Lilac.’

‘That’s good,’ the older woman said. ‘I hope you’ll be happy here with us, Lilac. We work hard, but we’re valued and that makes hard work a pleasure.’

She smiled brightly at Lilac, revealing a set of improbably white false teeth framed by vivid pink gums. The smile made her look very like one of the big shire horses Lilac had watched being shod by the smith in the Scottie. Lilac, smiling back, felt an instinctive liking for ‘the boss’.

‘I’m not afraid of hard work, Mrs Jenkins,’ she said. ‘And I hope I’ve been taught to do a job properly if I’m to do it at all.’

That was Culler-talk, but it had risen to her tongue unconsciously, without a thought. She had heard it so often, she supposed, on the lips of various teachers, and it sounded like the sort of thing an employer would like to hear. But it had an unexpected affect on at least one of her hearers. Polly’s mouth and eyes both rounded though she said nothing.

‘Here, Polly, your legs are younger than mine; just take Lilac up to her room and show her the uniform and then bring her back down to the kitchen. I’ll take her up to madam when she’s dressed and ready.’

Polly nodded but grabbed Lilac’s arm when the younger girl turned towards the gracious sweep of the stairs.

‘No, not that way, silly! You’re a servant now, you don’t trip up the front way ... leastways not unless you’ve a reason to do so, and we’re ’eadin’ for the attics.’ She led Lilac through a green baize door which
shushed richly on the stone flagged corridor along which they made their way, but stopped short at a flight of narrow, uncarpeted stairs which led sharply upwards.

‘Ere, where did you say you come from? Only ... I’m a Culler girl, an’ the times I’ve ’eard them very words ...
If you do a job at all, do it properly
.’ She stared hard at Lilac for a moment, then said triumphantly, ‘It’s true, ain’t it? You’ve spent some time at the Culler. Now why don’t I ’member you, eh?’

‘I don’t remember you, either,’ Lilac rejoined. ‘Yes, I was at the Culler until three years ago. I thought I knew everyone there, particularly people around my own age.’

‘Oh aye, that accounts for it,’ Polly said. ‘It’s ten year since I been there. I’m only little, but I’m older than you’d think. What did you guess, eh?’

‘Fifteen?’ Lilac suggested. ‘Sixteen?’

‘Twenty-six,’ Polly said triumphantly. ‘How about that, eh?’

‘Gosh, you don’t look that old,’ Lilac admitted. ‘Do you remember someone called Nellie McDowell, though? She would have been about your age.’

‘Nellie? Oh aye, course I do! Hey-up, don’t say ... you ain’t that babby she used to cart around everywhere, are you?’

‘Yes, that’s me. Well I never did!’

‘It’s a small world,’ Polly agreed. She set off ahead of Lilac up the narrow stairs. ‘I didn’t go far from the Culler either, you see – come ’ere when I were fifteen as kitchen maid, been ’ere ever since. I fell on me feet and I knew it, so I stayed around. Where’s Nellie, then, or ’ave you lost touch?’

‘I’ll never lose touch with Nellie,’ Lilac said. ‘She’s like a mother to me, or a big sister. She’s nursing in
France right now, but I hope it won’t be long before she’s home.’

Nellie allowed Maude Mayberry to accompany her to her room, to make her a hotwater bottle and bring her a hot drink. She drank it, feeling hotter and hotter as she did so. But it was not a lovely, glowing warmth but the strange, unnatural heat of someone who has been chilled to the bone too long.

She got into bed; despite the bottle the sheets felt like ice. She gasped at the touch of them, but cuddled down and closed her eyes. She supposed she must have fallen asleep, for when she woke the room was in darkness. She felt absolutely dreadful, boiling hot, with a terrible, dry heat, as though someone had installed a small personal furnace somewhere in her chest.

She tried to struggle into a sitting position, but to her amazement she could not do so. Someone seemed to have tied her in a bundle ... she was suddenly convinced she was in the middle of a roll of carpet, being smuggled out of England by a white trader.

She struggled, but she was so weak she could not so much as move an arm or a leg. She began to weep helplessly – she was so hot, so dreadfully hot ... and she felt sick!

She was sick. She scarcely made any noise, just a few gulps and then there was a wetness by her face and a sour and dreadful taste in her hot, swollen mouth. A light came on ... it was agony, it hurt so badly, that light. It seemed to be directed at her like a searchlight ... she moaned a protest and someone touched her face. The touch hurt, she wailed like an injured kitten and a voice, huge and echoing, boomed: ‘Maggie, she’s on fire! Oh goodness, fetch a doctor!’

It was Lucy’s voice, distorted somehow by the roll of carpet. Nellie tried to turn her head and opened her sticky and disgusting mouth to speak, but no words would come, only little moans.

‘I don’t think she likes the candle,’ boomed Lucy. ‘Stand it outside the door, Maggie ... I’ll clean her up whilst you fetch someone.’

With the candlelight dimmed by distance, Nellie could just about bear to open her eyes. She saw Lucy waveringly, as though they were both under water. It was a strange enough phenomenon for her to simply watch for a few moments as Lucy poured water into a basin and pattered over to the bed with it. Her shadow was enormous, long and black ... as Nellie watched it became solid, it reared over the bed, it was a monster, it was going to devour her!

She thought she screamed as the hot, wet mouth dabbed at her face; the creature was licking her prior, presumably, to swallowing her alive. She cried out for Lucy to help her, but Lucy boomed, ‘Just let me wash your face and neck, sweetheart, then I’ll swap your horrid pillow for my nice clean one and you’ll feel much better, you’ll see.’

The cruel roughness of that mouth was only Lucy, was it? Cleaning her face with a flannel? And now someone wedged an iron bar beneath her sore and delicate shoulder blades and heaved her as upright as they were able; the pain was appalling, she shrieked again, except that what she had believed to be a full-throated roar emerged as a tiny kitten’s mew.

‘There; is that nice?’ The horrible pillow had gone and a cool one was nestled beneath her cheek. They lay her down again, and there was a lovely breeze blowing over her ... suddenly she was standing on the pierhead, with Lilac holding her hand, and they were waiting for
the ferry to dock so they could go aboard. There was sunshine, and that lovely cool breeze coming across the Mersey, and seagulls swooping and soaring in the blue sky overhead.

Someone caught hold of her, fingers of steel dug into her raw and painful flesh. She was back in the roll of carpet, only they were unrolling her with cruel thoughtlessness. Someone caught her leg, someone else grabbed an arm. They were mauling her about ... a lion raked her with metallic claws, she felt the blood run and wept, imploring someone to help her.

‘Going to take you to hospital ... flu’s infectious ... you’ll be better where we can keep an eye ...’

Muddled sentences, mad voices, all booming and echoing in her aching head, talked across her. Sometimes someone addressed her but since she could not answer she scarcely bothered to listen. Sit up, lie down, drink, let me bathe your forehead, lie down, sit up, drink ... the words and sentences interspersed the periods when she dropped into an exhausted, nightmare-haunted sleep. They dug daggers deep into her poor right arm, they sucked her blood, they tore her hair out by the roots ... when she was baking hot they made her hotter, then she would suddenly shiver with the intensity of the cold and they would drag the covers off her – she knew now that she was not wrapped in a roll of carpet but was in bed and could not move for the weakness that their treatment engendered – and subject her to torrents of icy water which fell from so great a height that they seemed to bruise her flesh.

And then, waking in what seemed the middle of the night, she opened her eyes and saw, not a monster, not a lion, not a tormentor, but Maggie. Walking quietly past, skirts rustling, with a jug of something in her hand.

‘Maggie?’

Maggie came over to her. She stared incredulously into Nellie’s face, then smiled delightedly.

‘Nell, you recognised me! Are you better?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve been ill, haven’t I?’

Maggie chuckled and rolled her eyes.

‘Ill! We’ve thought you were going to snuff it several times, you poor little thing. Matron says we’re all underweight and overtired ... worn out in fact ... which is why some of us have got so dreadfully ill. But you are better, because you know it’s me. You’ve been delirious for more than a week.’

‘More than a week?’ Nellie said wonderingly. ‘It feels like years since I was on the ward. Can I have a drink?’

‘Oh, my love ... willingly! What would you like?’

‘Tea, please,’ Nellie said, without even having to think about it. The thought of a cup of tea actually made her mouth water. ‘Oh, but it’s the middle of the night, where will you get tea?’

‘Sister has a kettle and a gas ring,’ Maggie said. ‘I won’t be long, you’ll have that cup of tea before you know it.’

She was as good as her word. Nellie had barely taken in the ward, which was quite a small room only containing three beds, when Maggie was back, carrying a small tray. She had brought Sister’s own tiny teapot, a big jug of hot water, a small jug of milk and a feeding cup with a short, fat spout.

‘Do I need that cup?’ Nellie asked as Maggie began to pour. ‘Can’t I drink from an ordinary one yet?’

Maggie finished pouring the tea and looked up, smiling.

‘Don’t underrate what you’ve gone through,’ she advised. ‘You’ll be weak as a kitten for a while yet.’ She
handed the feeding cup over. ‘See whether you can manage that.’

Nellie took the cup and had difficulty just raising it to her lips. Her hands shook and when she began to drink, her throat ached with every swallow. Yet the tea was so good, like nectar!

‘Go steady,’ Maggie advised as Nellie began to tilt the spout towards her mouth. ‘Little and often is best, you know. Everyone’s felt like a limp rag for at least a week once the fever abates. Lucy’s in the bed nearest the door, I don’t suppose you realised that, did you? And little Emma’s opposite. You three are the only ones in this side ward, because the others are all soldiers. Emma’s much better, but Lu’s had a dreadful time.’

‘When did she get it? Long after me? Does it take everyone a week to get over the worst stage?’ Nellie said huskily. She sipped the tea once more, then handed the cup back. After drinking less than half the tea the ache in her throat defeated her thirst.

‘Lucy got it within a couple of hours of you coming onto the ward,’ Maggie said sombrely. ‘But she’s sleeping quietly enough now, so we’ll hope for the best. Emma was two days behind the pair of you, but she’s younger and not so tired, so she recovered first.’

‘Could I have some more tea?’ Nellie said. ‘Just a sip. It’s so delicious, so refreshing.’

‘Just a drop, then.’ Maggie handed the feeding cup back. ‘When you’ve finished your drink, would you like a wash? I could use the rest of the hot water in the kettle to sponge you down.’

Nellie took another sip of tea and put the cup down. She allowed herself to think about her body, to check it over as it were. She was stiff and aching, she felt as though she had been thoroughly mangled, and there
was that ugly, dried-sweat smell whenever she moved. Her head ached and her throat hurt, but no longer with the angry violence which had filled her nightmare-ridden sleep.