Liverpool Taffy (15 page)

‘Now you’re talkin’, Taffy; I’m on.’ Greasy’s voice was laconic, but Dai saw the sparkle in his friend’s small grey eyes, the grin twitching at Greasy’s long, mobile mouth. ‘No need to talk like a ha ’penny book, I got your drift and I’ll come wit’ you. Awright? Got the message?’

‘Aye, you’ll come distant-water trawling, but we’ll start with the herring first. Well, the
Girl Sally
will be taking on at the end o’ the week which gives us long enough to get geared up an’ let our folks know.’ Dai, standing by his stripped bunk, hesitated. His bag was packed, his only decent pair of shoes were slung by their laces round his neck … but was it fair to involve Greasy in something like distant-water trawling? It was the most dangerous way to go to sea, and all ways were pretty dangerous. He himself was all right, he knew what he was doing, longed for the challenge, and besides, no one was waiting for him, no one would shed more than the odd tear if he went down out there, amongst the ice-floes. But Greasy was one of a big family, they needed him – and the money he earned.

‘Eh, la, you’ve got a face like an empty beer glass – I can see right through it,’ Greasy remarked with a sigh, then leaned across and punched Dai’s shoulder. ‘I’m tough, remember? Eldest of ’leven kids, brung up to fight me way outa any paper bag what stands in me way, that’s Greasy O’Reilly. There’s only two t’ings I want from me life, Taff – wimmin an’ ’ard cash. I ’aven’t done too good wi’ the first lately, but the second makes up for a lot. So I’m goin’ distant-water trawlin’ now even if you back down, me fine bucko – got it?’ He pushed his unshaven face close to Dai’s. ‘’Ave I got t’rough to you, son?’

‘Yes, just about,’ Dai said equably, slinging his bag up across his shoulder and padding across their sleeping quarters. ‘And don’t blame me, mun, if you come back wi’ frostbite in all your extremities; things can fall off in the ice an’ cold you know.’

‘Extremities? Does that mean wharr I think it means? Brass monkey weather, eh?’ Greasy chuckled and followed Dai up on deck. ‘Oh well, la, we’d best find ourselve a coupla judies before we sign on and lose our big attractions, eh?’

It was a very cold day. Biddy was cycling along, head down, nose buried in the scarf she had acquired, thanking the lord – and Ellen – both for the warm woollen scarf and her decent pair of gloves. Biddy was no hand with her needles but Ellen was not only an excellent knitter, she loved doing it. So Biddy bought her the wool and the pattern and Ellen sat there, evenings, and knitted away, and first the thick and comforting scarf and then the lovely little navy blue gloves grew like miracles on the end of her needles.

Biddy was better paid than she had been, because her wages had risen to seven shillings and sixpence a week in September and now, in early December, she was beginning to reap the reward for punctuality and her cheerful disposition.

Tips! At first Biddy had simply done as Miss Whitney or Miss Harborough told her; she had taken boxes all over the area, had handed them in and gone back for more. But gradually, as she became a familiar sight pedalling along on her old black bicycle with the laden carrier, she was hailed by customers, servants from the big houses, and even by other traders.

‘Biddy love, are you goin’ past the Post Office? ’Ere’s a bob – get these stamped for me an’ stick ’em in the box … keep the change.’

There was no harm in it, it did not hold her up, or if it did she pushed a little harder at her pedals, did not dismount at the foot of steep hills, coasted down at reckless speed. And after a time even Miss Whitney and Miss Harborough began to ask for favours and pay her the odd pence.

‘Take this parcel to No. 3 Shawcross Road, there’s a Mrs Mablethorpe waiting for it. Oh, and Biddy, on your way back would you pick up some cornplasters from Boots, on Ranelagh Place? My mother likes the ones they sell, she thinks they’re bigger than the ones I got her from Banner’s, on North John Street. I’ll give you ten pence, though I believe they’re only eightpence ha’penny. Oh … keep the change.’

And no sooner had she grown used to the size and type of corn plasters preferred by old Mrs Whitney than Miss Harborough would start.

‘Biddy, the hem shortening and the relining should be ready by now and we’ve a batch of darts to be let out, take them up to Mrs Bland and tell her we want them as soon as possible. And whilst you’re that way you might nip into Leigh’s, on Scotland Road, and fetch me a pound of their best butter. My brother Sidney and his family are coming over on Sunday and Mother does like me to provide a good tea for them. Oh, and if you’re anywhere near Chiappe, the confectioner, you might get me some Fishermen’s Friend throat lozenges and a quarter of a pound of those special Italian chocolates he sells. They make a lovely present – tell him it’s a present and he’ll wrap the box in pretty gold paper and put a piece of ribbon round it.’ Miss Harborough counted out the money slowly. ‘That should be plenty; keep the change, if there is any.’

So the little hoard, this time tucked away in another pillow, though still with Dolly on guard, gradually grew and as Christmas approached, pleasant thoughts of presents, jollity and two whole days off from work began to take possession of Biddy’s mind. Last Christmas had been grim, with Ma Kettle still bent on instilling the spirit of slavery into her new possession’s mind and Biddy’s loss too raw and recent to allow her to enjoy the festivities, but this year would be different. She and Ellen were going regularly to dances at the Acacia and meeting lots of new friends. They were much sought after and though Biddy still held back from meeting any young men apart from actually on the dance floor, she was easier with them and enjoyed their company.

But now she was cycling along in the late afternoon dusk, having been all the way out to Brompton Avenue to deliver a party dress. Today’s errand was for Mr Smythe from the shoe shop, who was a keen horse rider and had ordered a new saddle for his mare from Benjamin Holland, the saddler on Mount Pleasant, and wanted to know whether Mr Benjamin would deliver the saddle by the following Friday.

Biddy had ridden energetically on the way out, but it was a long way. She had already travelled along Croxteth Road, into the Boulevarde, through Catherine Street and left into Hardman Street. Mount Pleasant was out of her way, but the tip – given in advance – had been generous so she took the necessary turnings and arrived on Mount Pleasant as dusk was definitely falling and the street lights were being lit. She hailed the lamplighter cheerfully and he directed her to Mr Holland’s premises, where she found Mr Holland sitting on a tall stool mending a harness which had come unstitched.

‘Afternoon,’ Mr Holland said, and Biddy speedily explained her errand.

‘Oh, the Smythe saddle … yes, I’ll deliver it Friday morning,’ Mr Holland said, smiling comfortably. ‘Tell Mr Smythe ten o’clock Friday.’ And as Biddy was turning away he added, ‘It’s gettin’ dark, lass. Time you was tucked up in your own ’ome, not bicycling around the icy streets, runnin’ errands for young fellers what ought to do their own work.’ He ferreted in his pocket and pulled out tuppence. ‘Here … Buy yourself some ’ot chestnuts, I heard the seller callin’ them not ten minutes gone.’

‘Thank you very much,’ Biddy said sincerely, pocketing the coins – this was her lucky day! ‘I’ll tell Mr Smythe Friday, then.’

Once outside the shop she mounted her bicycle once more, extremely glad that a good deal of her journey would now be downhill, and set off. She skimmed along, the icy wind nipping at her nose and bringing tears to her eyes, but the thought of the warm shop and the cup of hot tea which Miss Whitney or Miss Harborough would undoubtedly make her when they saw how ice-cold she was, cheered her on.

She came past the Adelphi at a cracking pace and swerved into Ranelagh Place. A tram was thundering down on her so she steered into the side, away from the tramlines, glancing at the tram incuriously as it passed.

She had brought the bicycle almost to a halt as she did so and as she balanced there, half on the saddle, with one foot firmly on the road surface and the other on the pedal, she caught the eye of someone staring out of the window of the tram … and for one startled moment she thought it was Ma Kettle, come back to haunt her. But only for a moment. Then she remembered Kenny’s Aunt Olliphant and realised she must have seen that lady. How odd that she should have met, by proxy, a woman she had never actually clapped eyes on but had recognised just from a strong likeness to her dead sister!

For a moment, Biddy stayed where she was, then someone hooted at her and the driver of a horse and cart, which had also stopped to let the tram go past, shouted at her to ‘Gerra move on, gairl!’

Biddy obediently pushed her bicycle out of the stream of traffic and over to Ranelagh Street. Normally, she would have mounted and ridden the rest of the way home, but because she had got off the bicycle she saw it would be just as easy to walk and not to try to re-enter the busy stream of traffic. And because she was on foot, she glanced, as she passed him, at the newspaper seller on the corner, and at the fly-sheet – then stopped, staring open-mouthed.

‘Abdication! Prince of Wales to go!’ the fly-sheet read. And now that Biddy really looked, she realised that despite the bitter weather people were actually queueing up to buy a paper and were standing about in the cold reading, instead of hurrying back to their shops, offices and homes.

Biddy joined the queue, her money in her hand. She would buy a paper and see what was happening – the last time she had thought about the monarchy was when she and Ellen had been discussing whether or not they would get a day off for the Coronation; now, it seemed, there might not
be
a Coronation! It was that woman, of course, that Mrs Simpson person, who had wanted to marry the beautiful Prince of Wales and had expected to be accepted, despite the fact that she had been married before. Oh, what a lot she and Ellen would have to talk about when she got home tonight! And what a topic of conversation it would provide with customers, too … I bet the royal family have a funny sort of Christmas, after this, Biddy told herself, turning into the entry beside the shop.

She wheeled the bicycle round to the back door of the shop and went in. She had not given Mrs Olliphant another thought since reading the fly-sheet and now it did not seem a particularly odd coincidence, though before she had been looking forward to telling Ellen. Now, it was the Abdication which would be on everyone’s lips. Everyone would want to have a read of her paper, that was for sure. Biddy took off her gloves, scarf and tam o’shanter and hung them near the small gas fire, then went through into the front of the shop.

‘I’m back, and freezing,’ she told Miss Whitney, who had just finished serving a customer and was moving behind the counter looking rather pleased with herself. ‘In fact I’m so cold I haven’t even opened my
Echo
, yet. Can I make myself a hot drink before I go and tell Mr Smythe his saddle will be delivered on Friday?’

‘I’ll make us all some tea whilst you run round to the shoe shop,’ Miss Whitney said brightly. ‘Why on earth are you wasting money on a newspaper, Bridget? I thought your friend Ellen usually picked one up on her way home from work.’

‘She does, usually. But today, what with the Abdication and everything, I thought I’d like to have an earlier look,’ Biddy said with studied casualness. ‘I must say I’d like to know who’ll be King instead of the Prince … and whether there will still be a Coronation in the New Year.’

‘Abdication? Then ’e’s done it, has he?’ Miss Whitney said eagerly, coming through into the back room and holding out a hand. ‘Let’s have a quick peep, there’s a good girl. I’ll make you a cup of tea whilst you go and see Mr Smythe and by the time you get back I’ll have got the gist of what’s happening to the Royals. Oh, by the way, was Mrs Shawcross pleased with the dress?’

‘I don’t know; a maid took the box in,’ Biddy said briefly, lingering in the doorway. Not only would the short run down to the shoe shop turn her into a moving icicle all over again, it would mean a decided delay in finding out about the Coronation. Would it be the Duke of York and his Duchess who became King and Queen, she wondered hopefully? Ellen adored the Duchess and collected all the press photographs of her that she could find. ‘The saddler was awfully kind, though. He said it was dangerous out on the dark streets for a girl like me.’

‘Old fool,’ Miss Whitney said unkindly. ‘Off you go, Biddy, get it over with. The tea’ll be mashed by the time you’re back.’

Not daring to continue to make excuses, Biddy ran down to the shoe shop, delivered her message and ran back again. She thought it was mean of Miss Whitney simply to take over her paper, but that was typical of the older woman. I’ve a good mind to charge her for it, Biddy thought rebelliously, hurrying along the icy pavement. After all, she earns an awful lot more than I do, she could well afford it.

But she knew she would not, not really. Miss Whitney could be unpredictable and Biddy really did like her job. She had no desire to find herself back on the job market.

So she joined Miss Whitney and Miss Harborough in the back room, since the hour was late and few customers visited the shop after five, and they all read the paper, discussed every possibility, and decided that, on the whole, they were pleased that the Prince of Wales was going to live for love and the Duke and Duchess of York, such lovely people, would be crowned King and Queen.

By the time she got back to the flat that evening Biddy felt she knew every tiny detail of the life the royal family would be living over the next few months, and she and Ellen were able to pore over the story a second time, for Ellen, foiled of an
Echo
, since they had sold out by the time she got out of work, had picked up another paper and they were able to compare reports.

It was not until just before bedtime that Biddy remembered seeing Mrs Olliphant on the tram, and then she and Ellen decided that Ma Kettle’s long-suffering sister must have moved into the shop in Scotland Road, to keep it running for the boys.

‘There you are, girl, now you don’t ’ave to worry that the shop’ll go to rack and ruin wi’ them lads in charge,’ Ellen said cheerfully. ‘Now chuck us somethin’ to get eggs out of a fry-pan an’ we’ll eat.’