Liverpool Taffy (28 page)

The final straw had come when she started bringing young men in. Not even decent young men, Nellie thought indignantly now, pouring herself another cup of tea and leaving it to get cold whilst she remembered the many sins and wickednesses of Peggy Pound. She picked up the most dreadful young men on the streets, thieves, lay-abouts, the worst sort of scoundrels, and brought them back to Ducie Street, to the two attic rooms which Nellie had furnished so lovingly for some poor girl.

And I didn’t even have the courage to sack her myself, Nellie remembered sorrowfully now. But darling Stuart, bless him, who had been an orphan in Liverpool, as well, darling Stuart had dealt with Peggy. Kindly but firmly, he had given her an ultimatum; stop bringing men into my house, stop thieving money from my wife’s purse and my daughter’s money-box, or out you will go. I mean it.

She couldn’t stop, that was the trouble, and Stuart, even as he gave her the ultimatum, had known she couldn’t stop. She was used to having a man in her bed and money in her purse; she could not just stop for the sake of a job she did not even value, let alone enjoy.

‘She’ll end up a sailors’ whore on the waterfront,’ Nellie had wept, lying next to Stuart in their big double bed the night after the ultimatum had been delivered. ‘She’ll die young, of some horrible disease. Oh Stu, my darling, what did we do wrong?’

‘Nothing, sweetheart, nothing! She’s a bad lot, we should never have taken her in; matron, if you remember, was very doubtful. Now go to sleep, and in a couple of days …’

And of course Peggy went, not even unwillingly. She had found a better way to make a living, she told Mrs Wrexham, whilst Elizabeth listened, wide-eyed. There were fellers around who just wanted to see a girl comfortable … all she had to do was crook her little finger …

‘There’s one other little thing she has to do,’ Stuart said wickedly, when Nellie repeated the conversation that night. ‘I bet she didn’t put that into words, though.’

And ever since then, for months and months, Nellie had managed without a maid. Only it was beginning to get her down, because it was a big house and she had responsibilities.
As a newspaper editor-in-chief, Stuart entertained quite often, and although Nellie rather enjoyed the cooking, she had to keep having temporary staff in to serve and wait on and help out generally.

‘Employ someone else, only this time, go through one of the Employment Registers,’ Stuart had insisted. ‘Don’t worry, my pet, they interview everyone they send to see you first; you won’t get a long line of little Peggys knocking at the door.’

And the very first girl had been Biddy … Bridget O’Shaughnessy, who would do her best – Nellie just knew it – and was young enough to be a companion for Elizabeth yet old enough to be relied upon.

Oh Lor, Nellie said to herself now, sitting up straight and pushing the cold tea away. Oh Lor, I never asked her age! Oh goodness, and it’ll be the first thing Stu asks me when he comes home tonight – he’ll think I’m a real nitwit not to have asked!

Getting to her feet, she began to organise dinner. She and Elizabeth would have a makeshift luncheon when Elizabeth’s friends had left, but tonight, with Stuart home, they would have a proper meal. Tonight they would have soup first, then pork chops and apple sauce, then apricot pudding. Stu was extremely fond of his Nell’s apricot pudding. And she would be able to tell him that Biddy was starting next day, at nine o’clock, which would please him.

The day passed pleasantly, with Nellie doing the housework, reminding herself at frequent intervals that from the very next day she would have help and would not have to struggle on alone. At around five o’clock she began to prepare their meal, taking pleasure in it. The phone rang when she was opening the tinned apricots and she had to abandon the tin and run through into the hall, taking down the receiver with distinctly syrupy hands.

‘Hello?’

It was Stuart. He was awfully sorry, but he would be late this evening; something had come up, something important. ‘Have you cooked my dinner?’ he asked anxiously. ‘What was it?’

‘Leek soup first, then pork chops, and apricot pudding to finish,’ Nellie said, trying to sound cheerful and not resigned. ‘But all I’ve done so far is start to make the apricot pudding.’

Stuart groaned. ‘It’s my favourite … tell you what, make it and save me a piece. A big piece. Could you warm it up When I get in? I shan’t be much after ten.’

‘Of course I could,’ Nellie said happily. ‘Oh, Stu … the Register sent a girl, like you said they would.’

‘They did? Oh sweetheart, I’m so glad for you. What was she like?’

‘Lovely. A dear little girl. Her name’s Biddy O’Shaughnessy.’

He laughed. ‘Crumbs, what a mouthful! When does she start?’

‘Tomorrow, nine o’clock. But how d’you know she wanted the job? I only said the Register had sent her round.’

‘She’d have been mad not to take the job if you liked her,’ Stuart said simply. ‘See you later, sweetheart; don’t forget, a big piece of apricot pudding.’

They rang off and Nellie wandered back into the kitchen. Despite the news that Stuart would miss his meal she felt happy, because just to hear his voice, so full of understanding and affection, made her feel warm and comfortable, loved, precious.

It had been like that from the start, of course. Nellie began to make her pudding mixture, gazing out at the damp back garden without seeing it, remembering the first time she and Stuart had met.

She had been nursing wounded soldiers in France and Stuart had been convalescing from a splintered kneecap though, as a War Correspondent, he wasn’t actually engaged in the fighting. She and a friend had been off duty, walking through the snowy countryside of Northern France, when he had heard her familiar Scouse accent and called out to her, offering, as one Liverpudlian to another, to take her tobogganing down the snowy slopes.

The toboggan had turned out to be a battered tin hospital tray – it was a good deal more battered by the end of the afternoon – but despite this, Nellie had had the time of her life, and she had known from that moment that Stuart was the man for her. Of course it had not been that simple, nothing ever was, but after the war they had met up again and married, and since then Nellie’s life had quite simply revolved round Stuart and their only child.

Reminiscing about those early years always filled her with wonder at her own immense good fortune. She had been a skinny little orphan with no particular skills, yet she had ended up married to the best man in the world, and had given birth to his beautiful daughter. Little Nellie McDowell, who had never expected much from life, was married to an important newspaper executive and happy as the day was long, though she would have been equally happy had Stuart been a tram driver or indeed a factory worker or a street sweeper. When two people are still deeply in love after – heavens, after getting on for two decades – then, Nellie knew, they were much blessed.

But gazing into space and counting her blessings would not get the meal cooked. She began to roll out her suety crust.

Nellie had finished the apricot pudding and was half-heartedly preparing vegetables and setting out two chops on the grill when the kitchen door burst open and Elizabeth came in. She smiled beguilingly at her mother and poured herself a glass of home-made lemonade, then sat down at the table with a thump. Her friends had gone to their own homes for luncheon, returned afterwards to take Elizabeth to the park for an impromptu game of three-a-side hockey, then they had
accompanied her home again for tea and Nell’s rich fruit-cake and butter shortbread.

‘The girls have gone, Mam. They said to thank you very much for the tea. Can I help with dinner? When’s me Da gettin’ home?’

‘Talk properly,’ Nellie said reprovingly. ‘Dad’s going to be late, it was him on the phone just now. And you could get the soup out of the larder and put enough for two into a pan and put the pan on the stove if you like.’

‘If it’s just us, don’t let’s bother with soup,’ Elizabeth said as her mother hoped she would. She drained her glass and burped, then patted her mouth with her hand. ‘Pardon me! Are you mashing the spuds?’

‘Are you creaming the potatoes?’ Nellie corrected; it never ceased to amaze her that Elizabeth, who went to a private school and was getting a good education, still spoke, half the time, with a Liverpool accent. But then all the girls did, so she was only conforming, in the way children did. And she only talked like that when she was being a bit daft, and with either her close friends or family. On other occasions, nothing could have been purer than her small, clear voice.

‘Well, are you? Mashing the … I mean creaming the potatoes,’ Elizabeth said, laughing. She reached across and picked up the cabbage which Nell had got out ready. ‘Can I cut the this up very finely, like you showed me, and do it with a little butter and an onion, in the French way?’

‘If you like. Liz, did you like the girl I brought into the sitting-room this morning?’

‘She looked nice,’ Elizabeth acknowledged, beginning to slice the cabbage with great care. ‘Is she going to take the job?’

‘She is. I confirmed the arrangements with Mrs Edmonds of the Register an hour ago. I liked her so much. She’ll be good for all of us.’

‘Good for us? I don’t see …’

The doorbell cut across her sentence. Nellie sighed and flapped a hand at Elizabeth, who had half risen to her feet, cabbage in one hand, knife in the other. ‘You get on with that cabbage; I’ll go to the door. I expect it’s someone selling something.’

Dai had come up the road with some trepidation. Now that it had actually come to the point, he wondered whether he had been wise to come, or whether it was best to let sleeping dogs lie. His Mam, God bless her, was dead and gone. Her friend Mrs Gallagher had probably never been told that Bethan had died. Was it wise or sensible to open the wound, go round to the woman’s house, talk about his Mam to someone who was, when all was said and done, a complete stranger?

He had spent quite a lot of the day fruitlessly searching for the girl with the blue eyes, though he had pretended to Greasy that he was buying Christmas presents. But he had had no luck. He had asked for her all over, describing her in some detail, but had met with no response.
People had either not seen the blue-eyed girl or not noticed her. And when the day began to grow dusky it had occurred to him that he had best go round to this Ducie Street, if he intended to call on Nellie Gallagher, or go back to Greasy’s place.

He liked the O’Reillys, they were a nice bunch, but he had promised himself that he would not impose on them over Christmas. And he only had a day and then it would
be
Christmas, so he should find Mrs Gallagher, introduce himself, and then book in at the Seamen’s Mission, down on the waterfront. That way he would salve his conscience without hurting anyone’s feelings, because the O’Reillys would think he was staying with his Mam’s old friend, and his Mam’s old friend would assume he was still with the O’Reillys.

It was quite a big house, though. Much grander than he had expected. Nice, he would grant you that, but grand.

He walked up and down the road a couple of times, looking curiously at the houses, and in particular the one which belonged to the Gallaghers. Nice front garden, brightly painted front door, clean, colourful curtains at the windows.… Damn it, he was going to knock; what was the point in coming all this way by tram only to turn tail and go back again without calling? Mam would be disgusted with him.

He walked up the short path and reached for the bell. He pressed his finger on the central button and rang it for several seconds. Then he stood back and waited.

He heard the quick, soft footsteps, the fingers fumbling with the door handle, then the door swung open. Golden light flooded out, temporarily blinding him, for he had been wandering the quiet, gaslit streets for the best part of an hour. He smiled in the direction of the person who had opened the door, however, and tugged off his seaman’s cap. The maid who had answered the door – he caught a glimpse of a very large white apron and a small, delicate face with a dab of flour on the nose – gave a sort of strangled gasp as he did so. ‘Davy? My God, it is you, isn’t it? What in heaven’s name are you doing here?’

‘I … I wonder if I might see Mrs Gallagher,’ Dai said, unable to make head or tail of the woman’s words. She had obviously confused him with someone else – odd that it should have been his father’s name that she had used, but then Davy was not an uncommon name.

‘Oh, I can see now … I’m so sorry.’ the woman’s voice was soft. ‘Just for a moment I thought you were someone else … can I help you? I am Mrs Gallagher.’

‘I’m Dai Evans … Richart, I suppose I should say. Mrs Gallagher, my Mam told me that if ever I was in Liverpool I should come to see you … my God!’

For Mrs Gallagher had given a sharp gasp, a small moan, and collapsed in a heap on her hall floor.

Dai didn’t know what on earth to do. He went inside and bent over her and even as he did so her eyes flickered and opened, staring up into his face for a moment with cloudy puzzlement. Quickly, Dai put his arms around her and pulled her to a sitting position. He said, ‘I’ll fetch help – is there anyone else in the house?’

She gave a huge, shuddering sigh, then struggled to her feet. She gave him a watery smile.

‘You’re Bethan’s boy,’ she said slowly. ‘My dear friend Bethan’s boy. I had a note a while back …’

‘My Mam died fifteen months ago,’ Dai said wryly. ‘I’m sorry not to have come to you before, Mrs Gallagher, but I’m at sea, distant-water trawling I’ve been this past year, and only now have I come to Liverpool.’

‘I’m so glad you came … but my dear boy, you must come in … do you mind if we go into the kitchen? My daughter, Elizabeth, is in there … we’re making dinner … you’ll stay, of course.’

‘But I don’t think I should trouble you any more,’ Dai said slowly. ‘You aren’t well.’

Nellie smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m fine now; it was the shock, Dai. You are – you are so like your Mam, see, and I’d been thinking about her … your Mam wrote to me, she must have given the letter to a solicitor to be sent in the event of her death … I’m so sorry, Dai, Bethan was a marvellous woman. She had so much love and charity in her. She was – she was very kind to me, once.’