Liverpool Taffy (42 page)

‘Well, my present job pays ten shillings a week all found …’ Biddy began, thinking that this was the kindest way to close the conversation. But Ma Kettle, though she heaved a sigh, came back at once.

‘Shall we say ’leven? An’ all day Sunday an’ Thursday afternoons off? Would that suit?’

Biddy was casting round for an excuse when she realised that Ma Kettle was doing her best, not only to make things up with Biddy, but to get her son back. And the job would not be for ever, but for a period limited, this time, by Biddy’s own desire to stay with the Kettles and by the return of the Gallaghers to Liverpool. Besides, Ma Kettle’s an old lady and I, Biddy reminded herself, have all my life before me.

‘Well, I suppose …’ she began, to be instantly seized and hugged against Ma Kettle’s large and surprisingly soft bosom.

‘Biddy, luv, you won’t regret it, I promise you! Oh, you always was one o’ the fambly … only I treated you bad, I admit it – there! But now … now t’ings will be so different you won’t know us, chuck. Oh, you’ll never regret this day! And aren’t I a lucky old woman to ’ave found you agin?’

‘Iceberg on the port bow!’

The Bosun’s stentorian voice was laced with panic. They had entered pack ice hours before, in the early evening, but now, at midnight, they had just hauled the trawl, a trawl loaded with more than sixty baskets of cod. Not until the trawl was safe inboard did they alter course and manoeuvre themselves into clear water once more.

And now every man on board who could be spared was down in the fishpounds, gutting, but the Skipper had ordered that the trawl be shot again immediately. They had found fish and could not afford to steam into safer waters, not whilst every haul brought such rich rewards. So the crew had seen the trawl crash down into the blackness of the ice-scummed sea and then returned to the gutting, talking of their next meal, of the sleep which their bodies needed, of a game of cards and a hot drink.

And now the iceberg. It was enormous, but because the visibility in an icefield is always reduced by the black frost which rises from the pack, icebergs round here were far more dangerous than one encountered in open water and good visibility, and though the ship had a searchlight on her bows it scarcely penetrated the black frost.

They could all see the ’berg now, catching a million colours from the ship’s searchlight and multiplying them within its crystal castles. It came on slowly, almost gracefully, surrounded by the debris of collisions with other ’bergs.

‘She’s not fifty yards off our port bow … by God, she’s a big ’un!’

As the Bosun’s voice rang out the Skipper opened the bridge window and leaned out. ‘This one’s keeping her distance but there’ll be others. I want two hands on watch … Taff, Greasy, you’ll do. Don’t budge from the bows until I give you the word and shout at once if you even think you’ve got a sighting. At once … right?’

‘Right,’ Dai and Greasy said in chorus, taking up their position in the bows of the ship. It was the only chance you had of an early sighting … but it was cold work out here, with the sea freezing in the scuppers when a wave came inboard before it had a chance to run out again.

‘How does the ole man know there’s others?’ Greasy said, straining his eyes into the darkness ahead. ‘As ’e gorra crystal ball in there or somethin’?’

The Mate was standing by the winch drum, staring ahead. He half-turned towards them as Greasy spoke.

‘He can tell by the growlers round her, for one thing. She’s met other ’bergs, smashed into ’em, moved on. And you get a feel for ’em, in the end. Good thing, or …’

He turned just as a huge wave came racing out of the darkness, straight at the ship. It crashed down on the deck, causing the whole ship to shudder, and bowled Greasy and Dai over, then smashed them against the whaleback. The Mate was still clinging onto the winch drum but now he was turning to make a funnel of his hands, warning the bridge.

‘
DEAD AHEAD
!
DEAD AHEAD
!
DEAD AHEAD
!’

‘It’s another bleedin’ iceberg,’ Greasy said, staggering to his feet. ‘That must ’ave been its bow wave.’

And just as Dai was preparing for the impact there was a tremendous explosion, so loud that he was temporarily deafened by it. He stared into the darkness and saw, as the ship veered and bucked, great chunks of ice which had obviously been hurled sky-high by the force of the explosion, hurtling down again into the ragged sea.

All around them was pandemonium. The Skipper roared to the man at the wheel to starboard his helm, then shot open the bridge window.

‘Where away? Taff, where away?’

Dai and Greasy, still half-deafened, got the message. They hurled themselves at the bows. If the wild and natural evasive action of the
Bess
had chanced to turn them in the wrong direction then the danger was still imminent, death still hovered out there in the black frost and the dark.

And then, suddenly, the blackness began to ease; above their heads the sky showed pale and the water came into view – clear water, the wave-crests restless still, but unencumbered by either pack ice or ’bergs.

‘All clear ahead,’ Dai shouted. ‘All clear ahead! All clear ahead!’

He looked across at Greasy; his friend was grinning and Dai knew that an equally idiotic grin stretched his own lips.

‘What ’appened?’ Greasy asked, but Dai did not know, he could only turn to the Mate, drooping now by the winch drum.

‘She exploded; icebergs do, sometimes. Something to do with the water and air temperature,’ Harry said. ‘Wonder what happened to the trawl? We’re still towing … if it hasn’t been crushed by the ice or had the cod-end torn to shreds.’

‘When’ll we know?’ Dai asked. He was suddenly aware that he ached in every limb, that his mouth was dry and that he needed hot, sweet tea and a long sleep. But they would still be gutting down in the pounds and he – and everyone else – was still on watch.

The Mate consulted his watch. ‘We’ll haul in around three hours,’ he said. ‘Best go below now, Taff, in fours. Tell the hands, and say gutting will have to wait. Weary men can’t haul.’

There was no argument. Dai went to the fish pounds to pass on the message; Greasy dashed onto the mess deck and grabbed a sandwich and a hot drink. He carried a slopping mug of tea for Dai too, and thrust it into his hand as the other man struggled out of his deck gear.

‘Ere, get that down you,’ he commanded. ‘I could sleep for a week, but we’ll be lucky to get two hours.’

‘Aye,’ Dai said, drinking the tea down straight off and getting wearily into his bunk. Harry and the Skipper would still be up there, working out a course which would take them clear of the pack ice but not of the feeding grounds. They would discuss what to do if the trawl was irreparably damaged, how long it would take to fit the spare – they always carried a spare – how many men could shoot the trawl once it had been hauled, how many might then go off watch.

Could he do it, if he was lucky enough to get promotion, become an officer? Could he be that dedicated, that selfless? But it had been a long and worrying night; before he had made up his mind, he was asleep.

It was strange being back in the Kettle household; strange and not too pleasant. Every time Biddy looked round the living-room she remembered how unhappy she had been here, but then she scolded herself. Everything was to be different now, Ma Kettle had promised and she would, Biddy was sure, keep her word. She had given Biddy Luke’s room just for a start, no more talk of sharing, and had even gone out and bought a plant to put on the window-sill.

‘Makes it more ’omely,’ she had said proudly, centring the small and stringy aspidistra in the middle of the window-sill. ‘Them’s me summer curtings; I’ll change ’em for me winter ones in a month or two. You’ll like me winter ones; they’re a nice warm brown.’

‘These are fine,’ Biddy had assured her. She did not like to say that it was possible she would not be here at winter-curtain time. ‘The room will suit me very well, Mrs Kettle.’

But now, down in the boiling kitchen, she was preparing a big bowl of fudge whilst Ma Kettle sat in the shop and, she assumed, treated – and cheated – the customers as usual. Biddy had greased her tins, boiled her sugar, butter and conny onny and was about to test it for setting when the door opened softly and a skinny young girl entered. She had hair so red that you could have warmed your hands at it, a great many freckles, green eyes fringed with light lashes, and a beaming smile. She was wearing a garment which might have been brown or dark blue once, over which had been draped a very large and rather dirty apron which hid all of her person except for her cracked and patched boots.

‘Ello, Miss. I’m Penny Ellis; I live wi’ me aunt an’ uncle in ’Ighsmith Court an’ I’m fourteen come next March. I does me best to keep the ‘ouse tidy an’ I’m that glad you’ve come! Miz Kettle do get lonely … an’ I likes to be ’ome in time for me supper.’

‘I’m Bridget O’Shaughnessy, my friends call me Biddy, and I’m past seventeen,’ Biddy said gravely. ‘How do you do, Penny? I hope we shall be friends and I hope you’ll get home in time for your supper now I’m here to help out.’

‘Oh, you isn’t to be axed to ’elp,’ the child said anxiously, with a quick glance towards the shop, though it was unlikely that Ma Kettle could have heard a word they said. She was dealing, rather raucously, with a line of small children, mostly clutching ha’pennies or farthings. ‘You’re the best worker Miz Kettle ever ’ad, and she don’t want you bein’ driv into goin’ off, she telled me an’ Gertie we’d gorra mind our manners wi’ you.’

‘Who’s Gertie?’ Biddy asked, dipping a spoon into her bubbling fudge and dripping it into the jamjar full of water standing by. ‘I don’t recall Mrs Kettle mentioning a Gertie.’

‘Gertie’s ’er gofor,’ Penny explained. ‘She’s only eight but she comes in after school an’ runs errands an’ that. Gertie Parr, ’er name is. She’s one o’ them raggety kids.’

Biddy was about to remark, rather hotly, that Penny was no fashion-plate, when the door creaked open once more and a very tiny child burst in.

‘Gorrany erran’s, Miss?’ the girl asked. She was thin as a pipe-cleaner, with fluffy hair that looked as though it had been cut with nail scissors and huge, round eyes which dominated her pale, thin little face.

‘Not for me thanks, Gertie – you are Gertie? But you’d best ask Mrs Kettle,’ Biddy said, feeling as though she had strayed into the workhouse, for the child Gertie was indeed raggety. She wore a very dirty man’s shirt with a shawl tied round her waist and she was barefoot.

‘Oh. Right.’ Gertie padded purposefully across the kitchen and into the shop. They heard her shrill voice demanding, ‘Gorrany erran’s, Miz Keckle?’ and then Penny jerked her head conspiratorially towards the shop.

‘You thought I were bein’ nasty when I said she were a raggety, but I weren’t, were I, Biddy? An’ she’s a great gun, Gertie. Skeered o’ nothin’, not even o’ Ma Kettle. She’ll put ’er in ’er place right sharp, if the missus tries to bully ’er.’

‘Well, that’s good to hear,’ Biddy said, taking her fudge off the stove and beginning to beat it with a big wooden spoon. ‘Because I’m the same, and I hope you will be too Penny.’

‘Jobs is scarce,’ Penny said, sighing. ‘I gets two bob a week – imagine that, Biddy, two bob! It keeps me uncle from thumpin’ me, which is worth a bully or two.’

‘Two bob,’ Biddy said wonderingly. Leopards did not change their spots then, not underneath. Ma Kettle was still an old skinflint and would be until she died, but at least she was making an effort where Biddy was concerned.

‘Aye, an’ she on’y takes a few pence off if I’m slow, or eat too much, dinnertimes,’ Penny said, plainly misunderstanding Biddy’s wondering tone. ‘So I don’t wanna lose the job, like.’

‘I’ll tell you what, we’ll stick up for each other,’ Biddy said, visited by inspiration. That way, she could do her best to see that Penny got a fair deal without terrifying the poor kid. ‘I reckon this is thick enough, don’t you? Have a taste, tell me if it’s smooth.’

Greatly daring, Penny peeled a small ball of fudge off the proffered spoon and sucked blissfully. ‘It’s jest right,’ she declared as soon as it was swallowed. ‘I’ll get you the tins, Miss … I mean Biddy!’

When the sweetshop closed down for the day and Biddy and Ma Kettle had shared a meal of boiled ham, boiled onions and boiled potatoes – Penny was not an inventive cook – they sat one on either side of the living-room fire and talked for a bit.

‘I’m axin’ our Kenny round to tea, Sunday, when we’re closed,’ Ma Kettle said, eyeing Biddy anxiously. ‘I ain’t askin’ you to tell no lies, Bid – poor but honest, that’s us Kettles – but if you could ’splain to Kenny that you’d ’ave gone anyway, even if I ’adn’t left you all that work, I’m ’opin’ ’e’ll see reason an’ come back to us.’

‘I’ll explain, and I won’t need to tell any lies, because I would have gone, anyway,’ Biddy said. She could scarcely hurt everyone by telling Ma Kettle that Kenny’s heavy-handed pounces would have driven her away regardless, but at least she could make it clear to Kenny that his mother was not entirely to blame. ‘Does Kenny have a ladyfriend now? Or someone he likes more than he likes the others?’

‘Our Kenny’s been sweet on you ever since you walked t’rough that door,’ Ma Kettle said impressively. ‘Never looked at another girl, never mentioned one, neither. Why, if a lad casts aside ’is own Mam because ’e sez she ain’t good to a gel … well, that tells you, Bid.’

‘It was just because he didn’t know many girls, I’m sure that was the reason,’ Biddy said hastily. ‘I do have a boyfriend, Mrs Kettle. He and I plan to wed next Easter at the latest.’

‘Well, don’t you go tellin’ Kenny,’ Ma Kettle said anxiously. ‘We’ve ’ad one lorra bother, let’s not ’ave another. Face Easter when we come to it, eh?’

‘All right, but I do hate deceiving him,’ Biddy said uneasily. ‘Still, he’ll have to come to terms with it sooner or later. And right now, Mrs Kettle, if it’s all right by you, I’m going up to bed.’

‘Certainly, certainly! Will I bring you tea in the mornin’, dearie?’ Ma Kettle asked, rubbing her plump palms anxiously against her skirt. ‘Only young Penny don’t get ’ere till eight.’