Love Changes Everything (3 page)

This was the only time that Maggie was thankful that he never touched little Cilla no matter how boozed up he might be. Sometimes she wished he would take some notice of her, sit her on his knee or even take her by the hand and help her walk down the road. Instead he ignored her completely, as if she didn't exist.

As she expected Maggie found that Cilla was still in her cot and that there was a sheet fastened over the four corners of it to prevent her from climbing out. Cilla was scarlet in the face from screaming, her cheeks streaked with tears and her bedding was in a tangled heap as she'd struggled to get free.

Maggie picked her up and hugged her, crooning to her to try and calm her. Then, holding Cilla in one arm and hoping that her gulping sobs would subside, she prepared some breakfast for her. She warmed up some milk and poured it on to a basin of broken-up scraps of bread sprinkled with sugar to make a dish of pobs, knowing it was Cilla's favourite.

As she sat spoon-feeding Cilla she looked round the shabby room in despair. How had she been reduced to living like this? she wondered dejectedly. Not for the first time she felt full of guilt; suspecting that perhaps Sam was right and that it was partly her own fault because she always accepted whatever fate dished out instead of fighting back.

Even though she'd vowed that she would continue to practise her faith after she was married, Sam had soon talked her out of it. He'd derided her for getting up to go to early morning Mass, especially on a cold winter morning when she could stay cuddled up to him in a nice warm bed.

She'd been an only child, brought up in a respectable area in Anfield, in a comfortable furnished house where everything shone from all the polishing and cleaning her mother did. She was so house-proud that they even had to take their shoes off as they came in the door and the only time they used the front door was if visitors came.

Her mother had a strict routine, and each day was allocated for special jobs: spring cleaning was a momentous event and every carpet and rug was taken up, hung over the clothes line and beaten; the heavy winter curtains were taken down before Easter and crisp summer ones hung in their place; the antimacassars that protected the arms and backs of the plush green armchairs and sofa were taken off and replaced by linen ones.

Her parents had been exacting but she'd never gone short of anything. They'd lived an orderly life; regular meal times and bed times. They'd been very devout Catholics so it was always fish on Fridays and High Mass on Sunday.

It had been a tremendous disappointment to her parents when she'd said she wanted to marry Sam Jackson.

‘He's not suitable, luv; for one thing he's not a Catholic,' her mother had pointed out in a shocked voice.

‘I know that, but I'll never love anyone like I love him,' she'd insisted.

They'd finally agreed she could bring him home so that they could meet him. They'd done their best to persuade Sam to convert, but he'd laughed at the idea. Father O'Connor had been reluctant to marry them and had tried his best to make her change her mind by saying that they would need a special dispensation in order for her to marry Sam if he refused to embrace the faith.

Sam had remained stubborn, even suggesting that they should elope if the opposition to their being married continued. It had caused a serious rift with her parents when they married in a register office, one which she bitterly regretted especially when not long after she and Sam were married her parents had gone to live in Australia.

When Trixie was born Sam objected to having her baptised or christened so she kept putting it off, partly because she no longer bothered to go to church at all any more herself. At one time she used to say her prayers morning and night like she'd been brought up to do but the demands of family life took over and she stopped doing even that.

It was only when something went wrong, she reflected, that she offered up a prayer to the Virgin Mary, or called on one of the saints to intercede on her behalf. When nothing happened as a result of her prayers she resigned herself to the fact that she'd deserted God and now he and his angels were turning their back on her.

When Trixie was old enough to start school Maggie made a futile attempt to send her to a Catholic school but had ended up sending her to the one nearest where they lived. Sam had pointed out she wouldn't understand what was going on and if there were nuns teaching them then she'd probably be frightened to death by the sight of them in their long black habits and white wimples.

Maggie often wondered if it was because of all this that so much had gone wrong in her life, but, even so, she couldn't bring herself to admit it openly. Instead she always crossed the road to avoid any contact with priests or nuns in case they recognised her as a lapsed Catholic and tried to save her.

One of her mother's sayings had been ‘You've made your bed so now you must lie on it' and she was trying to do exactly that. She knew she couldn't turn the clock back, much as she'd like to; she had to make the best of what she'd got but it would be so much easier if Sam would help.

Cilla's piercing scream for attention roused Sam Jackson from a deep sleep to the harsh realities of a new day. The bed beside him was cold which meant that Maggie must have left for her charring job some time ago.

He pulled the covers up over his head, trying to shut out the sound of Cilla's screams but they were so piercing that all it did was muffle them.

He reached for his packet of cigarettes, lighted one and then squinted at the cheap tin alarm clock beside their bed. When he saw that it was almost eight o'clock he suddenly remembered that not only was it a Monday morning but that Trixie was starting work today at the biscuit factory.

He bellowed out her name and when there was no answer he threw back the bedclothes and padded across the room, pulled aside the curtain that separated the half of the room that Trixie shared with Cilla from his and Maggie's bed, just to make sure she wasn't still there.

When he saw that her bed was empty he gave a grunt of relief. From the cheeky insolence she'd shown when he'd told her about the job he'd fixed up for her he'd half expected her to defy him.

For a brief moment, as she sensed his presence, Cilla stopped screaming. Then, when he took no notice of her, didn't even speak to her, she began screaming again and shaking the bars of her cot in a vain attempt to either get out or attract attention.

It was stiflingly hot in their top-floor rooms and he felt a twinge of guilt as he hurriedly dressed and left without even stopping to see if Cilla was all right or not.

He was late already, he told himself. If he didn't get down to the Pier Head right away then there'd be no chance at all of him being picked for a day's work. Not that it mattered, he thought smugly, since Trixie would be bringing home a wage packet at the end of each week from now on.

The prospect of not having to dib up as much housekeeping in future cheered him. By the time he reached the dockside he was whistling and calling out greetings as he joined the crowd of men all hoping for a day's work. He didn't even feel any animosity to those who'd already been taken on by a ganger and been allocated work on one of the ships.

It was going to be swelteringly hot by midday and he'd be more than happy to spend it sitting inside a pub and downing a cool beer rather than slaving in the glaring sun on the deck of a ship or on the wharf itself.

Sam considered work to be overrated. He'd been disillusioned from the day he'd found out that he'd not only lost his job, but also his home. He felt as though he'd been kicked in the face and from that moment on everything had gone downhill.

Life in the army had been grim; there'd been none of the glamour or excitement that he'd expected. Once he'd finished his basic training and been home on embarkation leave that was it; he hadn't seen England again throughout the entire war.

They'd been in grave danger from the enemy on so many occasions that he knew he should have felt thankful to come through it all unscathed; a great many of his comrades in the trenches hadn't done so.

His years working at the abattoir had stood him in good stead in that he could face any amount of blood and gore without turning a hair. While many alongside him were shocked out of their senses and spewing their guts up at the sight of the carnage all around them it had no effect at all on him. To him it made no difference if it was a man or a pig bleeding to death.

When the rats began attacking the dead bodies, he didn't shudder or squirm away from them but lashed out with his bayonet or even his boot and killed them.

The only thing he did object to was the brutal treatment that was dished out to those who suffered from shell-shock. Tying them up to a gun carriage right in the line of fire to harden them up was more of a punishment than a cure and many of them had ended up completely deranged.

What had alarmed him far more was coming home to find he was living in a slum and that he now had two kids to bring up. He'd never forget the first time he'd seen Cilla. She'd been like a little doll with the face of an angel. She had her mother's auburn hair and huge grey eyes, so it had been a tremendous blow to discover how sickly and backward she was and to realise that he'd probably have to support her for the rest of his life.

He was also disturbed by the change in Maggie. It was hard to believe that she'd once been the prettiest girl in Anfield and that he'd been the envy of all his mates. Even though she was only in her mid-thirties her once glossy auburn hair was bedraggled and her skin sallow. She no longer took any interest in what she was wearing and she looked middle-aged and dowdy.

Finding that someone had stepped into his shoes and he had no job was a further blow. After a few abortive efforts he'd given up hope of ever becoming the skilled slaughter man he'd hoped to be and resorted to labouring.

Feeling bitter and resentful he decided that as long as he had enough money for smokes and beer and a bit left over for the dogs or gee-gees he'd try not to think any further ahead.

When, a couple of weeks after he started work, Maggie had started bleating about needing more money than he was prepared to give her because their youngest was sickly and needed special foods he'd told her to get off her backside and go and earn it. To his surprise she'd done just that.

At first he'd felt ashamed at the thought of his wife going out charring but time soon dulled his conscience. The kid was her responsibility and if she didn't want to put Cilla in a home then she'd have to help earn the money to bring her up and the sooner she realised it the better.

It was the same with Trixie. He knew she'd had high hopes of working in an office but to hell with that. She'd be getting a mere pittance for the first couple of years and then by the time she'd worked up to earning a decent wage she'd up and marry some bloke and so he'd never benefit from all the money he'd spent on feeding her and clothing her and putting a roof over her head.

Persuading Fred Linacre to give her a job in the biscuit factory provided a much better prospect. It was right on the doorstep so she'd have no fares to pay. She'd be wearing an overall so there was no need to dress up to go to work. He'd let her keep a few bob for herself each week. Enough to buy a few clothes or whatever it was young girls spent their ackers on and the rest he'd divide between his own pocket and the housekeeping.

He couldn't be fairer than that, he told himself and, given time, she'd see the sense of it and thank him. She didn't need a career or a job with prospects, not like she'd have done if she'd been a boy; she wasn't going to have to be a breadwinner for the rest of her life.

She was pretty enough when she wasn't on her high horse or had a face like a fiddle because she couldn't get her own way. As long as she found herself a bloke who had a steady job she'd end up all right. He'd bet any money you liked that in a few years' time she'd be married with a couple of brats of her own.

The thought that he would then be a grandfather sent a shudder through him. He should never have got married; family life didn't suit him. For all the home comforts he was getting he might as well be on his own; in fact, he might even be better off, he told himself. At least he wouldn't have to account for every penny he earned, or be expected to turn any of it over.

He was still ruminating on what a sorry hand fate had dealt him when someone called out his name and he found himself being signed up to help unload a cargo of cotton from a ship that was moored alongside.

For a moment, because he knew the job would be hard and tiring, he toyed with the idea of refusing, saying he didn't want the work. Then common sense prevailed. Turn down a shout, he reminded himself, and you might never get another.

Chapter Three

Trixie Jackson was nervous; it was her very first day at work and she felt more scared than she had ever been in her life. Her heart was thumping away nineteen to the dozen and her entire body was shaking as she went in through the gates of the biscuit factory and followed the rest of the crowd of women and girls towards the entrance.

Even though she didn't want to work there or in a factory of any kind, her first day at work was still a milestone. She hadn't even been able to have a paper round because of looking after Cilla so she'd be earning money for the very first time in her life.

She'd been thinking about this for weeks and day-dreaming about going to the pictures with friends from school and all the dozens of things she wanted to buy. Not only clothes for herself, but lots of nice things for Cilla as well.

When she'd talked about it to her mum, though, Maggie had warned her not to make too many plans because her dad would expect her to hand over her unopened pay packet to him.