Queen of the Mersey (4 page)

‘Will you get paid for today?’ she asked.

‘There’s no reason why I shouldn’t. I’d finished the damn window when the ladder broke.’ A rung near the top had snapped, the wood was rotten, and he’d slid down the rest, breaking more rungs in the process. ‘I’ll be fit for work again in a few days, and Colm should pay me for the time off. It’s his fault, not mine, that the ladder broke. It should have been ditched ages ago. I’m fed up working myself to a standstill,’ he said indignantly, ‘while Colm sits back and takes the profit so he can drink himself into a stupor.’

Colm Flaherty’s ‘business’ was scarcely worthy of the term. He was little more than an odd-job man, who hadn’t wanted a partner, but an assistant to do the most awkward, difficult work. If Colm was sober, he might paint the occasional door. Despite this, he was the most charming of men, popular with everyone.

Laura couldn’t help but like him. If a landlord wanted a job done, the first person they approached was the silver-tongued Colm Flaherty. Roddy, conscientious to a fault, had been carrying him ever since he’d started. The ex-public schoolboy was frequently seen pushing a handcart loaded with ladders, paint, sheets of glass, and mysterious lengths of piping, up and down the streets of Bootle.

Thinking about it, Laura could easily have cried. Instead of adding to their small savings, since moving, they’d been using them to subsidise Roddy’s appallingly low wages. She had an idea that would at least make a slight improvement.

‘You could start your own business, Roddy,’ she said excitedly. ‘Be your own boss. I could write cards and put them in shop windows, “Odd-Job Man Available”.’

‘It hardly seems worth it, Lo.’

‘Why not?’ she asked, disappointed.

‘Because any minute now the war will start and I’ll be called up. Hopefully, I’ll never push a handcart again.’

‘When’s Hester coming, Mam?’ Mary demanded.

‘If you’ve asked that question once, you must have asked it a dozen times. Her mam’s bringing her over at half past ten.’

‘Why is her mam bringing her? Why can’t she come on her own?’

‘I dunno, luv,’ Vera said vaguely, ‘It’s the sort of thing posh people do.’

‘Why does Hester call her mam Mummy?’

‘It’s another thing posh people do.’

‘Can I call you Mummy, Mam?’

‘Over my dead body, girl,’ Vera threatened. ‘It sounds dead soppy.’

‘Can I wash the dishes?’

‘What! And break the lot? No, ta, Mary Monaghan. I’ll wash ’em later. You can dry.’

‘Can’t you wash ’em now?’

‘Can, can’t, can, can’t! I’ll wash you now if you don’t shut up a minute. I’ll dump you in the rainbutt and leave you there for the rest of the day.’

Mary giggled. ‘I know you wouldn’t, Mam.’

‘Don’t tempt me, Mary, else you’ll end up very wet. Now, go and amuse yourself while I just take a glance through your dad’s paper.’

The Daily Herald was still on the table where Albert had left it. The more she read, the more downhearted Vera felt. There’d been an air raid practice in London the other day. The siren had sounded and people had lain on the ground and pretended to be dead or injured. There was still a shortage of gas masks for children – the Monaghans hadn’t received one small enough for Mary. ‘If our Mary hasn’t got one, then I’m not wearing me own,’ Vera informed the empty room. ‘The two of us’ll die together.’ Winston Churchill, whoever he was, was urging a military pact with Russia. Some people, the paper reported, mainly women, had started to hoard food, sternly frowned on by the authorities. Vera immediately decided to hoard her own; tins of soup and beans, sugar and tea, just to be on the safe side. They could go in the cupboard under the stairs and would be very quickly used up if the war didn’t start. Vera flatly refused to bow to the inevitable.

She folded the paper neatly, having read enough, took it into the yard and flung it into the dustbin, along with the Government leaflet that had arrived that morning entitled Masking Your Windows, which she hadn’t read. She’d mask her windows, whatever good it would do, when the time came and not before.

At twenty-five past ten, she put the kettle on, so there’d be a pot of tea ready when Laura arrived. The women were separated by thirty years and their backgrounds couldn’t have been more different, but Vera had the strongest feeling they were going to become good friends.

Chapter 2

The Black Horse had been built in Victorian times. It stood on a corner opposite Hornby Dock, an architectural gem, the elaborate mouldings and decorative tiles on the outside in stark contrast to the cheerless interior; one large room with sawdust on the floor, wooden tables scarred and worm-ridden, hard chairs and stools. The mirror behind the bar was cracked in two places and the brasses hadn’t been polished in months.

The clientele usually comprised dockers who’d been working late and were reluctant to go home, a few foreign seamen, and a handful of prostitutes – it was taken for granted that no respectable woman would be seen dead in such a place.

At precisely ten o’clock, the barmaid, Agnes Tate, rang a bell and screamed, ‘Time, gentlemen, please.’

No one stirred. Not a soul took the slightest bit of notice. The ‘gentlemen’ –

she’d yet to meet one – continued to sup their ale and smoke their fags as if she’d never opened her mouth and the bell hadn’t rung. Agnes shrugged. It was no more than she’d expected.

She returned to the other end of the bar where Derek Norris was standing. He grinned. ‘Double scotch on the rocks, Aggie, and make it snappy,’ he said, doing his impression of Edward G. Robinson. ‘And have another port and lemon on me while you’re at it. And a fag.’ He pushed a packet of Woodbines in her direction.

‘Ta, Derek.’ Agnes poured his usual tipple, and a drink for herself. He’d only been coming to the Black Horse for about a fortnight. She liked him and could tell he liked her in return. He was much better dressed than the other customers, in a loud, tweed suit and a canary yellow waistcoat. A bachelor in his thirties, he earned his living in mysterious ways. It was rumoured he was a fence, handling stolen property, and could get anything at a price.

She fluttered her black eyelashes, stiff with mascara. ‘That’ll be ninepence altogether.’

Derek leant over and peered down the front of her purple satin blouse. ‘And cheap at the price,’ he said with a suggestive wink.

‘Don’t be cheeky.’ Agnes twisted her lips, painted purple to match the blouse, into what she assumed was an appealing moue, then helped herself to a Woodbine.

‘What’s a bobby dazzler like you doing in a dump like this?’ Derek enquired.

‘You asked me that last night and the night before. I told you, earning me living. I’m a widder. I’ve got meself and a girl of fourteen to support.’

‘Pity about the girl. I’ve been thinking, if it wasn’t for her, you and me could take off and have some great times together.’

‘Oh, yeah! And pigs might fly,’ Agnes snorted. She heard the same sort of thing from men at least once a week. She was a good-looking woman, handsome, with big, dark eyes in a heavily painted face and a slightly too large nose. Her brown hair had been dyed blonde and was tightly permed in tiny curls covering her well-shaped head.

‘I mean it,’ Derek Norris insisted. ‘I’ve had my eye on you, Aggie. We’d make a good pair. Any minute now, I’m off to London to make me fortune. There’ll be all sorts of rich pickings there once this bloody war starts.’

‘London!’ Agnes breathed, images of Mayfair and Piccadilly and Buckingham Palace racing through her mind.

‘London.’ Derek gave an emphatic nod.

‘I’d love to go to a nightclub. I’ve only seen them on the pictures.’

‘We’ll go to a nightclub on our very first night.’

‘You’re having me on. We hardly know each other.’

‘I beg to differ, Aggie. I think we know each other very well. We’re the same type. We take risks, like nice clothes, a good time. Have you ever drunk a cocktail?’

‘No.’

‘You’d love ’em, they’d be right up your street. I can just see you walking down the Strand in a fur coat; mink or sable, the best there is.’

Agnes could see it too, very clearly. She glanced at him through lowered lids.

He had a daring face; she could imagine him taking risks. His eyes were small and a bit puffy, and he had a snub nose and a rather feminine mouth but, all in all, she found him attractive. At least he was clean, he looked after himself, and evidently had a few bob in his pocket. He had ideas. He was an adventurer.

And he made her laugh, the way he imitated film stars; James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart, as well as Edward G. Robinson.

‘How do I know you’re not married?’ she asked pertly.

‘You’ll just have to take my word for it that I’m not. The truth is, I’ve never met a woman I fancied enough to take all the way to the altar.’ He flashed her a sly grin, as if to say he’d met the woman now.

The landlord, Con Garrett, pushed his way past behind the bar. He put his hands squarely on her hips and pressed himself briefly against her. Agnes nudged him sharply in the ribs with her elbow. ‘Gerroff!’ she snarled.

‘That’s not what you said the other night,’ he whispered, fortunately not loud enough for Derek to hear. She didn’t want him knowing she was a woman of easy virtue. A barmaid’s wages didn’t go far when you liked smart clothes and jewellery, and an extra quid or two came in handy whenever she fancied a new outfit. Derek had kept himself more or less to himself the nights he came and hopefully hadn’t heard she was willing to do a turn when she was broke. He was living temporarily with his sister in Chaucer Street, a woman she’d never heard of who was unlikely to have heard of Agnes Tate.

‘What d’you say, Aggie?’ Derek said cajolingly. ‘About London, that is.’

Agnes sighed. It sounded wonderful. Derek was the man she’d been waiting for her entire life. She’d be off to London like a shot, except there was just one thing stopping her. ‘I told you, I’ve got a daughter who’s only just left school. I’m not free to up and go at the drop of a hat.’

‘She’s fourteen, you said. Some kids are left to look after themselves much younger than that. Thirteen, I was carting coal around. Two years later, I told a lie about me age and joined the Army. I fought for me country in the Great War,’ he said proudly, ‘and left without a scratch on me body.’

‘Still …’

‘She wouldn’t be left without a roof over her head, would she?’

‘No, but she hasn’t got a job yet.’

‘She’ll get one soon. You’ve done your duty by your daughter, Aggie,’ Derek said earnestly. ‘Now it’s time to think about yourself before it’s too late.’

‘That’s true.’ Queenie had been a drag all her life, holding her mother back. If it hadn’t been for her, Agnes would have left Liverpool years ago.

‘Pour us another Scotch, Aggie, and another port and lemon for your goodself.’

‘You’ll have me tipsy,’ Agnes said skittishly. ‘Anyroad, it’s gone closing time.’ Nevertheless, she poured both drinks.

‘That’s what I’d like, Aggie, to have you tipsy.’ He leered at her, his meaning clear, and she bent forward over the bar to give him a better view of her bosom.

Derek reached for her hand and said huskily, ‘We’d go together perfect, girl, in every possible way. I knew that the minute I saw you. That’s why I’ve been coming every night all this time. It sounds a bit far-fetched to say we were meant for each other, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were true.’

Agnes, rarely for her, was overcome with emotion. No one had spoken to her in quite such a way before. He sounded so genuine, as if he meant every word. Then common sense took hold. He was just another geezer trying to get her to bed in a more flowery way than usual. Perhaps he thought if he dressed it up in fine words he’d get it for free. She withdrew her hand and said coldly, ‘If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the train tickets to London before I agree to anything.’

‘I’ll have them tomorrow,’ he promised.

She reckoned she’d never see him again.

Agnes slammed the front door with all her might, not caring if it disturbed the toffee-nosed couple who lived on the ground floor with their prissy little daughter.

‘Queenie,’ she shrieked as she ran upstairs, ‘where are you?’

‘Here, Mam.’ Her daughter emerged from the kitchen wearing her nightie. ‘I’ve just made a pot of tea.’

‘I should think so too. I’ve been run off me feet all bloody night long. Did you do that washing like I told you?’

‘Yes, Mam. It’s on the rack.’

‘Why are you in your nightie?’

‘I washed me frock at the same time.’

Agnes peered into the kitchen. The rack was full of clothes, all hers apart from a faded cotton frock. ‘They’re dripping everywhere,’ she said disgustedly.

‘I couldn’t wring them any dryer, Mam. That’s the best I could do.’

‘You’re pathetic, that’s why,’ Agnes sneered. ‘You’re pathetic at every bloody thing.’

Queenie hung her head. ‘I know, Mam.’

‘Fetch us the tea and hurry up about it. I’m parched.’

‘Yes, Mam.’

In the living room, Agnes did a quick inspection, looking for dust or things out of place. It was Queenie’s job to keep the flat spick and span while her mam was at work. She was disappointed there was not a single thing to complain about.

‘It’s not strong enough,’ she said when the tea was brought, determined to find something wrong. ‘It looks like gnat’s piss.’

‘I couldn’t make it any stronger,’ Queenie said nervously. ‘There’d have been no tea left for morning.’

‘Why didn’t you buy more?’

‘’Cos you didn’t leave me the money, Mam.’

‘And it didn’t cross your stupid head to ask for it before I left?’

‘No,’ Queenie whispered.

‘You’re thick, d’you know that, Queenie,’ Agnes said cruelly. ‘I don’t know what I did to deserve such a thick, useless daughter. You’re the bane of me life, that’s what you are. Get to bed, out of me sight. I can’t stand looking at you another bloody minute.’

‘’Night, Mam.’ Queenie crept out of the room.

Agnes didn’t answer. The way the girl crept about got on her nerves, as did the way she spoke, in a hushed, terrified whisper, as if she were trying to pretend she wasn’t there. ‘If only she weren’t!’ Agnes muttered. ‘If only she’d died at birth or, better still, I’d never had her in the first place.’