Strawberry Fields (36 page)
‘Daddy, hold your tongue or you’ll be sorry in the mornin’.’ Brogan was laughing, Polly could tell. ‘Suitin’ you, indeed – you sound like Father O’Leary when he’s got one of his hell-fire preachin’ moods on him. Go on, I’ll give you a hand out o’ them trousers.’
‘You will not!’ Daddy sounded as though he’d suddenly come wide awake. ‘What if the child woke? I’ll go to me bed now, Brog, and ’tis time you went to yours. You’ll be sharin’ wit’ Donal an’ Ivan. Don’t squash ’em in the night; I was always afeared to squash ’em when they were babbies an’ slept in our bed.’
‘I won’t squash anyone, Daddy.’ Brogan was laughing again. ‘By the waters of Liffey, you’ll have a head on you in the mornin’, no error. Night, now.’
‘Night, son,’ Daddy said, and Polly heard him fumbling his way out of the room. Then she heard voices murmur for a few minutes, then silence.
After a few moments she opened her eye another crack and risked a peep. Brogan was damping down the fire. He was still grinning to himself. Perhaps it won’t be so bad as it seemed, earlier, Polly thought hopefully. Grownups is so strange, perhaps by morning they’ll have forgot they quarrelled.
Presently, the rosy glow of the fire damped, Brogan took the candle, which had guttered low in any case, and left the room. Polly could hear him moving around for a while, then she heard the bed creak, and then there was silence.
What a day this has been, Polly thought suddenly. Mammy and Daddy had a fight with words, the first ever, and Daddy had too much porter and talked in a funny way, the first ever for that, too. Then they said more about Liverpool than they ever had before . . . and we might go and live there, when Daddy’s saved up enough money to buy a little house with a garden.
But that would mean leaving Tad, her thoughts continued. Sure an’ I can’t do that, not wit’ Tad and me marryin’, the way we said when we’re old enough. But then she wouldn’t marry until she was old . . . twenty, maybe . . . so she might as well live in England as here, until then.
But three in the morning, after all the excitements of Christmas Day, is not a good time for lying wakeful. Before she had done more than remind herself what an odd day it had been, Polly was asleep once more.
‘Peader, me dear love?’
‘Sorry, I was tryin’ not to wake you,’ Peader mumbled, dealing with his own trousers, darkness and all, for despite his brave words to his son he did not fancy his chances of getting Deirdre out of bed to undress him just because he was a mite the worse for drink. ‘Go back to sleep now, I’ll manage.’
‘Peader, I’ve been lyin’ here thinkin’. Never was there a better man alive than yourself, nor a more selfish, cowardly ould wan than me.’
Even with his head thick from too much porter and his soul aching from too much plain speaking, Peader chuckled. His young and pretty wife, who so deeply resented the Dublin habit of referring to the woman of the house as ‘the ould wan’ that she had forbidden her sons to use it, could not prevent her tongue turning traitor on her when she was deeply moved.
‘Well, alanna, and I’m sorry I said what I did so I am, for I know well that it was the shock made you speak as you did. If I could come home to stay . . . but my darlin’ girl, my little colleen, I’d not turn you into the chief wage-earner again, whiles I ran from ship to ship searching for work, or sweated my guts out on the railways, earnin’ less in a month than I do in a week across the water.’
‘No, I know you wouldn’t.’
Peader, his outer clothing removed, climbed carefully into bed beside his wife. He lay down, then turned and took her in his arms, half-afraid she might pull away.
But she did not. She lay, almost purring, in his embrace and then began to say again that she was sorry, that she had not meant . . . that she would go with him to the ends of the earth if that was what he wanted.
‘And sure no one’ll know our Polly for any but our child,’ she said breathlessly, arching her body against his. ‘Ah, Peader, say you forgive me!’
‘Forgive? We both spoke hastily, out of turn,’ Peader said. It was all he could do to keep his hands still on her, he longed for her with such violence, such heat! ‘Now we’d best sleep, alanna, for I’m goin’ to have a thick head in the mornin’, me son says.’
‘Are you not goin’ to love me?’ Deirdre said in a small, coaxing voice. ‘Ah, love me, Peader, show you forgive me for the wicked t’ings I said!’
Peader hesitated – and was lost.
‘I forgive you, my own, my sweetheart,’ he told her. He let his hands run gently over her sweet, smooth body, anticipating what was to come. ‘Oh, Deirdre, I’ve wanted you so, longed for you so!’
‘Do you think I’ve not spent nights cryin’ because you’re far away, not able to comfort me?’ his wife said softly. ‘Ah, Peader, ’tis no life for either the one nor the other, kept apart. You are right and I was wrong. When you’re ready for me, I’ll cross the water for you.’
He sighed deeply and then squeezed her hard, not heeding her laughing, breathless protest.
‘You’re the only woman I’ll ever want, ever look twice at,’ he whispered. ‘Kiss me, Mrs O’Brady!’
Chapter ElevenSeptember 1933
Sara woke early, which was unusual because it was Saturday and Saturday, so far as she was concerned, was a real day of rest. On Sundays she went to church at the Barracks, taught Sunday school and helped with the dinner which was served to those who would otherwise not receive one. She loved Sundays because she was with her friends and doing work which she enjoyed and knew to be useful, but Saturday was the day she indulged herself. A lie-in, a trundle round the shops pushing Gran in her wheelchair, a cold meal at midday, a trip to the cinema to see the latest Hollywood epic, a good high tea with a couple of boiled eggs, or potted shrimps, or a piece of smoked haddock . . . yes, Saturdays were good days.
Sara lay where she was for a moment; what had woken her? Then she remembered. Of course! Today was moving day.
Ever since the previous Christmas, Gran had been finding it more and more difficult to manage for herself. Finally, at Easter, the doctor had told Sara that she would do well to try to move her grandmother into a small flat or a bungalow.
‘Your grandmother has rheumatoid arthritis; her joints are almost immovable already, though her mind is both lively and active. She’s managing quite well now, but if she could cut out the stairs her life would be far more comfortable. You’ve only the parlour and the kitchen downstairs in Snowdrop Street, and there is a step to negotiate to get out of the front door, so converting would be difficult, if not impossible. But get her on one floor, in a property where the wheelchair can be used indoors, and I believe she’ll flourish for many years to come.’
Sara nodded. She had noticed how hard it was now for Gran to heave herself up the stairs and how exhausted she was after each fresh attempt.
‘You rent the house in Snowdrop Street? Then it should be possible for you to make a move. If you could get something near the school where you teach, then you would find things easier all round.’
‘I’ll have a try,’ Sara had promised. ‘I’ll ask the Army whether they know anywhere suitable.’
The Army ran what they called eventide homes for old people, but she knew without even asking that Gran would not be happy in such a place. The trouble was, the disease had attacked her whilst she was still a busy and bustling housewife. She would not be content to sit all day with other old people, who were just waiting for the next meal. And anyway, Sara did not want her grandmother to become bedbound a moment before she was forced into it.
That night, as the two of them were serving in the soup kitchen, Sara had told Clarrie what the doctor had said.
‘So I’ll be looking round for somewhere nearer the school,’ she explained. ‘Will you come with us, Clarrie? It’ll be nearer for you as well, since school and your bank are quite close.’
‘I’ll go wherever you an’ Mrs Prescott go,’ Clarrie said at once. ‘You oughter get somewhere without too much trouble, things being the way they are.’ She jerked her head at the line of people waiting to be served. ‘There’s more of ’em every night,’ she said quietly. There’s more people out of work every day, folk goin’ broke, wages being cut. Look at that queue.’
Sara nodded. She had noticed that all the Army’s soup kitchens were now being attended by large numbers of people who would once have scorned to accept a bowl of free soup and a hunk of bread. The Depression was biting deep in Liverpool and many were out of work or existing on tiny wages. Sara’s own salary had been cut because numbers of children attending the school had dropped sharply. Parents who could scarcely feed their families had to put their children into the state schools rather than use their pitifully small resources on even the cheapest of private education.
Clarrie, however, asked to take a cut in her salary, had faced the bank manager out and refused point blank.
‘I’m cheap any’ow,’ she said firmly. ‘I do the work of a feller but you don’t think to pay me a feller’s salary, even though I’m not livin’ wi’ me parents so I ’ave the same expenses as a feller. If you cut me money then I won’t be able to live in lodgings, see? And me parents live too far out; it wouldn’t make economic sense for me to come all the way here to work.’
The bank manager had, as Clarrie put it, ‘huffed and puffed a bit’, but he had not tried to reduce her salary again.
So Sara and Clarrie had set out to find a more convenient house which they could afford, and ended up well-satisfied. An Army family, living in Florence Street, found themselves in financial difficulties after the husband lost his job. He was a builder by trade however, and instead of haunting the labour exchange he set to and converted his small home into two flats.
So, hearing, on the Army grapevine, of Sara’s plight, Mrs Flaherty offered to let them rent the ground-floor flat which, she assured them, would be plenty big enough and would be ready for them to move in shortly.
‘Me an’ Bernie will manage fine wi’ the top flat,’ she said eagerly. ‘Oh, Miss Cordwainer, you don’t know what a weight off me mind it would be to ’ave at least some money comin’ in regular.’
‘Well, it doesn’t seem much,’ Sara said doubtfully, but she, her grandmother and Clarrie felt that, if they all contributed, they would be able to manage.
‘It would be a life-saver,’ Mrs Flaherty said. ‘And seeing as you’re Army we’d be on the same footin’, in a way. But come round an’ tek a look, Miss Cordwainer, see what you think.’
Sara and Clarrie had gone round the same evening, and were delighted with the flat. It was well-planned and would allow them a bedroom each, and a small living kitchen. Best of all, though, when Sara explained to Mr Flaherty that her grandmother was in a wheelchair and finding walking very difficult, he immediately said he could build a water closet on the kitchen, so that Mrs Prescott would not have to go out in the cold to spend a penny.
In due course they had taken Mrs Prescott to view the accommodation and, as Sara had anticipated, she was charmed with the flat.
‘I don’t want to use me wheelchair more than I need,’ she said, eyes shining as she looked round the tiny kitchen. ‘But I can gerrit in here, if I’ve a mind. I’ll be able to whizz out to the shops if I want . . . no difficulty manoeuvring me wheelchair through that nice wide doorway! And the kitchen’s so neat – everything to hand – that I’ll be able to do me cooking, I’m sure I shall!’
‘And if you don’t feel up to it, Mrs Flaherty will give you a hand,’ Sara said tactfully. ‘It couldn’t be better, really, because though I
could
come home at lunchtime, it would put Miss Marks out.’
could
come home at lunchtime, it would put Miss Marks out.’
‘And there’s the Victory Picture Palace, only a couple o’ doors away,’ Mrs Prescott said, pursuing her own train of thought. ‘I could go there every afternoon, if I had a mind.’
‘And if I’m needed, the school’s no distance,’ Sara agreed. ‘Clarrie’s bank is no distance, either. And the Barracks is handy, too.’
‘And the Flahertys are my type of people,’ Mrs Prescott added. ‘We’ll do all right here, chuck.’
So now it was moving-in day. Sara got out of bed and looked around her, at the room she had shared with Gran for months now, but found she had few regrets over moving to Florence Street. She had grown fond of Walton, and agreed with her grandmother that it would be good to live in such a lively part of the city.
She washed quickly at the washstand, trying not to splash, then dressed, but by the time she finished her grandmother had woken up. In fact she had swung her legs out of the bed and was trying to get her slippers on.
‘Don’t bother, Gran,’ Sara said, kneeling down beside her. ‘I like to help you to dress, you know I do, and besides, it’s far too early for you to be up!’
‘Oh well, if you insist,’ Mrs Prescott said, letting Sara help her back into bed. I tell you, growin’ old tries a body’s patience, queen. Are you goin’ to get me a nice cuppa?’
‘I am. And then I’ll give you a hand with dressing, your shoes are difficult I know, and then we’ll start getting ourselves organised. Thank goodness the stuff’s all in boxes and tea-chests, all we’ve really got to do today is to see that old Mitchell doesn’t break half the china and glass whilst he’s loading it on to his cart and count the tea-chests in and out. And once Mitch is away Clarrie and I will give the place a brush through and then we’ll all get a taxi round to Florence Street.’
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