The Girl From Penny Lane (31 page)

‘I guess it is,’ Charlotte said rather wistfully. ‘It’s so long since I was in love that I find it quite difficult to remember. I wonder, do fellers feel the same?’

‘Art does,’ Lilac said contentedly. ‘He’s just like me; his letters are one long grin . . . if you understand me.’

‘I do,’ Charlotte sighed. ‘Oh, Li, you are so lucky!’

Over in Gibraltar, in his temporary room in Irish Town, Art went through the days in a similar daze of happiness to that which Lilac was enjoying. He had found the perfect flat for a young married couple; it was on Town Range and it overlooked Trafalgar Cemetery in which lay the men who had died at the Battle of Trafalgar many years before. It was a pretty cemetery, with big old trees, beautifully kept gravestones, and it was cool and peaceful even in the warmest weather. Because the new flat was right at the top of an old house it was quite private, which would be better, Art considered, for a newly married couple, and it had recently been modernised. It was near the shops so marketing would not be a problem, but near the harbour, too, and Lilac would be able to catch a bus to Rosia Bay whenever she wanted to spend an afternoon on the beach.

But we probably won’t stay here long, Art told himself as he arranged for a year’s rental on the flat. We’ll be wanting to get back to Liverpool . . . I mustn’t forget Lilac’s dancing school; she and her friend Charlotte have built it up from nothing, it would be a sad shame to let it go. And anyway, once our children are in school she might be glad of a little hobby.

Children! The thought of having a family, living in a neat little house like the one Nellie and Stuart had shared in Penny Lane, was a dream of which Art thought he would never tire. He could just imagine it all, the neat red-brick house with a little garage at the side for his motor car (when he could afford one) and four good bedrooms upstairs, one for the girls, one for the boys, one for he and Lilac and the last one a spare room, for guests. Then downstairs the big, modern kitchen with a gas cooker and an Aga to heat the water. A proper front room, all carpet and cushion covers, a back garden for the veggies and a front one for flowers. Oh aye, he’d got it all planned out, all right.

He didn’t want a big family, even though the Catholic faith frowned on birth control. Art had attended Mass on a Sunday and gone to Sunday School, listened to the Father and done his best to be a good person in his own quiet way, but where Lilac was concerned everything else went by the board. He had quite made up his mind that he would be the best husband ever, so there was no point in having kids like doorsteps and ruining Lilac’s health and figure. Too many kids keep you poor, Art thought, and I don’t want my kids to have what I had – more kicks than kisses – nor to find them turned over to an orphan asylum like Lilac was, if the worst happens and one of us dies. Didn’t the good God give me self-control, as well as this great love of Lilac burning in me breast? Well, I reckon we’ll have two boys and two girls and then shut up shop. There’s something nice and satisfying in a family of six . . . a bit of a squeeze in me new car, perhaps, but we’ll fit in somehow when we go off to New Brighton for the day, or across the river and into the blue hills of Wales.

He talked to his employer about a fortnight’s holiday; Mr Bassano was willing. His small company was flourishing, he liked Art, appreciated the additional time the younger man put in without ever expecting more money or any sort of perks. What was more, Art was straight, told his employer everything and made sure that Mr Bassano was not cheated.

‘Take a fortnight . . . take longer if you need it, Mr O’Brien,’ Mr Bassano said generously. ‘When you bring your young lady-wife back with you we’ll have a grand party to celebrate your wedding . . . but you will come back? I don’t know how we managed before you came.’

Art assured his employer that he would most certainly return and began preparations for departure. He moved out of Irish Town into the flat in Town Range and spent happy evenings choosing furniture, pictures and ornaments. Hortensia’s farewell fling meant that he had had very few breakables left when he moved out, but he enjoyed buying new ones, anticipating, with each purchase, Lilac’s pleasure in the pretty or practical, mundane or unusual.

He was wandering back up through the town one evening, having had a drink with some friends, when he heard his name called. He had been about to cross Convent Place but had paused to watch the guard change in front of the Governor’s Residence, and on hearing his name he turned and saw Mr Bassano, waving vigorously. Art stopped and waited for the older man to catch him up.

‘Mr O’Brien, I’m glad I caught you,’ Mr Bassano panted. ‘My old friend Albert Edwards has come to me . . . his purser aboard the
Queen of the Straits
has been taken ill; he’s done some juggling around and now tells me that he has a berth for a temporary purser aboard the
Queen
 . . . she’s a sizeable cruise ship and she sails tonight for Liverpool, she’ll be berthed there for two or three days . . . would it help you to clear up your arrangements if I released you for the duration of this voyage? Albert would be grateful, and I daresay we might manage without you for the period in question.’

Art could scarcely believe his ears; a chance to get back to Lilac now, to talk over their plans in person . . . to hold her in his arms for the very first time!

‘Me? Go back to the Pool for a couple of days? Oh, Mr Bassano, it would be – I can’t tell you—’

‘Good. You sail in three hours. Can you be ready?’

‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,’ Art gasped. No time to telegraph or telephone . . . but what does it matter? ‘This will make things so much easier . . . thank you, Mr Bassano!’

And Art was as good as his word; he was aboard the
Queen of the Straits
in less than an hour and working in the purser’s cabin ten minutes later. And that night, when he eventually got to bed, having got his books up to date and his passenger lists sorted, he was too excited to sleep.

Liverpool! He was going home for the first time for ages. Unexpectedly, without a fanfare, no one waiting at the docks for him – and it was the best thing which had happened to him since he was a nipper and had first set eyes on little Lilac Larkin in her pink silk dress!

They docked at eleven in the morning. The waterfront was busy but not unusually so. Art had stood at the rail as they approached the port, devouring it with his eyes. Never before had the Liver birds seemed more welcoming, never before had the city shone so white and gold in the sunshine, the sky such a perfect arc of blue above! He knew he would not be met but to his surprise, on stepping ashore he was greeted.

‘Well, if it ain’t Art O’Brien!’ A hand seized his shoulder and spun him round, another hand seized his. ‘How do, whack! Don’t say you’ve forgot your old friend Matt?’

Art gaped.

‘Well, blow me down, if it isn’t Nellie’s little brother! I’ve not seen you since you went to sea . . . oh, it must be half a dozen years back.’

Matthew McDowell grinned, still holding Art’s hand.

‘There weren’t nothin’ much to go back to the Court for, not once Aunt Ada died and Nellie moved out. I say, that’s a lovely feller Nellie’s got herself, ain’t it? I bin dockin’ in London these past few years, and it’s been grand to ’ave our Nell an’ ’er Stuart to visit, a family on the spot, like. But didn’t I ’ear you was in a bank or an office or some such t’ing?’

‘I was, but I left. I’m at sea on and off . . . look, do you remember Lilac?’

‘What, the kid our Nell took on? Little Lilac Larkin?’ Matt’s grin widened. ‘I ‘member her chuckin’ a pile o’ spare ribs at your ’ead and kickin’ an’ swearin’ . . . eh, grand little kid!’

‘Well, I’m going to see her later, but I’d like a bevvy an’ a cheese barm first. Come with me? We could go to the Sparling Hotel, it’s only just across the road. Have a chat about old times.’

‘Well, I dunno . . .’ Matt said slowly. ‘On t’other ’and, I’d like to see young Lilac again.’

This was not at all what Art had bargained for but his doubts must have shown in his face, for Matt thumped him on the shoulder with a friendly fist, accompanying the gesture with a guffaw.

‘S’awright, la’, I were ’avin’ you on! You was always sweet on our Lilac from the time you was little, I do ‘member that much! Right, let’s go to the Sparly, ’ave ourselves a bevvy or two. You stayin’ at the Corry, then?’

Art shook his head.

‘Nope. I send money . . . but I’m only here for a couple of days, I’d sooner book into a lodging house near where Lilac works, so we can have some time together. We’re getting married in a few months.’

‘Tyin’ the knot, eh?’ Matthew whistled. ‘Well, good for you, young feller! Lilac were in the bag and sack factory, but our Nellie said something about betterin’ herself, hotel work, was it?’

‘Oh aye, it were hotel work, and she’s done well for herself,’ Art said proudly. ‘She’s the receptionist at the Delamere Hotel on Tythebarn Street, and she’s got a—’

‘Dancin’ school on Mount Pleasant,’ Matthew finished for him. ‘That’s right, our Nell said to pop in there some time, get meself a few lessons in all the latest steps. Well, since it’s all in the family, Art old feller, why don’t you book in at the Delamere? She’d gi’ you special terms, no doubt.’

Art stared, eyes rounding.

‘Well, I never would have thought of that! Yes, why not? I’d like to see the look on her little face when I walk in, bold as brass, and ask for the best room in the house!’

‘You won’t git more’n two words out afore she’s hangin’ round your neck,’ Matt said shrewdly. ‘Tell you what, let’s ’ave a bob on it, eh? Ten to one she’ll be givin’ you an ’ug afore you’ve opened your mouth.’

‘You’d probably win,’ Art said ruefully as they turned into the Sparling Hotel. ‘Look, I’ll buy the grub and the bevvies now an’ if she gives me time to ask for the best room in the hotel, you can pay me back.’

Art and Matt enjoyed their meeting, their meal – which turned into something a good deal more convivial than a barm and a bevvy – and above all, reminiscing about old times. Art had not kept in touch with the inhabitants of the Court because working in a bank and then leaving the city had isolated him, but Matt knew everyone and everything and was only too happy to pass on all the news.

‘I got relatives all over,’ he said proudly, as the two of them sat at a window table, sipping their ale and waiting for their food to arrive. ‘There’s me brother Charlie down south, me cousin Lou in New York and me other cousin, Jessie, in France . . . she married again, you know, a Frog of all t’ings . . . and then me mates are mostly at sea . . . odd, ain’t it, that I still get this yearnin’ for ’ome, and that ’ome is still the Pool?’

‘We all suffer from it,’ Art said wisely. ‘I’ve got a good job in Gibraltar, ashore mostly, an’ I’ll be taking Lilac back wi’ me when we’re married, but we shan’t stay abroad. It’ll be Liverpool again for us, just as soon as I can get a decent job back here. Mind, we’ll do awright in Gibraltar; it’s a good place to be.’

‘Oh aye; ’alf the navy an’ most of the garrison would agree wi’ you there,’ Matt said. ‘Here comes our grub – eh, you can’t beat the Pool for good grub!’

Lilac came on desk duty at lunchtime, having spent the morning sorting out the books, the rooms and the staff. The chef wanted to change the menu; an artist of his calibre, it appeared, could not be content to cook the same food week after week after week. He desired to make a raspberry mousse encased in puff pastry and served with fresh cream for dessert.

‘In October?’ Lilac said despairingly. ‘Why not make it an – an apple mousse? Or a lemon one? At least I could send someone round to the shops for lemons without being laughed at.’

‘You meestake,’ Monsieur Arrat said, wagging a finger the size and shade of a pork sausage under her nose. ‘Or per’aps I should say you underestimate ze wonders of ze rrrrailway.’ He always became very French when thwarted. ‘Scottish raspberries, Mees Larkin, Scottish raspberries!’

‘Oh? Are they in season now? I’m sorry, I didn’t know,’ Lilac said humbly. It paid to be humble when dealing with an aristocrat of the pastry board, like Monsieur Arrat.

He nodded earnestly, beaming at her and patting the air with one hand as though an invisible child stood before him.

‘Zey are in season. And I wish also for ze best beef, in strips . . . ’ow ees eet called . . . ?’

Having sorted out the menus for the week to the chef’s satisfaction, Lilac then accompanied a new chambermaid round a bedroom, showing her how a bed was made, how a well-handled feather duster could remove cobwebs from lampshades, picture rails and long net curtains, all without knocking anything askew, and how a little vinegar applied to a mirror and then buffed vigorously with a soft duster could bring an immaculate, smear-free shine.

After that it was cashing up and telephone bookings, after that it was seeing the sewing woman about sides-to-middling some well-worn best sheets so that they could be used for the staff bedrooms in the attics, and after that Lilac had a light lunch on one end of the kitchen table whilst the staff flew around getting ready to serve twenty-eight guests with something a little more elaborate than Lilac’s cold beef and pickle sandwiches, and coffee.

She had just finished her ice-cream when Mrs Brierson came into the kitchen, fanning herself with the reservation book.

‘Well, if Mr Robeson tries to book in again, Miss Larkin, I hope you’ll send him packing . . . or rather, assure him we’re fully booked,’ she said with a rueful smile, sinking into the chair opposite Lilac’s. ‘Not only does he complain about everything, but he insists on doing so at the top of his voice in the most public place he can find. And now Miss Jenkins in Room 8 tells me that he made a very strange remark to her when he met her on the landing in her dressing-gown! Have you nearly finished your luncheon, my dear? I’ve left Miss Skidmore on the desk, but she isn’t really qualified . . . I felt I must have a break and a cup of coffee or I’d expire.’