The Girl From Penny Lane (5 page)

And though Lilac had been a valued member of the household as personal maid to Mrs Matteson, a doctor’s wife, she was otherwise untrained. Indeed, she had been there ever since she had started work and had fancied herself settled there until such time as she might meet Mr Right and marry him. In fact several Mr Rights had come into her life, only to be spurned at the last minute. And then a couple of months earlier Mrs Matteson had had a stroke, and after nursing her back to a semblance of health her husband had decided that his best course would be to take her out of the city and into the countryside, to the small village of Scarisbrick, just outside Southport. There, she might be near her sister, Lady Blanche Elcott, yet far from the noise, grime and strain of living in a large city like Liverpool. But the house to which the Mattesons would move was small, too small to allow them to employ a lady’s maid, and besides, Mrs Matteson would be living quietly and in a very different style to that which she had enjoyed in the city.

‘A little gardening, a little sea-bathing when we’re in Southport, perhaps – for her health, you know – and gentle visits to her sister will be all the excitement she either needs or wants,’ Dr Matteson told Lilac gently. ‘We will give you an excellent reference, I’m sure you know that my dear, but it would be quite impossible for my wife to employ a personal maid in such circumstances. For though I hope to help the local man out when he’s overstretched, I shall no longer have a practice of my own.’

Lilac quite understood, of course she did, and had hurried round to Nellie’s comfortable little house in Penny Lane to ask her adopted sister’s advice. For though Nellie was a mere thirteen years older, she had considered Lilac as her own particular responsibility ever since Lilac had been found on the doorstep of the Culler Orphan Asylum, where Nellie had been living since her parents’ death when she was not much more than five.

When told that Lilac was about to lose her job Nellie was a brick as usual, and had suggested that Lilac should move in with them. She knew, however, that having had financial independence for so long, Lilac would not be happy without a job of some sort. ‘Think about it, and decide what you’d most like to do,’ she had urged. ‘Something tells me you won’t want to stay in domestic service, not with anyone other than your dear Mrs Matteson. There’s plenty of other jobs – you could nurse, like I did – but you must make up your own mind, Li, love. And there’s no hurry, you’re lucky there. So give it some thought and then we’ll talk again.’

So Lilac, sauntering along and swinging the hatbox idly in the bright afternoon sunshine, had plenty to think about. What did she really want to do? Nellie was right, domestic service, or skivvying as the unkind called it, had only been bearable because the Mattesons had treated her more like a daughter than an employee. But nursing did not appeal to her; now that the war was no more than a memory nurses did not have interesting soldier-patients, so you were likelier to end up slaving for a crabby hospital sister on a women’s ward than meeting a handsome man who would offer you his hand, heart and fortune. And shop assistants were notoriously underpaid and overworked. You were on your feet all day, she had heard, and could be sacked immediately if a customer complained. And customers were always complaining, it was their natures. During the war, Lilac remembered, it had been perfectly possible for women to do all sorts of things – they had driven trams, dug ditches, managed offices, delivered the post, even – but now the choice was limited once more.

What about working in an office, then? Lilac asked herself. She could not type, but she had neat writing and a good grasp of arithmetic. She could probably do bookkeeping work of some sort, though with such a large number of unemployed men in Liverpool, it was not easy for a girl to get a job which a man, who had probably fought for his country, could do as well or better.

As she walked, Lilac glanced in at the windows of the offices she was passing. Solicitors, accountants, surveyors, insurance companies, they all employed some women. She could see them poring over ledgers, carrying cups of tea between the desks, sitting beside bad-tempered old men taking dictation. The offices, from out in the sunshine at least, looked fusty, dusty and traplike. No, she did not think she would want to become an office worker.

What about making something, then? Hats sprang to mind, having just visited Miss Hughes’s establishment. That might be quite fun, except that she had never enjoyed sewing, and even inventing a confection with a wide brim, on which she would balance a positive greengrocery of artificial cherries, plums and hazelnuts, would mean stitching the fruit into place. The materials were lovely, though – would she not enjoy working with tulle and straw, felt and feathers?

But then she remembered that most milliners employed at most one girl, and decided against that, too. Lilac enjoyed the company of girls her own age and, truth to tell, had begun to fret a little even at the Mattesons once they cut their staff down as the doctor began to see fewer and fewer patients. Polly, who was Lilac’s particular friend, had gone, and the fat cook and bright Liza. The woman who came and scrubbed twice a week was a taciturn creature with a large family and very little conversation and Mrs O’Malley, who described herself as a good plain cook, might have been good and was certainly plain but did not excel in the kitchen. Lilac, who enjoyed her food, had begun to quite look forward to the moment when the doctor would come roaring down to the basement, a broken tooth in one hand and one of Mrs O’Malley’s scones in the other. But it hadn’t happened and now Mrs O’Malley was looking for another situation and had probably been promised a good reference, which meant someone else would soon be tackling her hard pastry, overcooked meats and soggy vegetables.

A sweet-faced girl in a grey coat and matching hat, pushing a heavy pram and holding the hand of a small and sticky boy, approached along the pavement. Should I be a nursery-maid? Or perhaps a governess? wondered Lilac idly, rather admiring the uniform. Except that governesses had quite gone out, the rich were sending their children to school just as the poor did, although to far superior establishments, of course. And although everyone knows babies are lovely, I think I’ll admire them from a distance rather than get really involved with them, Lilac decided. Being an honorary aunt was one thing but changing napkins, mopping up puddles, soothing the fractious, smacking the naughty ones and buying chocolates for the good – Lilac’s ideas of bringing up rich children were hazy to say the least – appealed to her no more than domestic service, now that she considered it seriously. After all, in the nature of things she would marry one day and have kids of her own; there was no sense in having all the work and none of the pleasure, which was how being a nanny struck her. And marriage, so far as Lilac was concerned, was something for the future, not entirely out of sight but quite far off. A number of ardent young men dancing attendance on her was fine, but actually settling down with one of them seemed like the end of the story. Lilac felt she wanted a good deal more fun before she settled for a tiny house, a husband and a number of noses to wipe.

But marriage was beginning to seem more attractive, ever since her path had crossed that of Alan Blake. She had met him whilst waiting on a party in a smart house in Huskisson Street. He had been one of the guests, a tall, handsome young man in naval uniform, who told her that he was First Officer aboard a liner, the
Lady Mortimer
, plying between Liverpool and New York.

‘May I have the next dance?’ he enquired presently, smiling down at her. ‘I’m sure you dance divinely.’

‘Dance? Me? I’m
waitressing
,’ Lilac had told him. ‘You’d get me dismissed without a character, and I enjoy these evening jobs. They pay quite well, too.’

‘Come out into the corridor,’ the young officer had said, his light blue eyes dancing. ‘Come on, if we just nip through the baize doors . . .’

She went, not because she took him seriously but because she had a trayful of empty glasses to return to the kitchen. But he took the tray from her, stood it on the floor and swept her into a modern waltz, though she was sure the music was playing something quite different.

In his arms, leaning back to look up at him, laughing, protesting, she had seen the light eyes darken as his mouth drew nearer her own – and had broken free, recaptured her tray and made for the kitchen once more. But back in the ballroom he had lain in wait.

‘Meet me afterwards?’ he had begged. ‘I’m on leave for a couple of days and this is my aunt’s house so you’ll know where to find me. I’m Alan Blake, First Officer on my ship and a pillar of respectability, I assure you. Ask anyone, I never seduce beautiful girls – not unless they ask me to! But if we meet when you finish work we’ll talk about a proper evening out. We could have supper at that big hotel down by the waterfront – they have marvellous oysters – or I’ll hire a car and drive you to New Brighton, just ask, beautiful lady . . . what’s your name, by the way?’

‘Umm, I’m Lilac Larkin,’ Lilac murmured. ‘And by the time I’m finished here you’ll be tucked up in your bed. We have to wash and clear, you know.’

He nodded, the merry eyes still holding her own.

‘Right. Ask, Lilac Larkin, and whatever you want shall be yours! What about tomorrow night? After you finish work? Only I sail on the tide the day after that.’

‘I’ve got to go and see my sister tomorrow night,’ Lilac said, trying to sound casual. She would have loved to agree, but something told her that if she didn’t want to be thought of as a pushover, an easy conquest, she had best play a little hard to get. ‘Still, if you’re in the Pool regularly . . .’

‘Oh, Lilac, those are beautiful words, words of hope! Where d’you live?’

She laughed, shrugging.

‘You’ll forget, but for the next couple of weeks I’m at the Mattesons’ house, on Rodney Street. After that I’m not certain where I’ll be, though 39 Penny Lane will always find me. It’s my sister’s address.’

He nodded, scribbling in a tiny pocket-book.

‘Right. I’ll drop you a line and we’ll paint the town red when next I’m here.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t forget,’ he commanded. ‘Alan Blake of the
Lady Mortimer
. I shan’t forget you, Lilac!’

But as she hadn’t seen the young officer since that night, Lilac, reaching the tram terminus on the Old Haymarket, dismissed Alan Blake from her mind. He would probably forget all about her, never get in touch, but at least she’d enjoyed their brief acquaintance and it had made her see that there could be a future for her which did not include either skivvying or marrying a bank clerk.

She scanned the line of trams and there was the one she wanted, waiting. The driver was leaning against the door chatting to another driver and smoking a cigarette. Lilac jumped aboard, settled herself on the slatted wooden seat and decided to tell Nellie she simply couldn’t make up her mind. No need to mention Alan, definitely a ship that passed in the night. Nellie always knew what was best for her, anyway. Why, by now she might well have a dozen schemes to put forward. So Lilac pushed the hatbox under the seat, drew her money out of her pocket, and sorted out her fare. Then, with the tram under way, she simply gave herself up to the pleasure of a free and sunny afternoon and let her future take care of itself.

‘I’m anxious that you get the right sort of job this time,’ Nellie said later, when the two of them were settled in the kitchen preparing a meal together. ‘Stuart has always said you were wasted in domestic service, and I do think he’s right. You know you’re welcome to move in with us, but even then you’d want a job of some sort, Li, my love, because you’re used to a bit of independence . . . unless you’ve decided to make marriage your career and take on Art, or one of your other admirers?’

‘I’m not going to marry anyone, yet,’ Lilac said firmly. ‘I like Art all right but I reckon we’ve known each other for too long, we’re more like brother and sister than anything else. And banking’s awfully boring when you come to think and anyway, he couldn’t afford to marry me for years and years, and I want some fun before I die!’

‘Well, you aren’t yet nineteen, I suppose, and I didn’t settle down until I was a good deal older than that,’ Nellie admitted. The two women were in the kitchen, Lilac shelling peas into a large zinc saucepan whilst Nellie, enveloped in a huge white apron and with a smudge of flour on her nose, made the pastry for a steak and kidney pudding. ‘It’s just that you’re so pretty, Lilac love, and I do worry about you.’

‘You’re very pretty yourself,’ Lilac said gently. Nellie had a fine-boned and delicate face, she looked a real lady, Lilac always thought, with her grey eyes, light brown hair and very white skin. Lilac knew her own red-gold hair and deep blue eyes were instantly striking, instantly memorable, but she thought, with rare humility, that perhaps it was Nellie’s face which stayed in the mind the longer, whilst Nellie’s loving, giving character could be read in the sweet line of her mouth, her straight and honest glance.

‘That’s very sweet of you, Lilac dear,’ Nellie said, twinkling. ‘But no one could accuse me of prettiness right now, especially carrying all before me as I do.’ She stroked a hand down her stomach, distended by the child within. ‘Still, I do feel fit and well, so perhaps I don’t mind being hideously fat. And Stu’s as excited as a kid at the thought of being a father.’

‘And I can’t wait to be an honorary aunt,’ Lilac said. She ran a finger down the last pod, popping the peas into the pan with a rattle like gunfire. ‘So what do you advise, dear Nell? Another job in service, or a complete change? Only I don’t know whether I could stand starting at the bottom again, as a kitchen maid.’

‘You wouldn’t have to, chuck,’ Nellie said at once. ‘You’ve had a first-class training, any fine lady would be glad to employ you. Go down to the employment agency in Clarence Street and see what they’ve got to offer. But personally, I don’t think you’re going to find another Mrs Matteson, and perhaps it might be better to get right away from that type of job from the start.’