The Girl From Seaforth Sands (22 page)

‘I wonder what I ought to do?’ Amy mused, more to herself than to Mr Mosscrop, but he answered her anyway, being a man fond of both the sound of his own voice and the airing of his own opinions.

‘Do? Why, gal, there’s no point in you hangin’ around here, for no craft will set out in weather such as this, so there’ll be no fresh fish bein’ brung in.
Why, your da is a fisherman. I doubt he’s took the boat out today, has he?’

‘He’s ill,’ Amy said briefly. Mr Mosscrop could be pleasant enough, but being the stall next to Mrs O’Leary, he was also their chief competition. Amy knew very well that if there was any business going Mr Mosscrop would do his very best to see that it came to him and not to herself. If that meant encouraging her to go home and leave the stall unattended, he would not think twice about it. Accordingly she said, ‘I’ll hang on, thanks all the same, Mr M. We’ve still got a bit of fish left in the icebox and you never know. Customers do turn up when you least expect ’em.’

Mr Mosscrop, his advice clearly flouted, grunted and turned away, and Amy began to scrub down and then set out the stall. As she worked she thought once more of her father, then of the possibility of her moving out of the house in Seafield Grove. She had always been a favourite with Bill and she adored him, but since Suzie – and Paddy, of course – had entered their lives, things had not been so simple. She knew that Suzie was jealous of the affection between herself and her father; knew that Paddy, in his own way, was equally jealous of the friendship between herself and Albert and probably, for all she knew, of the good feeling which existed between Gus and herself. But she did not see why Suzie should resent so bitterly a relationship which was no threat to herself, that of father and daughter.

But whether she understood it or not, Suzie’s antagonism had, of late, made life in the little house in Seafield Grove very difficult. Paddy never missed an opportunity to let Bill see his daughter in a bad light and Suzie not only criticised everything
she did, but grumbled to Bill that his daughter thought more of her job in the fish market than she did of the ‘little tasks’ she was asked to perform at home. And though she took five of the seven shillings and sixpence which Amy earned each week, she was always saying it was not enough to feed such a greedy great girl, though admitting sourly that the fish Amy brought home from the stall at the end of each day’s work was a bit of a help towards her keep.

Yet Amy knew it was not simply the fact that she was not happy at home which made her want to move out. Ruthie was very happy at home, but she felt she wanted a bit more independence. They might tell each other it was because they needed to be nearer their work that made the move attractive, but Amy knew this was not so. They were growing up, growing away from the family background, the brothers and sisters sharing beds; for the bed which she and Mary had shared was now occupied by herself and baby Becky. ‘Little birds want to leave the nest and spread their wings,’ a particularly annoying teacher had been wont to say to the class, when talking about what jobs they would wish to do. At least, Amy had thought her a particularly annoying woman, but she had merely been putting into words what all the class should have been thinking – that growing up meant getting away, leaving home, finding a place of one’s own.

Despite early fears that she was wasting her time by setting out the stall, Amy soon realised that she had done the right thing, which was comforting. Mr Mosscrop and herself did good business, for folk who had not shopped the day before because of the inclement weather were doing so now in earnest. By
four o’clock, when dusk was falling fast, Amy was able to clean down and change out of her fishy apron and her stained wooden clogs, knowing that there was a nice little sum of money in the black japanned box to take round to Mrs O’Leary, now that work was finished for the day.

Mrs O’Leary lived with her sister Bridget in a two-bedroomed flat over a millinery shop on Mount Pleasant. Amy had visited the place before and had thought it very snug, and this evening, with a bright fire burning in the bedroom grate and Miss Bridget Flynn toasting slices of bread before it, it seemed an idyllic place to live, particularly when compared with her own home.

The young girl who had let Amy into the flat and accompanied her to Mrs O’Leary’s bedroom said, ‘Here’s someone to see you Miz O’Leary,’ ushering Amy into the room and closing the door behind her.

Bridget turned away from the fire and smiled at Amy, while slipping a slice of toast off her fork and beginning to butter it. When it was done she held it out to Amy with the words, ‘You’ll be fair clemmed, workin’ all day in the fish market wi’out me sister’s help. Eat this whiles I pour me sister a cuppa. Then you can tell her how it’s gone today.’

Amy crunched the toast and watched, as Bridget set about pouring the tea and waking her sister, who had clearly fallen into an uneasy slumber. Presently, with Mrs O’Leary supping the tea, Amy was able to ask Bridget in a quiet voice how her employer was going on. The younger sister was a skinny, self-reliant woman in her fifties. Amy knew she worked as a supervisor at a big clothing factory and was much valued by her employers, for Mrs O’Leary was proud as well as fond of her sister and frequently
talked about Bridget’s ‘career’, a word she would never have used about her own work. Amy guessed that the little girl who had let her in was the maid the sisters employed to keep house while they were at work, so there would be no necessity for Miss Flynn to be away from the factory while her sister was ill.

‘She’s got a bad chill, there’s no denyin’ it,’ Bridget told her. ‘And it’s gone on her chest, like her chills nearly always does. But I’ve known her a good deal worse than this and we’ve caught it early, so mebbe, in a week or ten days, she’ll be back in the fish market.’ She eyed Amy keenly. ‘Can you manage till then, chuck? I know you’re only young, but me sister sets great store by you, so she does. There’ll be a few bob extra in your hand at the end of that time, ’cos I know it ain’t everyone who’d stand by Mrs O’Leary the way you will. I s’pose there’s no chance of your dad or one of your brothers givin’ a hand? You won’t need help while the weather stays severe, but if we have a mild day or two, when the fleet can get out, then folk’ll fancy fresh fish again and you’ll mebbe need some help.’

Mrs O’Leary, who had been sipping her tea, suddenly seemed to realise that Amy was in the room. ‘It’s good of you to come, queen,’ she said huskily. Amy could hear the breath wheezing in her chest as she spoke. ‘Done much today?’

Amy went over to the bed and opened the japanned box. ‘Look, we’ve done quite well,’ she said proudly. ‘And we’re clear out of fresh fish to sell. But it’s been a fair day today, so maybe the fleet will have sailed and there’ll be more to sell tomorrow.’

‘You’re a good gal,’ Mrs O’Leary wheezed. ‘Has
your dad sailed today? If so, I’ll warrant he’ll bring his catch straight to us.’

‘My dad’s ill with concussion,’ Amy said dolefully. ‘But maybe Gus and Albert will have taken the boat out. I’ll find out when I get home.’

‘Your dad’s ill!’ Mrs O’Leary exclaimed, real sympathy in her thickened voice. ‘You shouldn’t ha’ bothered to bring the money round, queen, when you must be anxious to gerroff home and see how he’s a doin’. Tomorrer, I’ll send young Alfie – he’s me grandson – to collect the money, so’s you don’t have to trail round here. Off you go then, Amy, and give your dad me best wishes for a quick recovery.’

‘Thanks, Mrs O’Leary.’ Amy headed for the door. ‘But I reckon I’d rather come round myself, if it’s all the same to you. It wouldn’t be fair to put all that on a little lad. Good night, both.’

Freed from the responsibility of her employer’s money, Amy fairly flew along the pavement towards the tram terminus at Lime Street. Her luck was in and the tram waiting was a number 23, which would take her all the way to Seaforth Sands.

During the journey on the tram her thoughts had been divided between a half-apprehensive fear of the responsibility of looking after the fish stall while Mrs O’Leary was ill and pride that her employer was willing to trust her. Once she was on Seafield Grove, however, worry over her father simply took over, and it was with quickened step and fast-beating heart that she hurried down the jigger, across the yard and in at the back door.

Suzie was standing by the fire, staring down into the flames. Her face was bloated and blotched by the heat, Amy thought, but on hearing the door open Suzie swung round and Amy realised that the older
woman’s face was wet with tears. Her heart jumped into her mouth. ‘Is . . . is Dad . . .?’ she faltered, staring at Suzie. ‘Oh, Suzie, is me dad worse?’

‘They’ve took him to the hospital.’ Suzie’s voice was thick with tears. ‘He were real bad, delirious, the doctor said. I stayed with him until it were time for the boys to come in; then they said I should come home and they would spell me for a bit while I got meself some food. He were still unconscious and he sounded mortal bad.’

‘Which hospital?’ Amy asked baldly. She had unbuttoned her coat and now she buttoned it up again. ‘Which ward, come to that?’

‘They’ve took him to the Stanley,’ Suzie said dolefully. She sniffed, dabbing at her face with a filthy rag of a handkerchief, then she seemed to remember that she disliked Amy and looked up, her mouth twisting spitefully. ‘But don’t you go there worriting the nurses, Amy Logan, for I won’t have my Bill made any worse than you’ve made him already.’

Amy, who had been pulling on her gloves and turning towards the back door, stared at Suzie. ‘What on earth do you mean?’ she asked, genuine puzzlement in her voice. ‘It wasn’t my fault that I worked late and came home by the docker’s umbrella instead of the tram, though you keep saying it was. There’s no sense in casting blame anyroad. It doesn’t do anyone any good, it might even make my dad worse if he knew what you were saying.’

‘Knew what I were sayin’?’ Suzie tipped back her head and laughed without amusement. ‘Why, your dad knows all about it. He were that distressed when my Paddy telled what he knew that nothing
would do but for him to go out into the storm to make sure you didn’t get into no more trouble. Bad enough that you ignored my Bill’s wishes and did what he ’spressly telled you not to do . . .’

‘Suzie, I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,’ Amy said helplessly, but she was beginning to be very angry. ‘I never did what my dad told me not to do, though he wasn’t one for laying down the law, not in general, he wasn’t. So just what did your Paddy tell him about me? Because I’d take money it wasn’t true, whatever it was.’

Suzie ruffled up indignantly, her cheeks reddening at the implied insult. ‘Why, Paddy telled your father that he saw you junketing around the Liverpool streets wi’ that chinky feller what my Bill telled you never to see no more,’ she said triumphantly. ‘He were on the tram, but he said you weren’t even tryin’ to catch it, the two of you went giggling off into one of the side streets – up to no good I’ll swear, what with you comin’ home after midnight, brazen-faced as any streetwalker. Oh, yes, me lady, your father knew what you were up to and . . .’

‘If your son told my dad that I were with anyone but my pal Ruthie, then he’s a worse liar than all the rest of your bloody family put together,’ Amy screamed, crossing the room in a couple of bounds and ending up almost nose to nose with Suzie. ‘I told you I was with Ruthie and
I’m
not in the habit of telling lies, unlike some! As for Tommy Chee, I stopped seeing him when my dad told me to, though I thought it were a pack of nonsense, and if Paddy told him different then it’s him who’s responsible
for my dad being in hospital ’stead of home with the rest of us. So what’ve you got to say to that?’

Suzie had stepped back a pace but now she said, ‘Paddy had no reason to lie. He just telled my Bill what he saw and . . .’

‘You make me sick,’ Amy spat, turning to the door. ‘I’m going to see my dad and you may be sure I’ll tell him that your precious son filled his head with a pack of lies. And don’t you try to stop me,’ she added, as Suzie grabbed at her sleeve, ‘because you’ve done enough harm, you and your precious Paddy!’

Amy arrived at the hospital just as Albert and Paddy came down the stairs and crossed the foyer towards her. Albert put an arm round her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. ‘Dad’s still unconscious, Amy, but there’s a bit of colour in his cheeks and the nurses seem a little more hopeful. He was awful grey when we first arrived and he’s breathing kind of funny, but he doesn’t seem so bad, somehow, as he did at first. Gus has gone to the telegraph office to let Edmund, Charlie and Mary know what has happened,’ Albert said gently, and Amy saw that both boys were pale and anxious-looking.

She had known for some time that Paddy was very fond of her father; thought of him as though he were a much-loved uncle, but she found she could not even look at him after one quick, initial glance. He had told lies about her to her father and she had been unable to repudiate them. She thought desperately that Bill’s recovery might be held back by what Paddy had said. She had never liked Paddy, but now she hated and despised him, and would do so, she told herself, for the rest of her days. ‘Do you
mean Dad’s still very ill, Albert?’ she asked and her voice only had a tiny shake in it. ‘But Suzie said they’d sent her home to get a meal and a change of clothing – I thought he must have improved, must be holding his own.’

‘The doctor thought the same and likely he’s right; but he’s with Dad now. They told us to come down and get a breath of air while he’s examined,’ Albert replied. ‘Seems they’re worried about the possibility of pneumonia, what with him lying out in the snow for so long.’ Albert’s voice broke and he hugged her shoulders convulsively.

‘Pneumonia!’ Amy thought of her father, his loving ways, his gentleness. People died from pneumonia, she knew. As soon as she possibly could she must tell Dad that Paddy had mistaken Ruth for Tommy, which would clear up the whole horrible misunderstanding. If only Albert was wrong and it wasn’t pneumonia. It would break her heart if Bill were to die, particularly thinking ill of her. She felt tears rise to her eyes and closed them, praying with all her might that her father would recover, would not leave them, as her mother had done. Amy felt another hand on her arm and realised that both boys were steering her across the foyer towards the stairs; the wards, she knew, were all on the first floor. She opened tear-drowned eyes and saw Paddy’s face, only inches from hers. She glared at him and tried to drag her arm away, but he held on.