The Girl From Seaforth Sands (30 page)

But Philip was talking now, telling her about the service flat which he shared with Mr Maynard and asking her about Albert, her parents and, of course, the Keagans and Paddy. Taking a deep breath, Amy told him rapidly all that had happened since that day on the beach. The birth of baby Becky, her mother’s death, Bill’s remarriage and her own move into the city. She said as little as possible about Suzie’s attitude to herself and nothing about her job in the fish market, but she did tell Philip of her father’s illness. She also told him that Bill now had a stall in St John’s Market selling his own fish and was, consequently, better off than he had been since her mother’s death. ‘My stepmother’s not a worker like my mam was,’ she said. ‘But she really loves my dad and she’s good to the boys and little Becky, and since I’m not living there any more it’s the most I can hope for.’

‘What about Paddy?’ Philip asked after a moment. ‘I seem to remember you and he weren’t exactly pally when we were kids.’

Amy laughed. ‘We were sworn enemies from the first time he called me “Liverpool Shrimpy” and said I smelled of fish,’ she admitted frankly. ‘It was really difficult living under the same roof, once Bill and Suzie married, because he didn’t like me any better for sharing our home and of course I simply hated him. But now he’s working the boat with Gus and Albert, and when I go home he usually slopes off so I don’t have much to do with him at all. A good job, I reckon.’

‘I don’t think he disliked you for yourself,’ Philip told her, after a thoughtful pause. ‘He was that fond of Albert that he was jealous of you. And he had a terrific crush on Mary, you know. He thought you were against him there and might set Mary against him too. I remember him going on about it one afternoon when the three of us went digging for cockles. Albert kept telling him he was talking nonsense and afterwards your brother told me privately that Paddy might as well forget all about Mary, because she would be after better game as soon as she was able. Anyway, don’t tell me Paddy still dislikes you? You’re a young woman and he’s a young man now, not a couple of kids. Feelings change as you get older, the person you disliked may be quite different now that . . .’

At this point they were interrupted. ‘If you two have stopped swapping family histories, how about a bite to eat?’ Minnie said plaintively. ‘We’ve got ham sandwiches wi’ mustard, cheese-and-tomato rolls and a bag of sticky buns. They’ll go round six easy, if you’d like to share ’em with us.’ The young men agreed eagerly and Philip said that
when the train stopped at the next station he would get out and buy six paper cups of tea from one of the platform vendors. Very soon a pleasant picnic was taking place and the conversation had become general.

Ella, always a lively and vivacious talker, told the two young men all about their room in Huskisson Street and made everyone laugh with a description of getting up in the early hours of a winter’s morning, while it was still dark, and becoming horribly entangled with a pair of wet stockings which someone had strung on a line across the room. ‘I thought it was either a web spun by the biggest and most horrible spider in the world, or a desperate robber, trying to tie me up,’ she admitted. ‘I shrieked so loudly that poor Minnie nearly had a heart attack. When I managed to find the candle and light it, she was sitting up in bed clutching a boot in one hand and the front of her nightgown in the other, with eyes as big as saucers and her mouth open to shout for help.’

‘Why a boot, queen?’ Ruth asked, giggling. The incident had happened, it appeared, before either she or Amy had come to live in Huskisson Street. ‘Was you thinkin’ of gettin’ dressed and runnin’ out on your pal?’

‘No, indeed,’ Minnie said with dignity. ‘I thought it was a burglar, too, so I was going to brain him with me boot.’

‘You make sharing a room sound great fun – much more fun than living in a hostel as a lot of girls do,’ Philip said presently, his voice almost wistful. ‘Dick and myself have a good time, of course, but we’re sober citizens compared with the four of you. We go to the theatre, eat out most nights in the
dining room below the flats, go dancing sometimes . . . do you ever go dancing?’

‘Course we do, when we can afford it and there’s a decent dance on,’ Amy said at once. ‘But even with four of us sharing, money’s a bit tight. Why, we saved up for a whole year so that we could go to London for the . . . the coronation.’

‘Tell the truth and shame the devil, Amy,’ Ella said, smirking. ‘We went to the suffragette rally first, fellows. We don’t chain ourselves to railings or throw ourselves under steam trains or racehorses, but we do support the movement. We think we should have as much of a chance to earn a decent living as any young man. Don’t you agree?’

‘I do, up to a point,’ Philip said cautiously. ‘But I’m not sure I approve of the suffragette movement. It . . . it’s unwomanly, don’t you think? Surely there must be a better,
gentler
way of making your point and getting your own way? I mean, fighting the police, going to prison, chaining yourselves to railings . . .’

‘The
gentle
way, as you put it, has been proving itself useless since the dawn of time, Mr Grimshaw,’ Ella pointed out. ‘No one wanted to have to use violence, or go to prison, or be force-fed in order to get what should be ours by right. Nor, for that matter, do any women I know want to give men carte blanche to bully and ill-treat the weaker sex as we are called, because that is how a good many members of the police force behave. Nothing gives them greater pleasure than to be allowed – nay, encouraged – to attack and beat distinguished and intelligent women who are merely asking that they be taken seriously. Such women, the average policeman knows, are intellectually and morally their infinite superiors. So they are taking a sort of revenge on every suffragette whom they ill-treat and arrest.’

‘Gosh!’ Amy said, very much struck by this speech. ‘Well, Philip, I hope that’s given you something to think about. And there’s no need to be
ashamed
to support the suffragettes, you know, for a great many gentlemen do. Even members of parliament,’ she added.

Philip, who had been bending forward and listening to Ella with great attention, leaned back in his seat and expelled his breath in a long whistle. ‘Phew! Well, thank you, Miss – er – Morton for the lecture, which I’m sure I richly deserved. I can’t say you’ve changed my opinion, exactly, but you’ve certainly made me think.’ He turned to his friend. ‘You haven’t said much, Dick. Are you a secret supporter of the suffragette movement? If so, you’ve kept it very quiet until now.’

Dick looked uncomfortable. Amy had often observed that among gentlemen who had not yet taken a stand, discomfort seemed to be their chief emotion. But finding himself the object of everyone’s attention he cleared his throat and spoke: ‘I don’t know what I felt before, Miss Morton, but like my friend here, you’ve certainly given me something to think about. I must admit I’ve seen the police behaving in a very brutal and uncouth fashion during demonstrations . . . but then, what choice have they? I suppose they have to use rioters roughly, whether they be male or female .’

Amy was about to reply wrathfully that violence against women who were for the most part incapable of using equal force, could never be right or fair when Minnie, ever the peacemaker, spoke up.
‘Let’s not argue,’ she said placatingly. ‘After all, there’s been a seamen’s strike in Liverpool while we were away, and I don’t suppose anyone of us girls intends to go on to the streets and join the dockers’ protest, even if we believe their cause to be just. So why should we expect these gentlemen to interest themselves in our cause? Let’s change the subject, girls, and ask Mr Grimshaw and Mr Maynard to tell us a bit about their work.’

From then on conversation became general. The six of them discussed plays they had seen, actors and actresses they admired and the new kinemacolor shows which had appeared for the first time at the Argyle Theatre in Birkenhead.

‘Have you seen Vesta Tilley at the Empire? We went a week ago and we all thought she was superb – she looked more like a man than some men do,’ Ella said.

‘Do you go often to the theatre?’ Philip asked eagerly. ‘We might meet you there some time and perhaps go for a meal afterwards. Then we could tell each other what we thought of the show while we ate. Why, if four young women and two gentlemen seems wrong, we could get a couple of the fellows from the office to come along – just to make up the numbers you know,’ he added hastily.

Amy was about to agree enthusiastically that this would be a great idea when Ella spoke. ‘It might be fun, but you know we’re all in work and fully employed until seven or eight in the evening,’ she pointed out. ‘Apart from this, our holiday, we don’t get much time we can call our own. Mind you, we can go to the last house on a Saturday, because then we can lie in on Sunday, but other than that . . .’

‘We do get half-days,’ Amy put in. She sighed.
‘But they aren’t usually the same, unfortunately. Working at the Adelphi as I do, I often work shifts, which cuts down my social life, you might say. Ella and Minnie aren’t too badly off because Bunney’s and the Bon Marché close at a reasonable hour, but poor Ruth works in Dorothy’s Dining Rooms and she can be kept really late some nights.’

‘Dorothy’s Dining Rooms!’ Philip exclaimed, his eyes brightening, ‘I
thought
I’d seen you somewhere before, I just couldn’t think where. Dick and I often pop along to Dorothy’s for a quick snack when we are working late and sometimes we take business clients along there for luncheon. It’s very handy for Lime Street Station and most of them come and go between Manchester and Liverpool on the train.’

Ruth, who must have felt a little out of it, Amy considered, was delighted to find herself recognised and, after staring very hard at Dick and Philip for several moments, said she believed she remembered them as well. ‘You’re the young gentlemen who came in last week with a huge feller, old-fashioned looking, with a shiny top hat and a dickie bow,’ she said triumphantly. ‘He weren’t with you,’ she added hastily. ‘I think he was in the Music Hall Show at the Royal Court Theatre. He’s a magician or something, and ever so kind and jolly to us girls. He tips well and all,’ she finished reflectively.

Philip’s brow cleared and he grinned delightedly. ‘What a memory you’ve got,’ he marvelled. ‘Yes, I remember now, old Marvo, the magician – he was in front of us last Tuesday and bagged the window table we’d got our eye on so we went and sat with young Stebbings and Mr Alcock.’ He turned back to Ruth. ‘Well, fancy you remembering that! Every time
I come into Dorothy’s Dining Rooms in future I shall demand to be served by Miss . . . Miss . . .

‘I’m Miss Durrant,’ Ruth said, smiling shyly. Well, isn’t that a coincidence? Are you sure you haven’t met Miss Morton when you’ve been shopping in the Bon Marché? Or Miss Miniver when you go after sports equipment in Bunney’s?’

The two young men laughed, but shook their heads. ‘We don’t frequent the department stores much,’ Philip said, ‘but now we know where to find you, perhaps we’ll do so.’ He turned to Ella. ‘Why, you might even give me a discount, Miss Morton.’

With much similar chatter and a great deal of laughter, the journey passed in a flash and soon they found themselves on Lime Street Station once more. The young gentlemen offered to help pile their bags into a taxi cab but the girls refused, having every intention of getting a tram back to Huskisson Street. They walked along to Renshaw Street and very soon they were scrambling on to a number 15 and heading for home, tired but happy after their holiday in London and delighted to think that they had made two new friends.

A week later the girls were sitting round the open window of their room, eating supper from plates on their knees, for the day had been oppressively warm and they felt they would sleep better for some fresh air. Amy finished her brawn sandwich and set the plate on the floor, then picked up a letter from Mary, which had been delivered earlier in the day, and slit the envelope open. ‘I wrote to Mary the day after we got home from the coronation, but I didn’t expect a reply for a couple of weeks,’ she observed, pulling out the thin lined sheets of paper. ‘But here she is,
writing to me a matter of days later. I wonder what’s up? Perhaps she’s coming home. Well, if she is, I’ll have to see her weekends or evenings, because I’ve used all my holiday and I don’t intend to take unpaid leave just because Mary’s coming home.’

Ella finished her sandwich and put her own plate on top of Amy’s, then shook her head sadly. ‘What a one you are for leaping to conclusions,’ she remarked. ‘Poor Mary probably only wants to tell you what she did on the King’s Coronation Day. Why don’t you read it instead of making nasty remarks?’

Amy giggled. ‘All right, all right, I’m just going to, no need to bully me,’ she said and smoothed out the first sheet. She read the letter right through once, turned back to the beginning and read it again. Then she raised round eyes to her friends’ faces. ‘Mary
is
coming home,’ she said in a dazed voice. ‘I must be psychic, Ella, because she hardly ever comes home and I didn’t really believe she meant to do so this time either. That’s right at the end of the letter, mind. She begins by telling me that she and Roderick had the day off for the coronation and went out into the countryside on their bicycles with a picnic. Then she goes on about the street party which she and Roderick attended in the evening and the fun they had, and how people danced on the cobbles, and someone turned her ankle, and she and another girl took her to hospital . . . and after that she just sort of mentions that she’s coming home and says she’s looking forward to seeing me.’

‘I wonder what’s bringing her back all of a rush like that?’ Ella mused. She stood up and began to collect the girls’ used plates. ‘I suppose she’s going to stay with your parents, Amy? I mean, there isn’t room for a visitor here, no matter how tiny. Well, I suppose she could share your bed . . .’

‘No, she couldn’t,’ Amy said firmly, going over to put the kettle on the gas ring. ‘My dad would be terribly upset if Mary came to us instead of to Seaforth and besides, Mary’s got a bit . . . a bit high and mighty you could say, these past years. One of the reasons she doesn’t come home often is because she’s ashamed of being a fisherman’s daughter and living in crowded conditions. No, if she’s coming home – and from her letter it looks as though she’s planning to stay a week – then it’s for some definite reason. If I didn’t know about her bank clerk I’d wonder . . .’