The Girl From Seaforth Sands (39 page)

Mary jumped to her feet. She ran across the small room, dragging her coat off the hook of the back of the door and casting a light shawl over her hair. She knew where Haydn lived, though she had not previously visited him there, but she would do so now. She would tell him joyfully that she would love to go home with him at Christmas and that she very much hoped he would come home with her for the New Year. In other words, Mary told herself, as she descended the stairs and went out into the cold night air, I am about to burn my boats for the very first time in my life and I don’t feel worried, or guilty, or anything like that. I feel . . . I feel as though I’m at the very start of a real adventure.

It was a very cold day. Paddy, who had just boiled a supply of shrimps in the wash-house, crossed the courtyard, opened the back door and entered the kitchen, the basket of steaming shrimps in his arms. ‘It’s norra good day for the fishin’,’ he observed, going through into the scullery to dump his burden. ‘It’s bleedin’ cold out an’ all, Mam, so if you like I’ll sell these few shrimps house-to-house, while you gerron with the cookin’.’

Suzie was baking in the kitchen, humming a tune beneath her breath as she worked. She glanced up as her son passed her, nodding thankfully at his suggestion. ‘That’d be grand, Paddy,’ she said, pushing a wisp of hair off her damp forehead. ‘You’ll soon get rid of them. It’s not many people will bring shrimps in on a day like this.’

Paddy continued on his way to the scullery, glancing down at Becky as he passed her. She was fiddling around with a small grey ball of pastry of her very own, imitating her stepmother, using the miniature rolling pin which Gus had made for her, flattening the pastry into a large, round circle. Then she rolled it into a ball again, wondering aloud why it was such a funny colour, whereas Mam’s pastry was a nice, cool, creamy shade.

‘You’ve worked your bit rather hard, our Becky,’ Suzie told her, but she good-naturedly broke a ball off the pastry she was rolling out to fit a pie dish, and handed it to her stepdaughter. ‘Don’t keep rollin’ it back into a ball again. If you flatten it quite lightly, just the one time, I’ll give you a dab o’ mincemeat and you can mek yourself a mince pie.’

Paddy, listening from the scullery, smiled to himself. His mam had really taken to Becky, loved her like her own and would go to any lengths to see the child well-clothed, well-fed and happy. Indeed, looking back to his own childhood, Paddy had to conclude that his mam had mellowed with the years. In those far-off days she had been impatient, quick with a kiss, true, but also with a slap. It had been Gran who had played games with him, taught him his letters, made arithmetic interesting as she set him to counting a bag full of dried peas, using them both as playthings and as a means to teach him simple addition, subtraction and multiplication. Gran had been a marvellous cook, he still remembered the puddings and pies she had made when circumstances permitted, but there had never been enough spare pastry over, he supposed, for her to let him play with it. Instead, he and Albert had made sand pies from the wet and muddy sand which was
reachable only at low tide. They carted it up the beach in a leaky wooden bucket, crouching down amid the dunes and decorating the pies with bits of broken shell, pebbles and stems of marram grass.

Paddy sighed; thinking about his childhood always brought Amy to mind and the truth was that Amy had been on his mind for some weeks, ever since he had thought her injured in the riots. He could never forget the awful sinking feeling and the rush of cold dread which had invaded him at that time. Because of his feelings he had made a couple of honest attempts to get on a better footing with her, but these had failed pretty dismally, he thought now. She was polite, she smiled coolly at him, she had even allowed him on one occasion to carry her heavy basket back from the Rimrose Bridge to Seafield Grove. But throughout the course of the walk home she had scarcely spoken, replying in monosyllables to anything that Paddy said and making it clear as crystal that even if his antagonism had disappeared, hers had not.

After that walk, Paddy had vowed that he would stop thinking about her, but the truth was she had become an obsession with him. When she visited the house in Seafield Grove he found himself covertly watching her. He had never thought her pretty, not even passable, but now he discovered that there was a charm in her small vivacious face and tilted smile, which was missing in many prettier young women. He had watched her as she went about the kitchen noticing, without wishing to do so, the neat economy of her movements. She could heft a great basket of fish and carry it across the room without so much as growing breathless, yet she did not appear to be strong. She was slim and slightly built and, although
she dressed plainly, there was something elegant, Paddy thought, in the way she wore her simple clothes. Why couldn’t she like him? Or if not like, at least not actively dislike, for he knew that at present his own warmer feelings had absolutely no chance of being returned. She might no longer hate him but she certainly never thought of him as anything but a young man who had once been an unpleasant part of her childhood.

Paddy had finished cleaning himself up, so he picked up the basket of shrimps and headed to the back door once more. ‘Shan’t be long, our mam,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ll take this lot to Bootle – any messages?’

Suzie looked up from her baking. ‘You might fetch me back another couple of pounds of sultanas and some apples; I’ll need to make some more mincemeat since it seems we’re entertaining extra over Christmas,’ she said.

Paddy pricked up his ears. ‘Extra?’ he said interrogatively. He glanced across at his mother, still working placidly away at her pastry. ‘Oh, I suppose you mean Charlie and his young lady?’

‘Oh, them. No, I weren’t thinkin’ about them,’ Suzie said almost absently. She picked up a slice of apple and ate it. ‘It’s that Amy – she’s bringin’ a friend home for Christmas and Boxing Day. Not that I mind, particular,’ she added, flushing a little under Paddy’s hard stare. ‘I mean, I know it’s her home when all’s said and done, but it’s not a big house, and with all you fellers, and Becky . . .’ Her voice trailed off.

‘A friend?’ Paddy asked rather blankly. ‘Oh, yes, I did know . . .’ He turned once more for the door. So I were right, he told himself savagely, as he crossed
the little yard. She and that Philip were more than just friends – I should ha’ knowed it. I dare say she’s been meetin’ him every day and gettin’ friendlier and friendlier . . . well, it’s no skin off
my
nose, ’cos she’s never pretended to like me even a little bit. Her having Philip courtin’ her won’t make any difference to
me
.

But as he trudged round the wintry streets, knocking on doors and selling his shrimps, he was aware of a deep sense of disappointment, almost of loss. Despite all the facts, he had hoped that over Christmas a better understanding might happen between himself and Amy. Now it was clear that even if it did, it would not help his cause.

His cause? Now what exactly do you mean by that, Paddy Keagan? he asked himself, as he knocked on yet another door. You aren’t tryin’ to tell me that you thought you’d ever get anywhere with Amy Logan? I thought you just wanted to be friends, nothin’ more?

But in his heart of hearts he was beginning to realise that, if he lost Amy to Philip, or indeed any other, he would be a very unhappy young man.

Ella and Philip travelled to Manchester by an early train, then took a taxi to Philip’s home. Manchester seemed to have had quite a heavy snowfall during the night, for though the sun shone now, it shone on a city gleaming and glittering with snow. The streets, however, were churned-up and filthy, and Ella noticed that most of the women shoppers were lifting their skirts to avoid the slush, even on the pavements. Ella had realised, as the train drew nearer the city, that she was extremely nervous, which seemed odd considering how she had looked
forward to this visit. She was very fond of Philip, knew that he was fond of her, even accepted that his intentions were honourable. He had talked of marriage, though she had never let him think that marriage was her ultimate aim. She was a working woman, earning a respectable salary, who had a career she enjoyed. The fact that she would have thrown it up willingly to marry Philip was something that she kept to herself, almost ashamed of how her high principles and desire to be a woman of independent means had crumbled beneath the warmth of his affection and his obvious and increasing desire to shelter her from the harsh realities of life.

In the cab, threading its way through the busy pre-Christmas streets, Philip took her hand in a comforting grasp. ‘Nervous?’ he asked, giving it a little shake. ‘Well, if you aren’t, I am. I’ve got butterflies the size of elephants lashing around in my stomach. It isn’t that I’m worried my parents won’t like you – they’ll love you as I do – it’s just . . . oh, I don’t know, it’s just that they’re bound to think we’re a bit young . . .’

‘Just because I’m staying with your parents for Christmas doesn’t mean we’re anything but good friends,’ Ella said rather feebly. She knew as well as Philip did that a young man did not ask a young woman to stay with his parents unless he had serious intentions. Of course, a whole week spent in one another’s company might cause either party to change their minds, but she knew for her own part that this was unlikely to happen. The trouble was that Philip was not yet twenty-four and a good many parents would consider him young to be thinking seriously of marriage. On the other hand he
was living away from home, managing a busy office and coping with the usual requirements of daily living. His life would be very much easier if he shared it with a wife, or so Ella thought now, as the cab drew up before a tall, red-brick house, with a flight of whitened stone steps leading to an impressive front door, upon which hung a wreath of Christmas greenery. The steps, which must have been covered with snow, were now in full sunshine but, like the pavement below, were puddled with melted snow and would have to be ascended with caution. The last thing Ella wanted to do was to make a fool of herself by slipping in the icy water and ending up on hands and knees in front of the door.

Philip gave her hand another reassuring squeeze, climbed from the cab and helped her down on to the pavement. The cab driver picked up their bags, carried them up the steps and heaved at the bell pull, and almost immediately the front door was opened by an imposing figure who beamed a welcome. ‘Master Philip! It’s good to see you after so long. Miss Laura’s out shopping but your mama is in the drawing room.’

‘Thanks, Richards,’ Philip said. ‘This way, Ella!’

Twenty minutes later Ella sat before the dressing table in the large and airy bedroom to which her hostess had led her, unpinning her hat, glad to be rid of its weight and beginning to brush out her crumpled locks. To her great relief she had found Mrs Grimshaw a delightful person, who looked far too young to be Philip’s mama. When she entered the drawing room, which was bright with evergreens and Christmas decorations, Mrs Grimshaw
had welcomed Ella with warmth and gaiety, apologising for her daughter’s absence but explaining that Laura was buying Christmas gifts and would be home in good time for luncheon. ‘We’ve planned all sorts of entertainment for you, my dear,’ she said in her pleasant voice. ‘We’ve booked seats at the theatre and there will be a great many private parties to which we have all been invited. Laura wanted to take you shopping today, but I think it would be better, personally, if you spent this afternoon settling in and this evening, when Mr Grimshaw returns home, perhaps we might introduce you to some members of the family who live nearby. Nothing formal, just Philip’s grandmother and some cousins who will come in for a glass of wine before dinner.’

So now, as Ella combed out her short curls, she found herself wondering what she should wear that night. Her evening dresses, she knew, were several years out of date, but the material was good and, where it was possible, she had made changes so that she would not look frumpish or old-fashioned. She was looking forward to meeting Laura because Philip was clearly very fond of his younger sister. She sounded great fun, but in any event Ella was determined to like her for Philip’s sake.

Having tidied her hair and changed her cotton voile blouse for an uncreased one, Ella was debating whether to go straight downstairs again to find her hostess when there was a tap at the door, which opened to reveal a maid in a blue print dress and white apron. ‘Madam sent me to ask if I may unpack for you and iron out any creases in your clothes, Miss Morton,’ the girl said in a small, shy voice, with a strong Mancunian accent. ‘Is there anything else I can do for you – I dare say your shoes might need cleaning?’

Ella looked down at her neat black shoes adorned with a small velvet bow. They were new, having been bought only days earlier at Thierry’s in Bold Street. They were also still both clean and dry since she had only taken a few steps between the cab and the front door on arrival in Manchester, and in Liverpool there had been no sign of snow. ‘No, these are fine, thank you,’ she said, hoping she was striking just the right note between mistress and maid.

She turned her foot to glance at the heel and the girl said admiringly, ‘Them’s the new Cuban heels, ain’t they, miss? Oh, I do think they’re smart!’

‘Well, thank you,’ Ella said, touched by the friendliness in the girl’s tone. ‘Oh, I never asked you your name.’

‘I’m Myrtle, Miss Morton,’ the girl said, ‘and Mrs Grimshaw has told me to wait on you, so if there’s anything you want, all you’ve got to do is pull that there bell and I’ll come running.’

‘Very well, Myrtle, I shan’t forget,’ Ella said bravely. ‘And now if you wouldn’t mind coming with me to the head of the stairs and pointing out the drawing room – if that’s where I shall find Mrs Grimshaw – then I’ll leave you to get on with your work.’

Myrtle, who could not have been many years younger than Ella herself, obligingly came halfway down the stairs with her, saying that Mrs Grimshaw would be in the morning room, where she had ordered coffee to be served. ‘Young Mr Grimshaw is in there as well,’ she said breathlessly, as she turned to retrace her steps. ‘I’ve only worked for the family
for eight weeks, so I’ve not met him before. Oh, miss, isn’t he . . .?’ She clapped a hand to her mouth, a pink flush invading her face, but her eyes sparkled at Ella over her spread fingers.