The Liverpool Rose (28 page)

But despite the lateness of the hour and his tiredness, Geoff found it difficult to go to sleep. His mind kept returning to the elusive likeness to . . . someone . . . which had made him think he recognised Evie. And the more he thought about it, the less sure he became that Sid had told him the truth about the girl. If, as Sid had said, she was a shopgirl and a mannequin at Lewis’s, then why had Sid taken up with her merely as a friend? Unless Sid had changed almost beyond recognition, he was unlikely to do anything which did not benefit him in some way, yet for the life of him Geoff could not see how friendship with Evie could be of the slightest use to the other fellow. These thoughts kept tumbling around in his brain until at last he slept, but it was an unsatisfactory and restless sleep, haunted by dreams in which Lizzie and Evie flitted to and fro, both reproaching him, the first for his faithlessness and the second for not helping her out of some dreamlike, but terrible, fix.

When his alarm went off at six-thirty, Geoff was downright glad to get himself out of bed and to start the new day. He decided that he would make a real effort to find out just what Sid was up to over the course of the next week. If, at the end of that time, he was still no wiser, then he would walk away from the problem and try not to see Sid again.

Much relieved to have made a firm decision he went down to the dining hall, settled himself beside Reg, and ate a good breakfast. Then he made his way to the bank, determined to stick to his resolve to contact Evie and find out what was happening, or else to forget the whole business.

Clem had not much enjoyed the snow, although it had not been severe enough to ice up the canal. The
icing up of the water was dreaded by all the boatmen since it meant that it took twice as long to get the cargoes to their destination. Sometimes they had to wait for an ice breaker to clear the canal, sometimes they were actually iced in themselves and had to work hard to free their own particular craft. The favoured method was for two members of the crew to take up position on the gunwales at each side of the boat, where they would shift their weight from side to side until the ice creaking, began to loosen its grip. Because this was hard on the wooden hull, most of the men deemed it politic to make sure that the ice never became too thick, which meant rocking the boat at regular intervals whenever she was moored up. In addition to the hazards of the ice, furthermore, tackling the locks with the snow thick on the ground was a nightmare for both horses and crew. Bad visibility, the weight of snow on decks, locks and towpaths, as well as the difficulties of both horse and crew pushing their way through perhaps several feet of snow, made such conditions all but intolerable.

However, this year the snow had cleared quite quickly under the torrential downpours which had followed it. Though rain, Clem thought now, peering ahead through the fast-falling drops, was almost as bad as snow. It made the decks slippery, even though the clogs which most of the boatmen favoured gave them a good grip, and it made steering a nightmare. With the best will in the world, a steersman could not see further than a few yards in weather like this which meant that when approaching locks or bridges, one was almost on top of them before the boatman could crack the great leather whip to announce his arrival.

Jake and Priddy were both experts with the whip. There was a knack to using it which Clem had not yet
mastered, but he had decided that when the weather was finer, he would sneak off and practise in a nearby meadow when they were moored up for the night. Whip cracking was important because not only did it announce your arrival at locks or bridges, it also gave you the right to enter the lock or go under the bridge first. Where the bridge was narrow and low only one boat could pass through at a time so it was important to men carrying perishable merchandise to have their right of way clear.
The Liverpool Rose
always carried clean merchandise because Priddy and Jake, living on board as they did, had no desire to fill their beautiful boat with coal, lime or manure, and since they worked for themselves, they always chose their cargoes carefully. Wool, groceries, fruit and vegetables, sugar, whatever it might be, they took good care of it and made sure that it arrived at its destination in perfect condition. They preferred long hauls to short, too, so they usually arranged to take a cargo from the Liverpool docks all the way to Leeds, and then the return load from Leeds back into the city of Liverpool, and because they were known and trusted, they rarely had to wait long for a cargo.

Now, however, Clem was thinking less about their cargo than about the hot meal which Priddy was preparing in the forward cabin and the fact that very soon they would pull in and moor up for the night. Tomorrow they would tackle the Bank Newton and Cargrave locks and would refill their water barrel, for the water piped from the Winterburn reservoir above was famous for its purity and taste and was much valued by the boatmen. Jake always made sure that they rewatered at that point on their journey if they possibly could, and because it was in the heart of the Pennines Clem usually took Brutus for a long walk up
on to the hills while the boat was taking on water. The countryside was beautiful, although he acknowledged now, peering ahead through the driving rain, no one could think the countryside was at its best when February was living up to its name of ‘fill-dyke’ and seemed intent on turning the entire landscape into one enormous lake.

‘Wasn’t that the best, the very best, fillum you ever did see? Oh, I’d see it all over again just to get another look at Ramon Navarro, wouldn’t you? Me mam said as it were the best picture show she’d ever seen – all them bare chests probably went to her head – but I think she was right. Oh, Lizzie, weren’t it just grand?’

Lizzie and Sally had just emerged, blinking, from the Derby cinema on Scotland Road. Lizzie, linking her arm with her friend’s, shook it chidingly. ‘If that isn’t just like you, Sally Bradshaw,’ she declared. ‘Every blessed picture becomes the greatest film of all time, and your mam’s every bit as bad. You shouldn’t work in a mineral water bottling plant, you should go to the
Echo
offices and get them to make you their cinema reviewer. The only trouble would be you’d never admit to seeing a bad picture, norrif you live to be a hundred.’

Sally giggled and shook her head. ‘If I never see a fillum I don’t like, it’s because I’m choosy about what I go and see,’ she insisted, trying to ignore her friend’s stifled giggle. ‘Well, what’ll we do next, eh? The night’s young, as they say, and we were paid yesterday. We could go into the Acacia Ballroom because it’s after interval time so it’s cheap, or we could have us a paper of chips. Ain’t it a nice fine evening, though?’ She looked along the crowded pavement ahead, glistening in the gaslight. ‘I daresay they had
an April shower earlier, but you’d never know it now, it’s so mild.’

‘After all the excitement of
Ben Hur,
I don’t think I’ve got the energy to go prancing around the floor, especially with some foreign seaman, who only knows three words of English and pretends he doesn’t understand “no”, no matter how forcefully you say it,’ Lizzie said. ‘Tell you what, let’s get some chips and go and sit down by the canal to eat them. We might run to a bottle of ginger beer as well, between the two of us, and if we go down by the Scaldy, there’s a bit of grass and a wall we can sit on. I bet the canal’s real romantic by moonlight.’

‘Oh, you’d think the canal was romantic in a bleedin’ blizzard,’ Sally said, getting her own back, Lizzie thought, for the remarks she had made earlier on her friend’s uncritical attitude to the cinema. ‘Still an’ all, it’ll be a change from sitting in me mam’s kitchen – or your Aunt Annie’s – trying to talk while they’re listening to the wireless.’

‘Which chippie shall we honour with our custom, then?’ Lizzie said presently, as they came level with Burlington Street. ‘We get to Mr Jones first, but if we go a bit further, we can go to Joe’s place. Aunt Annie reckons he has the freshest fish in Liverpool.’

‘We might as well join the queue here before the pubs come out,’ Sally observed. ‘I thought it was quieter than usual along here; it’s still ten minutes before chuckin’ out time, that’s why.’

As she spoke, both girls saw a gap in the traffic and plunged across the road, managing to join the tail end of the queue just ahead of a gang of young seamen who wolf-whistled and jeered but took their places behind the girls with a fairly good grace.

Talking animatedly about the film they had just
seen as the queue edged slowly forward, Lizzie’s eyes roamed the passers-by. Having spent most of her life in this area, she knew a good few of them and exchanged waves and smiles with several girls who had once been at school with her and Sally. Right opposite the chippie was the Eagle pub, on the corner of Collingwood Street, and even as she watched, the doors opened and men and the occasional woman began to stream on to the pavement. Several of them made straight for the end of the queue, including a tall and heavy man who, at first glance, Lizzie had taken for Uncle Perce. She realised her mistake, however, when she saw that the man was accompanied by a young woman with peroxide blonde hair, a very short skirt and shoes with heels so high that she seemed in perpetual danger of falling on her nose.

Lizzie’s attention was about to return to the queue, which was shuffling forward once more, when she did a double-take. It
was
Uncle Perce, looking almost smart in navy trousers and jacket with a red spotted handkerchief tied round his throat and tucked into his shirt. Telling herself that the girl hanging on to his arm must be the daughter of a friend, who was clearly in need of support, having equally clearly drunk too much – for the girl was weaving and cackling as they approached – Lizzie was about to turn away, when the couple drew level with her. Looking more closely at the woman, Lizzie realised that she was not as young as the bleached hair and short skirt had led her to suppose. She would be in her forties, Lizzie decided and wondered, with considerable distaste, if Uncle Perce had picked up a tart and having mugged her to a night on the ale, was seeing her home.

By her side, Sally was staring fixedly ahead and there was something in her friend’s attitude which led
Lizzie to guess that Sally, too, had spotted Uncle Perce and his friend. She nudged Sally, drawing her attention to Uncle Perce and the woman, who was staring at the queue probably considering joining it, but before Sally could say a word, Uncle Perce remarked loudly: ‘I ain’t waitin’ here all night, queen. We’ll go along to Joe’s place, see if the queue’s shorter there.’ And with that, the two of them lurched away down the road and were soon lost to view in the hurrying crowd.

Lizzie turned, round-eyed, to Sally. ‘Did you see that?’ she hissed. ‘It were my Uncle Perce with some horrible little dock-side tart clinging on his arm! Well, I just hope he doesn’t catch something nasty, that’s all. I guess he picked her up in the pub and bought her a few drinks and now he’s hoping to do . . . Well, whatever men do with tarts, before going home to Aunt Annie. I hope he doesn’t go taking a liking for low company, because my Aunt wouldn’t stand for that as she’s still mortal fond of him. Only I’m sure it’s just because he’s had a few. Aunt Annie was saying only the other day, that since he got a permanent job on the docks, he’s been keeping himself real smart and scarcely ever coming in drunk. He goes out a lot, mind, but she says that’s for companionship more than for the drink.’

Sally cast her a long and thoughtful look. ‘It’s that yaller head and short skirt which makes you think she’s a prossie, ain’t it,’ she said in a low voice. ‘But – well, I’ve seen your uncle with her several times before. Of course, it may mean nothing,’ she added hastily. ‘Men go for cheerful, common women like her when they’re out for an evening. She’s good company, they say . . .’

‘Are you trying to tell me that Uncle Perce’s seeing
a lot of that woman?’ Lizzie said, scandalised. ‘But he’s a married man, Sal! Married men aren’t supposed to have friends of the opposite sex, are they? Who
is
she, anyhow, and how come you know her?’

‘Oh damn, I didn’t ought to have said a word,’ Sally moaned, looking guilty. A pink flush was creeping up her face from her neck. ‘The fact is, queen, that it ain’t me that knows her, it’s me mam. She and Flossie were at school together, out Everton way and although she’s bleached her hair and wears no end of make-up, me mam recognised her as soon as she clapped eyes on her. Flossie’s married to Willie Sharpe, an old geezer what keeps an ironmonger’s shop on Heyworth Street, but he must be nearing seventy now and I suppose he doesn’t take her out much because my mam says he’s as tight as a fish’s arse at forty fathoms, and never spends a penny if he can get away with a farthing. Flossie has a miserable sort of life, Mam reckons, so – so, perhaps you can’t blame her for wanting a bit of company, like.’

‘But I still don’t understand,’ Lizzie said slowly. ‘How come you and your mam have been discussing this Flossie? Do you mean your mam’s seen her with Uncle Perce as well?’

Sally nodded unhappily. ‘Aye, chuck, it’s us going to the cinema so often, you see. We usually come out before the pubs – well, just like we did tonight – and several times we’ve been passing by a doorway when your uncle’s come out wi’ – wi’ – Flossie on his arm. Of course, we both know it’s not right, but what can you do? If they’s only friends . . .’ The queue began to move forward again but Lizzie broke away from it and Sally followed her, clutching at her arm. ‘What are you doing?’ Sally said urgently. ‘We can’t follow them!’

‘We can. In fact, we’re going to do just that,’ Lizzie said grimly, towing her friend along the pavement at a smart pace. ‘Why, Sal, if he’s seeing this – this woman often, who knows what might happen? He might . . . oh, I don’t know, but I’ve gorra follow them, even if you won’t.’

‘Well, don’t let ’em see us,’ Sally said urgently, tugging on Lizzie’s arm to slow her down. ‘Honest to God, queen, they mustn’t see us. That Perce’s an ugly customer, I’ve always thought so, he could turn real nasty if he knows you’ve rumbled his little game. Not that I’m at all sure he’s playing a game,’ she added quickly. ‘Just let’s keep our eyes open and stay well back!’