The White Empress (5 page)

‘Oh, aye, you can read and write and add up in your head! So can most people and it hasn’t got them anywhere!’

‘I could get a job in a shop!’

He was not cruel enough to mention her burning ambition, not even in jest. ‘You could go into service.’

‘That’s just the same as being at home.’

‘Except that you get paid for it.’

She wanted to change the subject, the food had made her feel sleepy and she was in no mood to argue with him. ‘Are you still
working on the cattle boats? Shouldn’t you be halfway across the Irish Sea by now?’

He ran one finger up and down the trellis design on the oilcloth tablecloth. ‘I got laid off. Last in – first out. That’s
the company rule and I was last to join.’

‘What about the Cunard ships?’

His handsome face clouded and he rose abruptly, the legs of the chair grating on the wooden floor. ‘Come on, I’ll see you
home!’

She was sorry she had brought the subject up. He had obviously tried and failed to get any other kind of ship. And he had
been kindness itself. In fact he seemed to have the knack of turning up when she needed him most. ‘I’m sorry, Joe. I didn’t
mean . . . thanks for the supper.’

He ushered her out and they began to walk down Tithebarn Street.

‘I have got a job. A shore job.’

‘Doing what?’

‘A sort of handyman, cum gardiner, cum everything, at one of the big old houses on Everton Valley. I could ask Ma Travis if
she would take you on, that’s what I meant about going into service. She’s a widow. Her husband was a captain but he was lost
at sea years ago. She’s very houseproud and particular, especially about all the stuff the captain brought home. That’s how
come Rosie up and left her.’

‘Rosie?’

‘The housemaid she had. She dropped a vase and there was a right bust-up over it. The upshot was that Rosie packed up and
left. The old lady’s been doing it all herself and she won’t let me help.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t suit an apron!’

She laughed with him.

‘But it’s getting too much for her now and I reckon, the way things are, that she’d take someone on recommendation, without
experience.’

‘What would I have to do?’

‘What you’ve been doing at home, except that she’d pay you and she’d probably want you to live in.’

It was this last piece of information that made her really take interest. No more having to share everything. Being woken
up constantly by Dora who had a habit of jabbing her knees into her, or Ethel who often talked in her sleep. No more waiting
– jumping up and down in the yard – until whoever it was, finished in the privy. No more having to wait to see if you could
have a whole slice of bread instead of half when Maisey had finished cutting up the remains of yesterday’s loaf for breakfast.
But best of all, no having to listen to the constant bickering and rows. She wouldn’t have to see the dejection and despair
on her mother’s face either when Pa rolled in from the pub drunk. ‘Won’t I ever have to go back to Eldon Street?’

‘She’ll probably let you go home one afternoon in the week and most Sundays.’

The first initial rush of excitement at the thought of these undreamed of luxuries faded, to be replaced by guilt at leaving
her mother. But if she could go back and see her, just for a day or so . . .

‘Well, do you want me to ask her or not?’

‘Would you, Joe? Would you really? But what if she says no?’

‘If you don’t ask, you don’t get! Besides, she likes me.’

He was boasting again, she thought, but this time she hoped it wasn’t just an idle boast. It was with reluctance that she
realised that they had reached the corner of the street. ‘How will I know if she will take me on?’

‘I’ll let you know. I only live in Silvester Street.’

Her eyebrows shot up in amazement. He only lived a
few streets away and yet she’d never seen him, until tonight. ‘Have you always lived there?’

‘All my life, with our Mam, me Dad and two brothers, but I’ve been away at sea, in case you’ve forgotten.’

They stood under the streetlamp on the corner as Cat was still reluctant to go home.

‘Cheer up! I’ve got to go up Everton Valley tomorrow, I’ll ask her then. I’ll come round and tell you what she says.’

‘Promise?’

‘Cross my heart and hope to die! And if she says yes we’ll go out and celebrate. I’ll take you on the overhead railway.’

Her face lit up with a rare smile and in the pale light he thought how transformed her features became when she smiled. Impulsively
he bent down and kissed her gently on the cheek, then straightened up, feeling embarrassed. He hadn’t meant to do that. ‘I’ll
see you tomorrow, Cat!’ he called as he walked quickly away.

She watched him go, her hand going to her cheek which his lips had brushed. She’d never had a boy kiss her before. Not that
it had been much of a kiss, more a peck. She’d never considered herself to be attractive enough for anyone to want to kiss.
She sighed. Oh, she owed him so much. She watched his tall, broad figure disappearing down the road, his hands in his pockets.
She could hear him whistling. She stood watching until he was out of sight, then she turned and ran up the street, her feet
skimming lightly over the cobbles.

T
HEY HAD ONLY GONE
as far as the Sandon Dock on the Overhead Railway for Joe had appeared at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning to tell her that
Mrs Travis wanted to see her at two o’clock sharp and that he was to take her there. This news had thrown her into a panic
because she had told no one about the events of the night before.

Upon his arrival, Joe had been ushered into the house and his mother’s health enquired about solicitously by Maisey, who seemed
to know the entire population of Vauxhall on a personal basis. It had been Maisey who had told Cat to ‘liven yerself up, girl!’
as she had stood staring at Joe blankly. Her father had just stared at her through bloodshot eyes, her mother had looked confused
and bewildered.

‘Shelagh, luv, go an’ borrow Maggie’s best skirt an’ blouse an’ ask their Bessie fer those shoes of ’er’s. They’ll all be
back from Mass now an’ as it’s Sunday it will all be out of ’ock an’ won’t need ter go back until termorrer!’

Cat did not feel uncomfortable. It was the usual practice for best clothes and indeed everything of any value in the house,
to be pawned on Monday and redeemed on Saturday night. And the custom of borrowing and lending for special occasions was also
an old one.

‘I’d best go and wash my face . . .’ she stammered, as Shelagh with a face like thunder slammed out.

‘Yer’d better do somethin’ with that ’air, too, Cat! It looks like the Liver Birds ’ave nested in it! Purrit up or somethin’,
like Bessie next door does.’

Her cheeks burning with embarrassment, her stomach churning with apprehension, she ran upstairs to the bedroom she shared
with half the household. As she struggled with her unruly locks, Shelagh entered and dumped a navy blue rayon skirt, a white
blouse covered with small sprigs of blue flowers, and a pair of black shoes with high heels, on the bed.

‘Maggie said to be careful not to spill anything on them and Bessie said to mind you don’t get the heels stuck in the tramlines!’

‘I won’t.’

Shelagh leaned against the wall and watched her as she tried to wind her thick mass of curls into a small bun. ‘He’s the lad
you met on the boat, isn’t he?’

Cat nodded, her mouth full of hairpins.

‘Proper little sneak, aren’t you? How long has this been going on?’

‘Mind your own business!’

Shelagh curled her lip. ‘Doesn’t look as though he’s got much in the way of prospects.’

‘He’s a damn sight better than the lot you were with last night! He’s got me a job – nearly!’

‘Some job, skivvying for some daft old bat!’

‘At least I won’t have to put up with you all week, and I won’t have to share a room or a bed or a privy with a dozen other
people!’

Shelagh sniffed and left her, still struggling with her hair.

The navy skirt and neat little blouse fitted her well but the shoes were tight and she wobbled on the unaccustomedly high
heels, but when at last she went downstairs, even her sister grudgingly admitted she looked neat and tidy. Her mother said
she looked so grown up she hardly recognised her and from the look on Joe’s face she knew all the compliments were true. She
did feel different. She felt clean and smart for the first time in her life and as she stepped into the street she smiled
shyly at Joe as he offered her his arm.

In place of the old trousers and jersey he wore grey-flannel trousers without the customary braces, and a clean white shirt
with the collar attached and covering his dark hair he wore a jaunty cap, for no man was seen without some sort of hat on
his head. She herself had Shelagh’s red felt beret clipped over her smoothed-down curls.

She was conscious of the stares and nudges of the neighbours as they walked down the street, but it only made her feel more
confident. She could hear them whispering to each other. ‘Cat Cleary’s finally got herself a feller. Walkin’ out, now she
is, an’ he ain’t bad-lookin’ either!’ It was a good feeling and even Joe’s remark of
‘Mind you don’t fall off those heels and break your neck!’ failed to arouse any annoyance in her.

They had taken the tram to the Pierhead and then boarded the Overhead Railway that ran in a straight line along the docks
to Seaforth. Joe had pointed out all the ships and all the docks. The Princes Half Tide, Waterloo, Victoria and the Trafalgar
that also encompassed the Clarence Dock Power Station. The Collingwood and Salisbury Docks, the Nelson, Bramley Moor, the
Sandon Half Tide, the Wellington and finally the Sandon Dock itself.

He had pointed out the ships of so many lines that her head buzzed. The Blue Star, Black Star, White Star. The Port Line,
Shaw Saville & Albion, the Henderson, City and Ellerman Lines. Brocklebank, Booker and Booth Lines. The Houlder, Harrison
and Blue Funnel, the latter known as the ‘Blue Flue’ Line. He seemed to know so much about ships and shipping, while she knew
nothing at all.

The sensation of being hurtled along above the roadway, looking down on the houses and up the rows of narrow streets, was
exhilarating. It must be like flying, she thought. The carriage windows gave a good view of all the shipping and she could
see figures moving across the decks. But none of these ships was as big or as beautiful as the White Empress. In her mind
she called it ‘her ship’, her ‘White Empress’ and despite everything she had not forgotten the words she had spoken with such
determination to Joe. One day she would sail on that ship. She didn’t know how she would do it, but she would find a way!
Somehow!

They got the train going in the opposite direction and got off at the Bramley Moor Dock, walked up Blackstone Street and caught
the tram up Boundary Street to the junction of the Rotunda Lyric Music Hall and Kirkdale Road. Then they changed trams and
got halfway up the steep decline called Everton Valley before they got off. Big three-storeyed houses, all soot-grimed but
with small, neat, walled gardens, clean paintwork, whitened steps and lace curtains flanked both sides of the road and the
pavement was flagged. At its junction with Saint Domingo Road was the obligatory public house, aptly named ‘The Valley’ and
beyond, on the left-hand side loomed the soot-stained bulk of the Methodist Church. On the right-hand side a four-storeyed,
square edifice jutted obliquely forward, narrowing the roadway.

‘What’s that, it looks like a workhouse?’ she asked, twisting her head to take in all the sights of this new district of Liverpool,
for it was the furthest she’d ventured beyond Scotland Road.

‘A convent and there’s a private school for girls there as well. Notre Dame, it’s called. Some of the girls board there but
most of them go home each day. I often see them at four o’clock. They wear straw hats in the summer and black ones, shaped
like po’s in the winter. They don’t half look daft!’

Cat lost interest in the convent and the description of its pupils as they stopped outside a large house with a brown-painted
front door, which boasted a highly-polished, brass letterbox and knocker. It looked daunting and some of her ebullience faded.
‘Is this it?’

He nodded and pushed her up the three steps, rapping sharply on the brass knocker. Cat stood fiddling with the top button
of her blouse until, after what seemed like hours, slow, shuffling footsteps were heard beyond the door.

‘It’s me, Mrs Travis! Joe! Joe Calligan and I’ve brought the girl I was telling you about.’

The door opened and a small woman with white hair, pulled tightly back from her face into a bun, stood peering at them through
a lorgnette. She wore an ankle-length black dress with a high collar and leg-o’-mutton sleeves.

‘Bring her in then, don’t stand cluttering up the doorstep!’

Cat noticed that her voice bore only the faintest trace of the Liverpool accent. She followed Joe and Mrs Travis down a wide
hallway, painted in brown and cream, the walls covered with prints of old sailing ships. The floor was of highly polished
wood and a runner of brown and cream carpet ran along the middle of it. Mrs Travis had disappeared through a door on the left
and Joe stepped aside, motioning her to follow.

She’d never seen a room quite like it. It reminded her of the parlour in the priest’s house, but it was much bigger. It was
also very dark for beside the lace curtains that covered the windows, heavy maroon-coloured drapes were half drawn. The furniture
was old-fashioned and large but highly polished, in fact the whole room held a faint fragrance of beeswax. There were tables
and lamps that had obviously come from foreign parts. Strange pictures of even stranger looking
places covered the walls, and stuffed animals and birds, queer little ornaments and jugs covered the mahogany sideboard, the
cane tables and corner cabinets, one of which held a collection of vividly coloured butterflies of all sizes. A piano, draped
with a dark red chenille cloth stood in one corner of the room and on the top of this, too, was a collection of exotic bric-a-brac.
Mrs Travis had seated herself in a button-backed chair and motioned Cat towards the shiny hide sofa with its array of brightly
coloured cushions.

She sat cautiously on the edge, finding it hard and slippery. Joe stood behind her, his cap deferentially in his hand.

‘So, you’re looking for work? Have you been in service before?’

‘No, but I’ve kept house for as long as I can remember and I can cook too. Simple things, M’am,’ she added.

‘By your accent I assume you are Irish.’

‘That I am, from Dublin.’

‘I have always found that the Irish can be divided into two categories. Those who are honest, hardworking, devout and make
excellent servants, and those who are lazy, sluttish, with a fondness for liquor that usually leads them to theft, and who
don’t make good workers of any kind! Which are you?’

‘I’ve never taken a drink in my life! I work hard and I’ve never touched anything that doesn’t belong to me and I go to Mass
every Sunday and sometimes in the week as well!’ It all came out in one long sentence which left her short of breath and wondering
if her predecessor had been guilty of any of the crimes mentioned.

‘What’s your name, girl?’

‘Cat. Cat Cleary.’

The sharp, birdlike eyes flitted over her then were raised to the ceiling in impatience. ‘I mean your real name! No one is
ever christened with a name like that!’

‘Catherine.’

‘Well, Catherine Cleary, I will give you the chance to prove that you are all you say you are. I’ll give you a month, starting
tomorrow. You will live in, there are plenty of rooms in this house, most of them shut off since my husband, God rest him,
was taken by the sea. You’ll clean, wash and iron, cook and do the shopping. You will have Sundays off and Wednesday afternoons
and I’ll pay you five shillings a week and I’ll feed you. I can’t say fairer than that!’

From that day on Cat’s world changed radically. She quickly found that Mrs Travis had a sharp tongue but a kind heart and
generous nature. She also suspected that the old lady was lonely for there did not appear to be any relatives or friends and
the only callers to the house were tradesman. She worked hard but she found it far less like drudgery because, for one thing,
there was no hoard of children and adults to be constantly undoing everything she had just done. She polished and dusted the
curiosities with loving care, trying to imagine where they had come from, trying to picture in her mind the exotic, foreign
places where they had been made. It was with real pleasure that she ironed the crisp, white linen, most of it embroidered
or edged with lace.

She had her own room at the top of the house with a single, narrow bed with a brass bedstead, clean sheets and warm blankets,
these in themselves luxuries never before experienced. There was a small wardrobe for her few clothes, a washstand with a
marble top and a jug and bowl of real china, decorated with huge pink roses. She took her meals in the kitchen with Joe most
of the time, but on Saturdays – pay day – both she and Joe sat with their employer at the table in the parlour when any outstanding
jobs were discussed and the menus and shopping for the next week were all worked out.

She frequently found excuses not to go home on Wednesday afternoons, although on Sundays she returned to Eldon Street to give
her mother three of her five shillings wages. But she was always glad when it was time to leave the cramped, cluttered house
which now appeared so small and dirty. She would sit up in her bed on these nights, her knees drawn up under her chin and
indulge herself in daydreams. When she got that job on ‘her’ White Empress, she would find a small house in a nice area, just
for herself and her Ma. It would have a scullery with shelves covered in clean, chequered oilcloth. A food press and a meat
safe. A white earthenware sink and a proper wooden draining board, scrubbed white. A small, cheerful kitchen with a range
for cooking. Rag rugs on the floor, a comfortable rocker with a patchwork cushion for her Ma. A big table and a dresser with
fancy dishes. There would be a parlour where Ma could entertain Maisey and her other friends from the Union of Catholic Mothers.
A bedroom each and good fires in all the rooms in winter. And she’d bring all kinds
of treasures like Captain Travis had, for the house – when she was a stewardess.