The White Empress (6 page)

She had no definite plans, for life had taught her to take one day at a time, and that the hold on material possessions was
perilous. But she could dream. ‘Dreams cost nothing’ she’d always said to herself, but her dream was becoming consolidated.
It was becoming, even if she didn’t fully realise it, the foundation of what she expected from the future; what she would,
in time, demand of life – demand and expect realisation.

Between herself and Joe there had developed a close friendship. He had never tried to kiss her again, but she often caught
him watching her with a strange look in his dark eyes and sometimes she wondered if he did consider her to be more than just
a friend. She had filled out and even in the plain, dark working dresses Mrs Travis had given her, she knew she had a good
figure. Her waist was small, as were her hips, and her legs beneath the calf-length skirt, were slender and well-formed. Her
breasts had developed and were firm. Her cheeks had filled out and gone was the pinched, half-starved little waif with the
mane of unruly hair. She had followed Shelagh’s example and had had it cut to just below her ears. She had no need to waste
money on a Marcel Wave for it curled naturally.

After completing her second month, Mrs Travis had two dresses ‘made over’ for her by a local dressmaker. One was of cornflower-blue
linen. The hemline had been shortened, the full skirt had been tapered in, with two inverted pleats set into the front and
back. The collar
was cut into reveres and edged with white piping, as were the sleeves that had been shortened to just above the elbow. The
other dress was of a heavy, navy blue crêpe, embossed with a fretwork pattern. The skirt of this had been left full but recut
in a semicircle. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder but narrowed into a cuff, again at elbow length. The stiff, high
collar was fashioned into a soft, round one and a belt – made from the cut-off material – was tied in a sash around the waist.
A row of shiny navy buttons added detail to the front.

She was ecstatic as she tried on the completed garments, twisting and turning in front of the long peer-glass that Mrs Travis
had had Joe bring downstairs. The words tumbled from her lips as she gabbled her thanks at such generosity. At last she had
some ‘new’ things of her own. There was her brush and comb set, the little china trinket box, bought at Great Homer Street
Market and as yet empty of trinkets. They were all hers, and now these two beautiful dresses. Although the material wasn’t
new they had been especially made for her. No one else. And she had never known anyone who had their clothes made for them.

‘Now you need a hat and a decent pair of shoes,’ the dressmaker remarked, well pleased with her handiwork for which she had
been amply rewarded.

‘And a pair of gloves,’ Mrs Travis added.

‘Gloves? Sure, whatever will I need gloves for, it’s not winter?’

‘All respectable girls wear gloves and a hat!’ came the tart reply. ‘That is what makes them instantly recognisable
as respectable and ladylike. I know you turn up most of your wages to your mother, to use a colloquialism. So I have put something
extra in your wages this week.’ The old lady nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think we’ll suit each other very well, Catherine Cleary.
You work hard, you don’t chatter idly all day long and you seem to appreciate all the things my Dear Departed collected over
the years and that’s something I’m impressed with. Take yourself off into town and get a hat and a pair of gloves and then
tomorrow you can go home and look down your nose at that slut of a sister of yours!’

Cat knew that Joe had told her mistress all about Shelagh, for she had heard the old lady quizzing him one day when they thought
she was still out. Impulsively she bent down and kissed the withered cheek.

‘God bless you! No one has ever been this good to me!’

‘Oh, get off with you, girl! I can’t stand being fussed and kissed, not at my age! You’d better keep one of the dresses on
or they’ll not let you in any of the shops!’

The hat, which she bought in Lewis’s department store on the corner of Ranleigh Street and Renshaw Street, was a small white
pillbox that had cost her 2s 6d. She kept it on, but accepted the cardboard hatbox the sales assistant had offered to pack
it in. At the glove counter she tried on at least half a dozen pairs of gloves in assorted colours and fabrics, luxuriating
in smoothing the soft cottons over her work-worn hands, then holding them out to admire the effect, as if she bought gloves
every day of her life. She settled for a pair of short white cotton ones, the backs of which were decorated with a
cut-out design in the shape of a daisy. She glanced fleetingly at the leather and kid gloves, knowing they were far too expensive
for her rapidly dwindling hoard of coins. She had managed to save a small amount and with the extra Mrs Travis had given her,
she felt like a millionairess. She kept the gloves on, too.

As she walked past Central Station and the Lyceum Club on the corner of Bold Street, she felt as though she were walking on
air. That every head was turning in her direction with glances of admiration. Once in Church Street she stopped and gazed
into the windows of the Bon Marché at the expensive, well-cut clothes and displays of perfumes and cosmetics. In George Henry
Lee’s, just around the corner, similar displays of clothes, hats, jackets and bright scarves held her interest. She wandered
into Woolworths – and after much deliberating she purchased some Evening in Paris perfume, its dark-blue glass bottle and
silver-coloured top quite the most elegant things she had ever seen. Next she went into Timpson’s shoe shop. As white seemed
the obvious colour to suit both her new dresses, she picked a pair of white, low-heeled leather pumps with a single strap
across the instep, but not before she had indulged herself in trying on black, navy, cream, brown and other assorted coloured
shoes. When she had paid the 2s 6d for them she had just enough left for her tram fares and the three shillings still untouched
for her mother.

She was loathe to leave this newly found treasure trove and so she started at the end of Church Street, wandering into Coopers
where the aroma of dozens of different types of fresh coffee beans was heady and
strong. Every edible commodity could be purchased here with produce from all over the world and she stood, mouth watering,
gazing at the pyramid-displays of exotic fruit and vegetables. Then she meandered through the departments of C & A Modes which
sold cheap but cheerful clothes for men, ladies and children. Across the congested roadway she stopped outside Henderson’s,
but one look at the liveried doorman changed her mind about entering its exclusive portals. She did venture into Marks & Spencer
where sales girls methodically tidied their counters on which were set out a range of mass-produced garments.

She caused something of a sensation as she walked up Eldon Street early on Sunday morning. Children scattered before her,
diving into houses only to dart out again, followed by avidly curious adults.

‘Cor! If it ain’t little Cat Cleary!’ Maggie Abbot exclaimed, leaning against the open door of their house with her hair still
screwed up in curling papers. ‘Eh, our Mam! Bessie! Cum an’ look at ’er! Dead posh she is an’ all! Gorrup like a dog’s dinner!’

Faces crowded behind her as she pushed open the front door of number eight, to be greeted by a wide-eyed Eamon. Shelagh’s
face was a picture as she took in the hat, gloves and dress.

‘Have you been paradin’ up and down Lime Street then? You didn’t get those from Paddy’s Market!’ she questioned venemously.

Cat ignored her. Lime Street was the haunt of prostitutes.

‘Cat, is it really you? Where did you get those grand things?’

‘It’s really me, Ma! Mrs Travis had the dress made over and I’ve got another one, too, and she gave me an extra week’s pay
to buy the hat and shoes and gloves!’ She stretched out a small, white-gloved hand.

Her mother touched it with reverence.

‘But don’t worry, I’ve not touched a penny of what I give you. Here!’ She pressed the coins into her mother’s hand.

‘God bless you, you’re a fine girl, Cat, and you deserve to be treated well, that you do!’

‘Not like some as what we could mention!’ Maisey jibed, casting a contemptuous look at Shelagh. ‘Stoppin’ out ’alf the night,
wastin’ money an gerrin’ to bed at all hours an’ gerrin’ up to God knows what!’

‘What I do is me own affair, Maisey, and I work for it don’t I?’ came the quarrelsome reply.

‘An’ so does she!’

Cat drew off her gloves.
Nothing ever changes here
, she thought.

‘We’ll be dead proud of yer this mornin’ at Mass, won’t we, Ellen? Will yer be stoppin’ for tea? It’s not what yer used to
but . . .’

‘Just because I’ve got a few new things doesn’t mean I’m a snob, Maisey. I’m still a working girl. But I’m sorry I won’t be
here for tea. Joe is taking me to New Brighton on the ferry and we’re going to have tea over there.’

This statement caused Shelagh to snatch up a gaudy print dress from over the back of the chair and slam out of the room.

‘Take no notice of ’er, Cat. She’s as jealous as ’ell cos yer’ve got some sense an’ are goin’ up in the world an’ she’s not!’
Maisey advised.

‘I’ve never taken any notice of our Shelagh and I don’t intend to start now,’ she replied laconically.

‘She’ll cum to a bad end will that one, sure as I’ve gor eyes in me ’ead!’ Maisey muttered ominously, amidst the fevered preparations
to get herself and her brood ready for Mass on time.

The
Royal Daffodil
ploughed its way into the Mersey under a clear azure sky, while a fresh breeze blew the smoke from her single funnel back
towards the Liverpool waterfront. Joe had helped Cat climb up onto the top deck and they stood with the other day-trippers
watching the two-mile-wide strip of murky grey water and the distant verdigris-green dome of the church of Saints Peter and
Paul set high on its hilltop looking down on the seaside resort of New Brighton.

Joe placed his arm around her slender waist and she smiled up at him. The day promised to be a wonderful one, with a trip
to the seaside, a tour around the fairground and maybe one up the tower and a fish supper before their return trip home. The
wind tugged at her hat and she wished she had anchored it more firmly; instead she held on to it with one hand.

‘It suits you, makes you look older!’

‘Not too old, I hope!’ she laughed.

‘You’re not worrying about wrinkles already are you?’

She laughed again and leaned against him. He wore the grey flannel trousers and white shirt that were his
Sunday Best, but the shirt was covered by a new tweed sports jacket and his cap was set at a jaunty angle over one eye. They
made a handsome couple, she thought.

‘A penny for them?’

She came back to reality and blushed. ‘I was just thinking that we . . . well, we look grand together!’

‘Do we?’

‘I think so.’

To her confusion he bent and kissed her. Not on the cheek this time, but full on the lips. At first she was so surprised that
she made no protest, but then when she tried to pull away, his arm had moved from her waist to her shoulders and his embrace
had become stronger. The mocking cry of the seagulls faded away overhead, as she closed her eyes and responded to his lips,
feeling a warm glow spread through her while her heart fluttered in a strange way.

At last he drew away from her and she felt a little dizzy and leaned her head against his broad chest.

‘Can’t we be more than friends, Cat? You’ve . . . you’ve never been out of my mind since the first time I saw you on the
Leinster
.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ she stammered, not knowing how to cope with the situation. She liked him, she more than liked
him, but she didn’t want him to think of her as ‘fast’ or ‘bold’ as her Ma would have said.

‘I mean, can’t we . . . can’t I take you out?’

She misunderstood him. ‘You are taking me out, to New Brighton.’

‘I think your Ma would call it “walking out”.’

‘Oh!’ No one had ever seriously asked her this before
and so she had never seriously considered it. She became flustered. ‘You won’t . . . you won’t . . .?’

‘Take advantage of you? You know me better than that, Cat!’

Her smile was shy and the blush crept back into her cheeks as he kissed the tip of her nose.

‘Can I kiss you again or would that be asking too much?’

‘Everyone is looking at us!’

‘So, let them look, I don’t care, do you?’

‘No, I don’t—’ Her words were cut off as his lips sought hers again, and again that dizzy feeling crept over her, making her
knees go weak and trembly. But she had never felt so happy in her whole life and when he drew away from her she noticed that
his breathing seemed to be laboured. She straightened her hat and settled into the crook of his arm, leaning comfortably against
his shoulder, feeling the muscles ripple beneath his jacket. She rubbed her cheek against the rough tweed of his jacket and
for a few minutes they were both silent. She soon found the silence a little oppressive, not knowing what he was thinking.
Not yet completely resigned or comfortable with this new situation, or these disturbing feelings.

‘Is that the
Aquitania
?’ she asked him, more to break the silence than out of real interest, pointing to where the Cunarder was standing out in
the river while she took aboard the hawsers of the two tugs that had gone alongside her.

‘No, its the
Scythia
.’

He sounded slightly annoyed and this disturbed
her. She looked up at him and saw a look she had never seen before in his eyes. She wasn’t to know that he was trying to suppress
an overwhelming feeling of longing that had risen when he had first kissed her and held her, feeling the firm young breasts
pressing against his chest.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to remind you about . . .’

‘About wanting to go back to sea? You’ve no need to apologise for that, the sea is in my blood, it always will be!’