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Authors: Katie Flynn
Two Penn'orth of Sky
Katie Flynn has lived for many years in the North-west. A compulsive writer, she started with short stories and articles and many of her early stories were broadcast on Radio Mersey. She decided to write her Liverpool series after hearing the reminiscences of family members about life in the city in the early years of the century. She also writes as Judith Saxton. For the past few years, she has had to cope with ME but has continued to write, albeit more slowly.
Praise for Katie Flynn
‘Arrow’s best and biggest saga author. She’s good’
Bookseller
‘If you pick up a Katie Flynn book it’s going to be a wrench to put it down again’
Holyhead & Anglesey Mail
‘A heartwarming story of love and loss’
Woman’s Weekly
‘One of the best Liverpool writers’
Liverpool Echo
‘[Katie Flynn] has the gift that Catherine Cookson had of bringing the period and the characters to life’
Caernarfon & Denbigh Herald
Also by Katie Flynn
A Liverpool Miss
The Girl From Penny Lane
Liverpool Taffy
The Mersey Girls
Strawberry Fields
Rainbow’s End
Rose of Tralee
No Silver Spoon
Polly’s Angel
The Girl from Seaforth Sands
The Liverpool Rose
Poor Little Rich Girl
The Bad Penny
Down Daisy Street
A Kiss and a Promise
KATIE FLYNN
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781446411223
Published by Arrow Books in 2004
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Copyright © Katie Flynn 2004
Katie Flynn has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
First published in the United Kingdom in 2004 by William Heinemann
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is available from the British Library
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Contents
For Angharad and Patrick Williams, because I used their town (though not the lifeboat).
As usual, the Liverpool Central Library found me some useful material, this time from the audio department, but heartfelt thanks must go to Walter McIlhagga, whose knowledge of Llandudno – and the trams – in the thirties was of inestimable value.
June 1919
‘Emmy, time’s getting on, queen. I know they say brides always ought to be a bit late, but you don’t want to leave poor Peter standing in the church, thinking you’re not coming.’
Emmy heard her friend Beryl’s voice coming up the stairwell and smiled at her mother, who had been fussing over the pearl beads which she had lent for the occasion. That was the ‘something borrowed’; ‘something blue’ was the garters, which held up Emmy’s silk stockings. She took a last glance at herself in the mirror. Her ash-blonde hair was almost hidden by the floating white veil and the wreath of tiny white rosebuds that held everything in place, but she knew she was looking her best. Her dress had been made by her mother; Mrs Dickens was a noted needlewoman and the gown was perfect, showing off Emmy’s slender figure to best advantage. Downstairs, Emmy knew, her bouquet waited for her: cream roses, gypsophila, and a few sprigs of sweet-smelling myrtle, chosen because her mother considered it lucky.
Mrs Dickens finished fastening the beads and stood back, eyes misting. ‘You look radiant, my dear,’ she said softly. ‘The most beautiful bride Nightingale Court has ever known. And this is going to be the sort of wedding that folk will remember. Not one person has refused the invitation and we’ve enough food and drink to feed an army. Oh aye, people will be talking about this day for years to come.’
‘Oh, Mam, if they do, it’s you I’ve got to thank,’ Emmy said sincerely. ‘You’ve been the best mother in the world and I’m a lucky girl, I know I am. Why, Peter loves you as much as I do, or he would never have suggested that you should come and live with us in Lancaster Avenue. Oh, Mam . . .’
Beryl’s voice came closer; clearly, she was mounting the stairs. ‘Come
on
, Emmy!’
Emmy went out to the head of the stairs and found Beryl Fisher halfway up, smiling at her. Beryl was her oldest friend, a tall, well-built young woman, four years Emmy’s senior. At first glance, one might have thought her plain, for she had a broad face with high cheekbones and rather small, twinkling eyes, but a second glance would show that her thick brown hair was naturally curly and when she smiled her face was transformed. Beryl would have been Emmy’s bridesmaid, except that she had been married to Wally Fisher for three years and had a small son, Charlie. Emmy had suggested that Beryl might be matron-of-honour, but her friend had laughed and told her not to be so daft. ‘You have me niece, Susie,’ she advised. ‘You won’t have to buy her a dress ’cos the pink one you wore when you were my bridesmaid will fit her nicely.’ So now Susie waited in the kitchen downstairs, pretty as a picture in the pink silk dress, her dark hair and eyes a foil for Emmy’s fragile fairness.
‘The car’s arrived,’ Beryl said, retreating down the stairs. ‘My, you look good enough to eat! Wait till you see the crowd in the court. Everyone wants to catch a glimpse before you leave . . . them that can’t come to the church, that is. So mind you go slowly so’s they can all get an eyeful.’
Emmy smiled. For years, her mother had been
saving for this day, because she had always been certain that her daughter would marry well. ‘A good marriage is the only way to shake the dust of Nightingale Court off your feet,’ she had said, as soon as Emmy was old enough to understand. ‘When I married your dear father, we told ourselves we’d give the court a year and then move on to somewhere better. He was ambitious, was Sam, and would have gone places and taken us with him. Only then he got consumption and couldn’t work full-time and you were born . . .’ She sighed. ‘Your poor dad! But you’ll do better, I know it in me bones.’
Since Sam Dickens had been dead a dozen years, Mrs Dickens was going to give her daughter away, so now Emmy picked up her bouquet and placed her hand lightly on her mother’s arm, and the two of them went out of the front doorway, into the court. Beryl had been right. The place was crowded, and as the two women appeared a ragged cheer went up. Emmy glanced quickly towards the arch which led into Raymond Street; yes, she could see the June sunlight out there, so she was to have good weather on this, the most important day of her life so far. Satisfied, she allowed her blue gaze to sweep the crowd and for a moment she was all smiles, until she saw the tall young man who stood nearest. Johnny Frost! He was staring at her steadily and she could read the hunger in his dark blue eyes, and the pain.
Hastily, Emmy turned away from him and began to walk towards the archway, beyond which the wedding car waited. She tried to tell herself that Johnny had no right to come and stare at her, no right to be in the court at all. He had not been invited to the wedding and lived a couple of streets away,
so he had come deliberately, knowing that his presence could only embarrass her.
She had been very close to Johnny Frost once, had truly meant to marry him. Oh, there had been no engagement ring, no public promises, but they had been childhood sweethearts and she knew Johnny had taken it for granted that they would wed one day. But Johnny wasn’t ambitious, had no desire to better himself. Marriage to Johnny, she thought bitterly now, would have meant a baby every year, a flat over a grocer’s shop, and herself taking in washing to make ends meet. Her mother had warned her, but being a headstrong girl of seventeen she had taken no notice – until Peter Wesley had come into her life, that was. Peter was a dozen years older than she and First Officer on a liner. His parents were well-to-do people living in Southampton. Mr and Mrs Wesley, senior, had come up for the wedding but had refused Mrs Dickens’s shyly offered hospitality and had booked themselves rooms at the Adelphi instead.
The little party had reached the car, but it was not until the uniformed chauffeur set his vehicle in motion that Emmy felt safe from Johnny’s burning gaze. Her mother was fussing with her dress again, smoothing down the rich material, whilst Susie leaned forward and tweaked the veil, which had caught on her headdress.
‘Not long now, Emmy, and you’ll be Mrs Wesley, livin’ in a posh house,’ she said encouragingly. ‘And it ain’t as if you’ll be alone there when Peter goes back to sea, because you’ll have your mam, won’t you? My, we’re goin’ to miss you in Nightingale Court.’
Emmy smiled affectionately at her mother. Mrs Dickens had promised faithfully to move herself and
her belongings to Lancaster Avenue a month after the wedding, and Emmy knew her mother was as excited as a young girl over the prospect of moving house. Emmy was doubly grateful to Peter, for was he not rescuing both of them from Nightingale Court?
Sunshine never penetrated as far as the courts, because the tottery, three-storey houses were too close to each other, and too tall, to allow much natural light to enter. Mrs Dickens was fond of remarking that all you got in Nightingale Court was two penn’orth of sky, and in order to see that, you had to stand in the middle of the court and tilt your head back, staring up till your eyes watered.
All the houses in the court were in constant need of maintenance. The landlord was mean and greedy, never reducing the rents but always promising repairs and renovations, though he never did anything which was not absolutely essential. Consequently, the paving was uneven, the paintwork peeling; doors never fitted, letting in howling draughts in winter; and roof tiles were missing, so attics were often damp. And then there was the grime from the surrounding factories and from the smoke which belched, blackly, from every chimney.
Some of the inhabitants of the court kept their homes nice and did repairs themselves, but others were feckless, living in conditions of total squalor. Mrs Dickens had always tried to keep herself to herself and Emmy, even as a small child, had known better than to mix with what Mrs Dickens called ‘the lower elements’, though with Beryl – then Pritchard – as her friend, she had really needed no other.
