Two Penn'orth of Sky (44 page)

Mr Mac had made some non-committal reply and changed the subject, but Beryl had noticed how his eyes had softened when he spoke of her friend. She had thought him to be merely taking a fatherly interest in Emmy, for she knew he had no kids of his own, but lately she had begun to suspect that his affection for Emmy was a good deal warmer than mere
friendship. After all, no matter what he might say, there was no reason for his taking Emmy house-hunting if, as Emmy had said, he intended to marry someone else. Beryl knew enough about human nature to realise how bitterly a fiancée would resent her intended’s taking another woman round the property in which she meant to live.

Beryl finished another tablecloth, folded it and laid it on the first. The trouble with Emmy was that she was incapable of putting herself in anyone else’s shoes. She might conjure up horrible pictures – or even pleasant ones – of the woman her boss meant to marry, but she would simply never wonder how such a woman would feel if she found out that Mr Mac was asking another woman’s opinion on the house they were to share. Neither would it occur to her, in a million years, that Mr Mac was acting completely out of character. After all, why should he take one of his employees into his confidence over such a personal matter? Why should he hire a taxi to facilitate their days out? For that matter, why should he treat her to delightful meals, trips out into the country, and other nice things, if he was truly planning to marry someone else? No, the more Beryl thought about it, the more she suspected that Emmy’s employer was playing a rather clever double game. Because Emmy had only thought of him as her elderly boss, he had been unable to court her as Johnny and Carl had. Mr Mac probably imagined that any attempt on his part to appear interested in Emmy as a woman would have resulted either in her trying to change her job, or in great embarrassment to them both. And he might well have been right at that, Beryl concluded, finishing off another tablecloth and spreading out the next. The truth was that Emmy
had never even considered Mr Mac as a suitor because to her he was simply her boss. When visiting her at the sanatorium, he had behaved with great decorum, making sure of her comfort, treating her, in fact, like a favourite niece. Beryl assumed this was because, had he behaved otherwise, it might have made things very difficult when Emmy returned to the restaurant. Beryl imagined that he had not, at that time, fully realised the extent of his own feelings towards her friend. That had only come upon her return to Liverpool and now Mr Mac was making up for lost time, treating Emmy as a beautiful and desirable woman, hoping that she would begin to see him not just as a friend and employer, but as a lover.

Beryl finished the tablecloth and pulled out the next one. It was worn and old, with a tear quite a foot long right across the middle. I’ll make it into four table napkins, she decided, rough ironing the material and laying it aside. Ella, from Bonner’s Tea Rooms, was always grateful for any little mending jobs Beryl might do, and would pay a bit extra for the task. Beryl began to iron the next tablecloth. She was pretty sure that her friend no longer intended to marry either Johnny or Carl, and she was equally sure that Emmy was jealous as a cat whenever she thought of Mr Mac’s marrying someone else. She also believed that Emmy was regarding Mr Mac more and more fondly, was probably already a little in love with him. What she did not know was whether Emmy understood her own feelings. In Beryl’s opinion, her friend had never known the sort of breathless, helpless love which she and Wally had shared when they were young. Emmy had been dazzled by Peter’s good looks, position and experience. Oh, she had loved
him in a way, but had always been a little in awe of him. When he died, she had been heartbroken, but her loss had not blighted her life. Now, Beryl wondered irreverently if Emmy would recognise love if it jumped up and bit her on the nose. If not, she found herself pitying Mr Mac deeply, because a little butterfly who flitted over the surface of life, never soaring to the heights or plumbing the depths, would be a poor mate for a man of strong passions like Mr Mac.

Beryl stood her iron back by the fire and picked up the next one, astonished by her own thoughts. Emmy was her best friend; she had known her all her life, knew that there was a great deal of good in the younger girl. It had taken courage not to accept an offer of marriage from someone with money and position, like Carl, she reminded herself. At one time, Emmy had been desperate for any sort of financial help, which was why she had taken the job in the restaurant. For a girl brought up to believe that she was a cut above everyone else in her neighbourhood, working as a waitress had been a brave thing to do as well. And despite the difficulties, Beryl knew that Diana had never wanted for anything which Emmy could give her, and that included both attention and love.

On the hearthrug, Freddie crashed his cars together and got to his feet. He wandered over to the table and jerked at Beryl’s skirt. ‘Goin’ out?’ he enquired hopefully. ‘Mammy goin’ out? Freddie go too?’

Beryl smiled at her little son, but resolutely continued to work. ‘Presently, old feller,’ she promised. ‘We’ll do our messages as soon as I’ve finished the Bonner tablecloths. You play with your cars till Mammy’s ready, there’s a good boy.’

Freddie, a placid, sweet-tempered little boy, nodded
solemnly and returned to his game on the hearthrug. Beryl leaned over the fireguard and changed irons once again. She had told Diana that her mother was growing up and now she realised that the remark had been very true. Part of Emmy’s undoubted appeal had been her innocent acceptance of male admiration. Now, the fact that Mr Mac seemed, to Emmy, to be immune to her charms was causing her to be a little more self-critical. Perhaps it’s good for everyone to have doubts, Beryl told herself. Emmy’s brave, bright, pretty as a picture, but not her dearest friend could call her modest or unassuming. Now, because she does have doubts, she’s a far nicer person than she was.

Having decided that a little uncertainty was actually good for her friend, Beryl put the whole matter out of her mind and finished the rest of her ironing in record time. She packed her work carefully into the long basket, covering it with a stout piece of American cloth. Then she dressed Freddie in his outdoor clothes, put on her own coat and hat, and carried the small boy and the basket over to the rickety old pram. I’ll kill two birds with one stone, she decided, tucking Freddie under the waterproof cover and erecting the hood. I’ll deliver my work and then do my messages, and after that, I’ll pop into Mac’s and see how Emmy’s getting on; if she’s working, that is. I told Diana she might be Christmas shopping, but the truth is she were in such a rush to get off this morning that we scarcely exchanged a word. I might treat myself to a pot of tea while I’m in Mac’s, because by then I’ll need a sit-down.

Beryl did as she planned, popping into the restaurant at eleven o’clock, and finding it crowded with Christmas shoppers. She looked towards the cash
desk and was only slightly surprised to see that Emmy was not there. Old Mrs Mac, very erect and smiling, sat by the till.

Beryl hovered for a moment, then decided to have a cup of tea anyway, and waited until a plump woman in a scarlet headscarf vacated her seat. Beryl, with Freddie in her arms, hastily took the woman’s place, and asked Freda for tea for herself and a biscuit for the baby. ‘I see Emmy’s got her day off, for all you’re so busy,’ she observed. ‘Good thing the old lady’s fit again or you’d ha’ been scrattin’ around to find someone to mind the till.’

Freda beamed at her. ‘It ain’t only Emmy what’s off, of course; Mr Mac’s not in now, on a Tuesday,’ she said. ‘D’you know he’s house-hunting? He wants a place in the country where he can relax from time to time, so whenever Mr Mac’s off, the feller he’s employed to help out, his cousin, comes in for practice, like.’

‘Oh, I see. What’s he like, this other chap?’ Beryl asked curiously, as two more customers left the table and Freda began to clear the used crockery on to her tray. ‘Emmy’s not said much.’

‘He’s awright,’ Freda said, resting the laden tray on her hip. ‘If you look towards the office . . . that’s him, the feller what just come out. He’s learnin’ fast; took to it like a duck to water, you might say. But I can’t stand here chattin’ ’cos you know the rules. Shan’t be a mo.’

Beryl sat back in her chair; Freda had given her considerable food for thought. The staff clearly didn’t know that Emmy had accompanied their boss in his search for a house, far less that Mr Mac and Emmy were probably together today. Beryl smiled to herself. Lately, Emmy had said more than once that she did
not mean to marry either Johnny or Carl. Beryl had taken this with a pinch of salt, but now she decided Emmy had been speaking no more than the truth, even if she herself did not know it. Another clue, now that she thought about it, was that Emmy had not mentioned Mr Mac’s cousin, and that was because Mr Mac’s cousin came in when Mr Mac was out and when Mr Mac was out, Emmy must be out as well. Beryl’s smile broadened; the plot thickens, she thought gleefully, just as Freda arrived back at her table with her pot of tea and the boy’s biscuit. Oh aye, the plot thickens all right!

It would be an exaggeration to say that Emmy and Mr Mac had seen hundreds of houses, but they had certainly viewed most of the properties being offered for sale at the moment. Emmy was beginning to get confused, so when they climbed into the taxi after viewing the third house of the day and Mr Mac suggested that they should have a break, she gladly agreed with him. ‘They’re all beginning to run together in my head,’ she said apologetically. ‘I find myself trying to visualise the kitchen in so and so street, or the master bedroom in what’s its name street, and finding that I’m probably really thinking of a house over the opposite side of the city.’

She laughed, and Mr Mac laughed with her. ‘That’s why I suggested we have a break,’ he told her. ‘I thought we might go to Chester, take a look at the shops – do some Christmas shopping, if anything takes your fancy – have some lunch, and come back so you’re in time to help Beryl make the tea. Does that appeal?’

‘Oh, it does,’ Emmy breathed. Then her eye was caught by the address on the next house they would
have visited. ‘Oh, but . . . I wonder if we might view just one more house, Mr Mac? Only it’s in Sydenham Avenue, which is next to Lancaster Avenue. We lived there before my husband died, you know. It’s a good neighbourhood and this house might be just what you’re looking for. There’s Prince’s Park and Sefton Park just a short walk away, and you can catch a tram into the city centre on Croxteth Road, which is even nearer. Only of course it’s up to you, Mr Mac.’

The taxi driver, an elderly man who usually took them house-hunting, turned in his seat to gaze at them a trifle reproachfully. ‘Well, what’s it to be?’ he demanded. ‘Sydenham Avenue ain’t far; you could see that one house and then go on to Chester, if you want.’

Mr Mac ferreted in his pocket and produced some keys. ‘Right, Sydenham Avenue it is, driver.’ He turned to Emmy. ‘The house is empty but the agent gave me the keys, so we shan’t be held up by a chattering householder, or an agent eager to influence our decision.’

They reached Sydenham Avenue. The trees which lined it were bare, but Emmy was immediately struck, as she had been struck so many years before, by the peaceful atmosphere. She and Mr Mac climbed out of the taxi and walked up the short garden path, Emmy grateful, suddenly, for the pale winter sunshine. She found she desperately wanted Mr Mac to like this house, to say that he wanted to live here and would actually make an offer for the place. She realised that she had always ‘hedged her bets’, so to speak, when they discussed the properties they had seen. She had felt awkward, not wanting to influence his decision, wondering all the while if his future wife would blame her should the house prove less
than satisfactory. Now, all these doubts and fears had left her. She had always thought Sydenham Avenue even lovelier than Lancaster, and now she was actually going to take a good look at one of the nicest houses.

Mr Mac unlocked the heavy front door and pushed it wide, and she followed him in so eagerly that she almost trod on his heels. They went first into a large and airy living room; the floor was of polished oak and, through the window, they could see the avenue and the front garden. At this time of year, it might have been a cheerless scene, but the sunshine falling on the silvery trunks of the trees, and a splash of scarlet berries and the yellow flowers of a jasmine, seemed a promise of things to come.

‘Nice,’ Mr Mac said briefly. ‘Well-proportioned room.’ Then he turned, and led the way into the rest of the house.

To Emmy, it was just as she had imagined; larger than the house in Lancaster Avenue and with a bigger garden at the back, but even empty, and with the December chill upon it, she thought it a welcoming house. It had been a family home and wanted to be one again, she thought wistfully. Perhaps Mr Mac would not like it; after all, he was looking for a home for himself and his future wife, for old Mrs Mac did not intend to move when he did. He had told Emmy, a week earlier, that his mother had decided to stay in the flat. ‘I thought she would enjoy living in pleasanter surroundings, with a garden to cultivate and less interference from the staff, but apparently I was wrong,’ he had said ruefully. ‘All her friends live in the Scotland Road area; she knows every shopkeeper, every stallholder and almost all our customers. She told me that she would be lost away from the dear
old Scottie and, naturally, I respect her point of view, even though I can’t share it. But it has to be her own decision and perhaps, when I decide to buy, she may change her mind.’

When they had examined the house from attic to cellar, Mr Mac produced the keys again and unlocked the back door, and they went into the garden. Whoever had owned the house before had clearly either employed a gardener or been keen on horticulture himself, for there was a fruit cage, in which Mr Mac said he recognised blackcurrants, gooseberries and raspberries, and a sizeable patch which probably held every sort of vegetable during the summer months, though now it contained only cabbages, sprouts and a long rectangle full of what Emmy took to be golden ferns, dotted with brilliant red berries, which Mr Mac assured her was an asparagus bed. There were two apple trees, a plum tree and a small lawn, as well as a potting shed and a brick-built outhouse in which logs and other items could be stored.