Liverpool Angels (3 page)

T
hat bright May morning the waterfront’s familiar forest of masts, spars and rigging, broken by the occasional smokestack of a steamship, held no fascination for John Strickland. His only thought was to get home to Beth and his family. As trips went it had been an easy one with no rough weather to speak of but he’d been anxious throughout the passage. Time after time as he’d laboured in the fierce heat of the stokehold, the sweat trickling down his bare torso, his thoughts had turned to Beth. Thankfully, now he was back; he couldn’t wait to get to Albion Street.

He waved cheerfully, bidding farewell to the group of men now heading purposefully towards the nearest pub, thinking there wouldn’t be much left of their pay by the time they got home. But he didn’t blame them. The ‘Black Gang’, as the stokers, trimmers and firemen were collectively known, endured some of the worst working conditions at sea, slaving away in shifts of twelve hours on and four off in searing, dust-laden heat, tending the
Campania
’s thirteen boilers and hundred furnaces. She was Cunard’s first real steamship, with two smokestacks and a top speed of twenty-two knots. Sail had at last been abandoned by the company but the twenty tons of coal those boilers used per hour all had to be manhandled from the bunkers. The work was relentless and brutal, the heat intense and accidents frequent for they had little protection from the burning coals and white-hot cinders that spilled out from the furnace if the door wasn’t slammed shut before the ship’s bow rose. They were well fed and reasonably well paid by seafaring standards but were allowed no alcohol at all whilst at sea. Fights could and did erupt frequently between members of the Black Gang even without the inflammatory effects of liquor – and no officer was ever fool enough to intervene – so when the men were paid off they headed immediately for the pub or, if they were in New York, to the nearest dockside bar.

The spring sun was warm on his face as he headed towards the tram stop, his kitbag, containing amongst other things the little gifts he always brought for Beth and Maggie, slung over his broad shoulder. He’d scrubbed the coal dust from his skin as best he could but it was impossible to get rid of it completely; it became ingrained and needed to be soaked away in a hot bath, a luxury he always looked forward to even though the tin tub had to be dragged in from the yard and filled with kettles of hot water. He grinned to himself. Beth always declared in mock horror that she’d never known water could instantly turn black.

He boarded the tram, paid his fare and settled down on a wooden slatted seat by the door, wishing the vehicle could move as fast as his ship as it slowly trundled its way through the city streets. Had she had the baby yet? Was she all right? Was the baby perfect and thriving? The questions chased through his mind. He’d given up wondering if it would be a boy or a girl, all that mattered was that it was healthy. Of course he would like a son but he wouldn’t be overly disappointed with a daughter.

He trudged the last few yards towards Albion Street panting a little for all the streets on Everton Ridge were very steep – some even had handrails to aid pedestrians – but as he rounded the corner he thought that it was quieter than usual. At this time of the day usually there were kids playing football on its cobbled surface with a makeshift ball of rags, or swinging on a rope tied to an arm of a streetlamp, or playing marbles in the gutter. In warm weather like this the doors usually stood wide open, the women inside preparing whatever they’d managed to scrape together for the evening meal – which was never very much, although Maggie and Beth usually managed better than most on the money he left and whatever wages Billy hadn’t spent on drink.

Webster’s corner shop was still open and busy, he noted, but as soon as he drew level with the house a feeling of foreboding crept over him. Something was wrong. The door was firmly shut, the windows closed and the bleached sacking that served as curtains were pulled tightly across them.

Maggie was waiting for him in the dark narrow lobby. She’d gone up to the top of St George’s Hill earlier and had watched the
Campania
steam up the river, come alongside and tie up. She’d known he would be home soon. ‘John . . .’ she started as he opened the door, and then the words failed her.

He dropped the kitbag and headed for the stairs, his heart hammering sickeningly against his ribs.

Instantly she ran and grabbed his arm. ‘John! She . . . she’s not . . . Beth isn’t . . .’ The tears were pouring unheeded down her cheeks.

Suddenly he felt sick and dizzy and clung to the banister rail for support, fear as cold as ice creeping over him. ‘No! Oh, God, no! Maggie . . . tell me!’

Maggie fought for control of her emotions. ‘There was nothing anyone could do, John. It . . . She took the fever, the childbed fever. She was fine at first, exhausted . . . it was a long, hard labour but we thought she . . . she would soon recover but then . . .’

John sank down on the stairs, his legs unable to support him any longer. She was telling him that Beth was dead. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed like a child. His Beth, his beautiful, gentle Beth . . . He’d never see her smile again, never hold her in his arms, feel the softness of her hair against his cheek, the sweetness of her lips; she’d never again hold out her arms to welcome him home.

Her brother’s grief broke Maggie’s heart. It was so terrible to see her big, strong, amiable bear of a brother huddled on the stairs, devastated by grief. She put her arms around him and held him tightly and he clung to her. ‘She went peacefully in the end . . .’ she would never tell him of the hours Beth had spent thrashing in agony and delirium ‘. . . on Friday afternoon. Agnes’s mam was with me. I – I couldn’t . . . 
wouldn’t
let her be buried until you . . . Oh, John, I’m so sorry!’

His sobs were slowly diminishing but he felt numb, completely numb, his mind refusing to accept the immensity of the tragedy that had overtaken him.

Maggie helped him to his feet, drawing on the depths of her courage to give him all the facts so that maybe . . . maybe
somehow
he would feel a little easier in his mind. ‘Billy went to the register office and everything is arranged for Thursday. I’ve seen the vicar and Mr Thompson has been very helpful. He . . . he’s taken her to his chapel. I’ll come with you now, if you want me to, to see her. She looks so . . . peaceful.’ She did, she thought brokenly, but she also looked so cold and unlike the Beth he’d loved.

He didn’t reply so she guided him into the kitchen.

‘Ah, John, what can I say except that we’re all so desperately sorry,’ Billy said, getting to his feet and thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers, feeling both embarrassed and shocked. He’d never really got on well with his brother-in-law. If the truth were told he was a little afraid of him, but he was away more often than he was at home so they rubbed along well enough. But to see him now looking so . . . broken was disturbing. ‘Will I go down to the pub and get him a drop of something?’ he muttered sotto voce to Maggie.

‘No, but thanks. Sweet tea is best for shock,’ she replied. She took a deep breath as she gently pushed her brother down into the armchair Billy had just vacated. ‘But the baby is well. You have a daughter, John.’

He just stared into the fire in the range. He hadn’t thought about the child and now he didn’t even want to. He got to his feet again. ‘I’m going out, Maggie. I . . . I have to walk. I have to try to . . . think . . .’

‘No! John, please!’ Maggie cried, but Billy laid a hand on her arm.

‘Let him be, Maggie. He needs time, luv. Time on his own, away from this house.’

She couldn’t stop him but she was frantic with worry about him and knew she wouldn’t rest until he returned – safely – to the house.

In later years he could never remember how long he’d walked or what streets he’d stumbled along that night, or maybe he’d just blanked it from his mind. Eventually he’d made his way back and had found his sister waiting up for him, her face drawn and anxious. He’d slumped down on the sofa and fallen into a deep sleep, a sleep of utter mental and physical exhaustion. She’d brought a blanket and covered him before she’d finally gone to bed.

The next days passed in a blur. He didn’t want to eat; he didn’t want to see or speak to the neighbours, not even Agnes, with whom he’d grown up. He realised that there was a baby in the house but he hadn’t been able to bring himself even to ask about her, never mind go to look at her. He’d made up his mind that he would go back to sea on Friday – for what would be the point of staying here now? Maybe hours engrossed in the repetitious, physically demanding work of shovelling coal into a furnace would block out the memory of Beth’s pale, cold face and the pain of his loss. He could only hope.

He was as much in control of himself as could possibly be expected when Beth was buried. Beside him Maggie had dabbed at her eyes, sobs shaking her, but he’d remained dry-eyed. It had been a moment of darkest despair when on that bright sunny morning he’d watched his beloved wife’s body being lowered into the dark earth. There had been a decent crowd in the church, which had touched him, and the vicar had been very sympathetic, but he’d never been much of a believer and was even less so now. There were so many truly bad people in the world: why had one of them not been struck down with a fever? Why someone as gentle and good as Beth? he’d thought bitterly.

After the burial the family went back to the house, accompanied by Agnes and Bertie and some of the neighbours for the traditional ‘funeral tea’, although John had excused himself, saying he needed some time alone. Mrs Webster had taken Eddie over to the shop with the twins.

At length Agnes and Bertie went home to put all three boys to bed. Eddie was too young to understand what had happened to Aunty Beth but Agnes felt the child sensed there was something wrong. He’d been quieter of late, and when she’d mentioned it to her mam she’d concurred and agreed that it would be better if the little boy stayed the night. John would sail tomorrow and then maybe some sense of normality would return.

When John returned Billy looked at him hopefully. ‘Will you come down for a drink with me, John?’ he enquired. ‘It’s been a desperate day altogether and you’ll be away again tomorrow.’ Billy hadn’t had a drink for days and he thought the atmosphere in the pub would help to cheer them both up. He didn’t fancy sitting here for the rest of the evening; the gloom was almost palpable.

John shook his head but thanked him. ‘Thanks, but I’ve never been one for the drink, Billy, you know that. And I’ve an early start tomorrow.’

Maggie sighed, seeing her husband was anxious to get away. ‘Oh, get off with you, Billy. Go and have a drink. You’re right, it’s been a desperate day.’ Even though she was bone-tired she wanted to talk to her brother about Mae and she didn’t want Billy chipping in.

‘I’ve your clothes washed and dried and ready to put in your bag,’ she said to her brother. ‘You are sure this will be the best thing to do? Go back to sea?’ she asked again.

John nodded. ‘I . . . I can’t stay, Maggie, I just
can’t
! Maybe filling my days with sheer hard slog might help me to . . . to get through.’

‘At least I’ll know you’re being well fed,’ she replied. He’d hardly eaten at all since he’d been home but the gruelling physical work would bring back his appetite and the long hours would ensure he slept. She prayed that when he returned home next time his raw grief would be less acute.

‘I’ll leave you the usual amount of money, Maggie. You still have bills to pay and I don’t suppose you can rely entirely on what Billy earns.’ He’d had a bit saved up but that had gone on the funeral expenses – not that he’d begrudged it.

Maggie nodded her thanks and got up and gently took the sleeping baby from her crib, a deep drawer lined with a blanket. ‘It’s about time you held her, John. You’ve barely looked at her and her mam was so . . . so proud of her, she told me so the evening before the fever took hold.’

At first he hesitated but, thinking that Beth would have been upset if she’d known, he took her gingerly from his sister. She was so tiny, he thought. Her head was covered with a soft down of silvery blond hair and her mouth was like a miniature rosebud. Gently she stirred in his arms, slowly opening her eyes and looking up at him with a wide deep blue gaze. A ghost of a smile hovered on his lips. She was so like her mother it was uncanny, he marvelled, feeling the first stirrings of affection. Beth would never be truly gone from his life, he realised, for each time this little one looked at him he would see his wife. Tentatively he reached out to touch her soft little cheek with his index finger and her tiny fingers curled around it, callused and rough as it was. The smile grew and slowly spread across his face. ‘Mae. What a pretty name. You’re just as beautiful as my Beth too.’

Maggie smiled too, relief surging through her. It was the first time he’d spoken Beth’s name and she’d feared that he would totally reject his daughter. ‘I promised Beth I’d bring her up, John. That I’d love her every bit as much as Eddie and try to make sure she never wanted for anything.’