Liverpool Annie

For all the Margarets I have known, not forgetting Audrey and Evelyn

Orlando Street

Annie stopped running. Her breath was raw within her pounding chest, and her legs felt as if they were about to give way. She'd come to the stretch of sand where Auntie Dot used to bring them in the summer when they were little, and where she and Sylvia came on warm evenings to talk. Now, at half past ten on a bitter March night, Annie found herself drawn towards the dark isolation offered by the litter-strewn beach.

What had she done? What had possessed her to say those terrible things."* She wandered, stiff-legged, towards the water. The texture of the sand beneath her feet changed from fine to moist and the heels of her flat school shoes sank into the mushy surface. The horror of what she'd just witnessed couldn't be true: she'd imagined it, or she'd wake up any minute and find it had been a bad dream, a nightmare.

'Please God, make it not be true!' she prayed aloud in a strange, cracked, high-pitched whisper.

Before her, the black, oily waters of the River Mersey glinted, rippling, reflecting the distant lights of Wallasey and New Brighton and a segment of orange moon which appeared from behind a veil of cloud.

Annie stared into the water which lapped busily at her feet, at the black seaweed which wrapped itself around her shoe, to be swept away when the tide rustled forward in a frill of dirty froth to reclaim it as its own. She was fifteen, nearly a woman, yet felt as if, from this

night on, her life was over. She knelt on the sand and began to pray, but soon the prayers gave way to recollections: of her mam and dad, her sister Marie, of Sylvia, and of course, Auntie Dot . . .

She searched for her first memory, but could think of nothing in particular. Those early years living with the Gallaghers had been happy, full of fun, despite the fact the war was on. She remembered it was the day Dot threw the cup at the wall that caused things to change. The cup had been a catalyst. Afterwards nothing was ever the same again.

Auntie Dot was still in the same house in Bootle: small and terraced, outwardly the same as the one in Orlando Street where the Harrisons had lived for over ten years, but inside so very different - full of ornaments and pictures, warm with the smell of baking, and the grate piled high with glowing coals. In 1945, '^ot put a big picture of Mr Attlee, the new Prime Minister, over the mantelpiece and kept a little candle burning before it, as if he were a saint.

When Annie and her family were there, there was so much furniture you could scarcely move, because stuff from the parlour had been moved out to make room for a double bed for mam and dad. Annie and her sister slept upstairs with Auntie Dot. Then the war ended and Uncle Bert came home and, somewhat unreasonably Annie thought, expected to sleep with his wife. She was indignant when another bed was acquired from a secondhand shop and put in the boxroom for her and Marie. This meant the settee from the parlour had to be placed precariously on its side, and they had to climb over an armchair to get in and out of bed - which was too small, anyway, even for two little girls.

Still, Annie loved the crowded house, swarming with people, though it was irritating to have to stand in a

queue for the lavatory at the bottom of the yard, or compete for food with three growing, hungry boys. The boys were older than Annie, having been born before the war, and she thought Dot was sensible not to have more whilst Bert was away, because they were a handful. Not that Marie was much better. Despite being only three, she was as 'mischievous as a sackful of monkeys', as Dot put it.

'I don't know what I'd do without you, Annie,' Dot said frequently. 'You're the only one who knows how to behave proper, like. You'd never think you were only four.' Annie helped make the beds and dry the dishes. Her favourite job was dusting the ornaments on the sideboard: souvenirs from Blackpool and Rhyl and Morecambe, places where Dot and Bert had gone when they were courting.

'Poor little mite,' Dot said sometimes, ruffling Annie's mop of copper curls. 'What's to become of you, eh?'

Annie had no idea what she was on about. She didn't feel the least bit poor, but warm and secure in the shambolic house where, as far as she knew, the Harrisons would stay for ever. In September she would start school, the one the boys went to, and life would be even better. She loved Auntie Dot with all her heart, and Uncle Bert, once she forgave him for taking over the bed. A tall man with a halo of sandy hair, red cheeks and a bushy moustache, he reminded her of a teddy bear, and bought little presents for the children on pay day: sweets or magic painting books or crayons. Bert was an engine driver who worked shifts, and they had to be quiet when he was on nights and slept during the day.

But gradually. Auntie Dot, who laughed a lot and was always in a good mood, began to get bad-tempered. Perhaps it was because she was getting fat, thought

Annie, noting the way her auntie's belly was swelling, getting bigger and bigger by the day. She snapped at the boys and told Annie and Marie to get out of the bloody way, though her bark was worse than her bite. If anyone at the receiving end of her temper got upset, she was instantly and extravagantly remorseful. Once, when Marie began to cry, her auntie cried, too.

'I'm sorry, luv,' she sobbed, gathering Marie in her arms. 'It's just . . . oh, hell, I dunno, I suppose everything's getting on top of me.'

It was a blustery rainy day in April when Dot threw the cup. Annie and Marie were in their best frocks, having been to nine o'clock Mass with their aunt and uncle and the boys. The pegs in the hall were full of damp clothes, with a neat row of Wellingtons underneath. After Mass, Uncle Bert had gone to bed, with a stern warnmg to the boys to keep the noise down. Dot knotted a scarf turbanwise around her ginger hair, pulled a flowered pinny over her head and tied it around her nonexistent waist, making her belly look even bigger. She began to iron on the back room table. As each item was finished, she placed it in a pile, until there were two neat folded heaps of clothes and bedding.

'Can't put this lot away till Bert gets up or I can get in the parlour,' she muttered to herself. Every now and then, she changed the iron for the one left on a low gas ring to re-heat. As the fresh iron was brought in, she spat on it with gusto.

The boys, restless at being kept indoors by the rain, disappeared upstairs. After a while, they began to fight, and there was a series of muffled howls and bumps. Dot went into the hall and hissed. 'Tommy, Mike, Alan! Shurrup, or ye'll wake your dad.'

She smiled at the girls, who were squashed together in the other armchair from the parlour. 'Oh, don't you

look a picture! The royal princesses don't hold a candle to you pair. What are you drawing? Do your Auntie Dot a nice picture for the kitchen, there's good girls.'

Their best drawings were pinned to the larder door, but now Annie abandoned hers to watch Dot at work. Her aunt's movements always fascinated her, they were so quick and efficient. She would have offered to help, but Dot didn't like anyone under her feet when she was ironing.

The ironing finished. Dot put both irons on the back step to cool and went into the kitchen to prepare dinner, deftly peeling a stack of potatoes and chopping up a cabbage. There was already a pan boiling on the stove, a corner of muslin sticking out under the lid. Annie licked her lips. Suet puddmg! She hoped it was syrup, her favourite.

Dot lit the oven and placed a big iron casserole dish of steak and kidney on the middle shelf. To Annie's surprise, she remained stooping for several seconds, wincing. She grasped the draining board, panting, before lighting another ring on the stove and pouring almost a whole pint of milk into a pan. Then she took a big tin of custard out of the cupboard, mixed the remainder of the milk with two tablespoons of p<3wder, poured the whole lot into the pan and began to stir vigorously, her face creased in a scowl. Making custard was a hazardous business: if you didn't remove the pan at just the right time, it burned.

Sitting watching, listening to the spoon scraping the side of the pan, the spit of water on the hot stove, the muffled voices of the boys upstairs, Annie, in the warm, comfortable chair pressed close to her sister, felt a sense of perfect happiness. In about an hour - and although an hour seemed an age away, it would pass eventually -Dot would ask her to set the table, then nine plates would be spread on every conceivable surface in the

kitchen and the food would be served, with Dot moving bits of potato and spoonsful of steak and kidney from one plate to another, 'to be fair, like', as she put it. In the middle of this, Dot would say 'Tell your dad the dinner's ready, luv', and Annie would knock on the parlour door and her dad would emerge and collect two meals, one with only minute portions for mam, and take them back with him. Uncle Bert's dinner would be kept warm for later.

The boys began shouting and there was a crash, as if they'd knocked something over. Uncle Bert thumped on the floor and yelled, 'Keep the noise down!' just as there was a sharp rap on the front door.

Dot groaned. 'See who that is, Annie.'

Annie trotted to the door. Father Maloney stood outside. He gave Annie a brief nod, and, without waiting for an invitation, pushed past and walked down the hall, straight into the room full of ironing and thick with the smell of cooking dinner - boihng cabbage predominated.

'Why, Father!' Dot's pretty, good-natured face flushed as bright red as her hair with embarrassment. She pulled the turban off and dragged the pinny over her head, dislodging one of her pearl earrings. It fell on the lino-covered floor with a little clatter and, as she rushed forward to greet the priest, she stood on it, 'I wasn't expecting you today. Annie, Marie, get up and let Father have the armchair.'

She closed the kitchen door and called the boys. They came down and stood meekly against the wall, hands behind their backs, whilst Dot carried out a quick inspection, straightening their collars and smoothing down the tousled ginger heads they had inherited from their mam and dad. Father Maloney gave them a cursory glance. As soon as his back was turned, Mike pulled a face and Marie stifled a giggle.

'Who is it?' Uncle Bert shouted.

'It's Father Maloney, Dad,' Tommy shouted back. Uncle Bert said something incomprehensible and the bed creaked.

The priest didn't stay long. He asked the children if they'd been good, and they assured him they had in their most convincing voices. When he turned to Dot, Mike stuck out his tongue as far as it would go. Annie did her best to keep a straight face. Mike was the favourite of her cousins. His hair was redder than his brothers', he had twice as many freckles, and his blue-green eyes danced with merriment.

'And how are you, Dorothy?' Father Maloney asked gravely.

i'm fine, Father,' Dot replied with a glassy smile and a killing look in the direction of Mike, whose tongue was performing contortions.

'You look tired, child.' He frowned at the stack of ironing. 'You should treat Sunday as a day of rest, someone in your condition.'

'It's a bit difficult. Father, y'see . . .'

But Father Maloney wasn't interested. He blessed them quickly and departed. Annie and Marie immediately reclaimed the armchair.

The front door had scarcely closed, when Uncle Bert appeared, fully dressed. He'd even managed his tie, though the knot was crooked.

'You're too late. Dad. He's gone,' said Mike.

'Bloody hell!' Uncle Bert swore, and stumped back upstairs. The bed creaked again. He must have thrown himself on it fully clothed.

Dot was scraping her earring off the floor when Alan said, 'What's that smell?'

'Jaysus, the custard!' She opened the kitchen door and a cloud of smoke billowed out. The top and front of the stove were covered with a brown, blistering mess.

'I like it burnt,' said Mike. 'I don't,' Tommy countered.

As if this were a signal for another fight, the boys fell upon each other and began to wrestle. And that was when Dot threw the cup.

It shattered against the wall and the pieces fell onto the sideboard, i can't stand it!' she screamed. 'I can't stand it another sodding minute!' She stood in the kitchen door, her hands on her hips, looking madder than anyone had ever seen her look before.

Marie burst into tears, and the boys stopped wrestling and looked at their mother in alarm. Something terrible must have happened, something far worse than burnt custard.

'Is Mr Attlee dead. Mam?' Tommy asked nervously.

Dot glared. Upstairs, the bed creaked and Uncle Bert's weary footsteps could be heard descending. The parlour door opened and the tall gaunt frame of Annie's dad appeared. His hair, paler than Dot's, almost salmon coloured, was plastered close to his narrow head, and his face wore an expression of unrelieved gloom. He looked at everyone nervously, but didn't speak.

Uncle Bert came in and, to Annie's surprise, he sat down and clumsily dragged Dot onto his knee. 'What's the matter, luv.''

Dot buried her head in his shoulder and gave a deep, heartrending sigh. 'I can't stand it another minute. This morning was the last straw.'