Liverpool Taffy (11 page)

‘Then you won’t marry her? There’s nothing between you?’

The silence that followed went on several seconds too long. Davy and Dai were in the meadow above the house, out on the brow of the hill which nosed down, eventually, into the sea. Behind them was the monument to those who had lost their lives aboard the
Royal Charter
, when she sank within sight of land in the worst gale any man had known. Before them was the sea which had swallowed her up – her and many another vessel, all carrying good men who did not deserve such a death.

‘Marry? Ah well, now … that’s to say … she is a good girl, I’m telling you, Dai bach, and your Mam would think scorn on you to say otherwise … if my Bethan were here …’

‘You make me sick, mun!’ The words had burst from Dai even as he bit his lip to try to prevent them. ‘If Mam were here she’d have your Menna out from under her
roof before the cat could lick its ear! No place for two women in one house, she’d say, and Menna would be back behind the bloody bar of the Crown, where she belongs!’

Davy was not as tall as Dai, but he drew himself up to his full height and glared at his son with something very like hatred in his dark eyes. ‘Faithful to your Mam I have been for thirty year, since the day we wed! A good Da to you and Sîan, too. But talk like this I will not take, d’you hear me, boy? Menna is here to stay and you are out … d’you hear me? Out! You shall not sully Mam’s memory or Menna’s good sweetness to me in my hour of need with your dirty tongue. Out! Out!
OUT
!’

‘I’ll go, and willing,’ Dai had said quietly. ‘And never darken my doors again, Da, as they say in the old melodramas? Is that what you want? Because I tell you straight, I won’t come back here whilst you and Menna are sharing a roof and neither wed to the other. That isn’t how Mam brought me up to behave, and I thought better of you. Sîan and Gareth don’t say much, but they’re of my mind. So it’s no children you’ll have if you …’

Davy screamed ‘Out, I said!’ and turned on his heel. He almost ran down the long meadow, leaving his son standing at the brow of the hill, with the bitter taste of defeat in his mouth.

His father was in the wrong and would never admit it; he was behaving in a way which would have Mam turning in her grave if she knew of it, which Dai prayed was not the case. Well, it was the end, then. The end of happiness, contentment, the end of his closeness with his father, his pleasure in the home they had shared for so many years.

He knew he could take a ship out of Amlwch because he and Melrion had ridden the motorbike over there a week since, and there had been jobs, then, for someone with his experience of small boats. But then he had hesitated, not wanting to burn his boats, to close the door on Moelfre, his home, his entire life.

He would hesitate no longer, however. He would go as his father bade him and never come back. Never, not even if the old man married the bitch and gave her his name. Never, not if the sweet sky rained blood and the sea turned to boiling oil.

Never. Never. Never.

But now, sauntering along the little Irish lane and reliving that terrible day, Dai told himself that never was a long time; too long. His father would marry Menna no matter how often he said he would do no such thing, because the village would not let him keep her living there as his mistress. Davy was obstinate, but once his son had gone he would do the decent thing by the brassy little bitch.

So I could go home … well, I could go and stay with Sîan at first, I suppose, make sure of my welcome, Dai told himself, turning to blink full into the rising sun so that the tears in his eyes were, naturally, just the tears that rise to anyone’s eyes when you stare straight into that red-gold brilliance. Besides, what a fool I am to feel like this after only a few months away! In a couple of years when I go back Da will kill the fatted calf for me; that’s his way. He can’t hold a grudge, never could. Any more than I can.

Only I’m holding out now, Dai reminded himself, slowing his pace even further as he reached the village green and began to cross it. I’m hugging my grudge against my Da and his fancy woman close to my heart and feeding it and seeing it swell and grow huge out of all proportion, and why? Because I’m desperate for the sight and sound of my own place and someone’s got to be blamed for my not going back and I can’t blame myself. Oh, Dai Evans, you’re a poor feller if you can’t forgive a man’s foolish passion and a girl’s weakness, he told himself. Perhaps Greasy’s right; when I find someone myself and love them deep and true then I’ll understand what’s come over my Da and … and that woman.

Because Davy was very lovable – to himself Dai could admit that. Women always did like Davy, and obviously Menna was no exception, even though Davy was old enough to be her father. So Menna could no more help being attracted to Davy than the moth can deny the flame, and if she felt – rightly – that Dai was a threat to her spending the rest of her life with the man she loved …

Oh shut your trap, mun, you are sounding like a talking picture or a wireless play, Dai told himself gruffly. It’s going to take time before you can look either of them in the eye – and them you, for that matter. Give yourself time. Stop tilting at windmills and gnawing your fingernails to the bone, let things slide a little.

He reached the end of the village green and dropped onto the quay. Greasy was sitting on the ship’s rail, eating a bacon sandwich. He saw Dai and waved.

‘Where you been, tatty’ead?’ he said thickly. ‘You’d berrer ’urry or you won’t get no bacon abnabs, I’ve et most of ’em awready.’

The job in Fuller’s would have done Biddy a treat, but as she guessed, they really wanted a girl who had had waiting on experience.

‘But we’ll be starting a beginner before Christmas, so you come back, dear, in a few weeks an’ mebbe we’ll start you on then,’ the lady who interviewed her said with a friendly smile. ‘You’ve got a good appearance and a nice, bright way with you. Don’t forget, if you don’t get anything else, come back.’

‘I will,’ Biddy said, trying to smile to hide her sinking heart as she turned away from the shop and began to walk home. Christmas! What on earth should she do if she couldn’t get work well before then?

Ellen had an answer to that, of course, and had told Biddy about it the night after she had ‘entertained’ George for the first time.

‘Look chuck, beggars can’t afford to be choosers; if you can’t get nothin’ what pays enough then you ’ave to supplement your income, like. That’s why George visits me … see?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Biddy had said, after a confused pause during which she tried to sort the sentence out. ‘Why should George supplement your income? I mean you’re well paid and you’ve got Mr Bowker. What else do you need?’

‘Oh, this an’ that,’ Ellen said airily. ‘Norra lot, just a bit more dosh than I’ve got, now an’ then. An’ you’re a pretty judy. George said …’

‘I don’t want to know what George said – or not until I understand you properly,’ Biddy said slowly. ‘George came for a couple of hours with you, he sent me off to the cinema …’

‘Which were a kindness, ’cos ’e could ’ave just telled you to sling your ’ook,’ Ellen reminded her. ‘But ’e give you money for the flickers.’

‘Yes. Oh, Ellen, did he – does he – give you money for – for being with you?’

‘Norra lot,’ Ellen said quickly. ‘But yes, ’e does. Why not? Mr Bowker pays for the flat, why should George get ’arry Freemans?’

‘But … but you said Mr Bowker was jealous, so he got you the flat and the job so’s he could have you all to himself,’ Biddy said, having given it some thought. ‘So if you’re seeing George on the side you’re cheating on Mr Bowker.’

‘Oh, yeah? An’ what about Mrs Bowker, eh? Ain’t the ole feller cheatin’ on ’er with me an’ on me with ’er?’

‘I don’t think that’s quite the point. But if you’re saying that I ought to go with a feller and charge him money, that’s not on, Ellen. My Mam’s dead so she can’t kill me, like yours would, but … but it ’ud break her heart and I don’t intend to do that. I’d sooner go to the workhouse, I tell you straight.’

‘Oh!’ Ellen said, clearly abashed by the vehemence in her friend’s tone. ‘Oh well, it were only a suggestion, like. Anyroad, you’ll gerra job. Course you will.’

At that stage, Biddy had believed she would indeed get a job and probably a good one, too. But the trouble was that most people had taken on all the staff they needed at the start of the summer and did not want to take on anyone else until the Christmas rush started. Biddy tramped the streets and got kindness from some, cold indifference from others, but she did not get a job.

So now she was putting on Ellen’s pink cotton dress, a white straw hat and her own black shoes. Ellen had told her she might wear her new straw hat with the daisies round the brim, her navy sailor suit and matching cotton gloves, but it seemed rather too dressy for an ordinary July day. Besides, Ellen wanted to wear it the next time Mr Bowker took her out since he had not seen it yet, and it would not be the same if Biddy had to wash it after a wearing. All I want is to get a job, and the pink dress is respectable and clean, Biddy reminded herself. It goes better with my colouring than navy, too. So I’ll rub my shoes over and then … then I’ll go round to Cazneau Street and just take a look at the confectioner’s on the corner of Rose Place. The job is
bound to be gone by now, it’s days since George came, but there’s no harm in looking.

She was in fact beginning to realise that it was pointless avoiding the Scottie for the rest of her life. If you were poor you needed shops like Ma Kettle’s and Paddy’s Market and it looked as though she were destined to be poor for a good long time to come.

So she cleaned the flat, prepared food for an evening meal, and then set out, grimly determined not to come back until she had a job. She would try everywhere … up and down the Scottie if necessary but definitely in that area since it was the only part of the city she had not tried.

Human nature being what it is, the nearer Biddy got to the Scotland Road, the more curious she became. She had heard nothing of any of the Kettles since she left and did not expect to do so, but she was absolutely longing to know who Ma Kettle had got to replace her and how the shop was being managed in her absence. In nine months she had done so much – all the notices were now written in ink, on stiff white card, the window display was changed at least once a week, she had been a demon on flies – her prowess with a swat had called forth much laughter and not a little admiration as she zoomed round, swiping vengefully.

I wonder would it hurt just to take a peep? she asked herself, as she walked demurely along Cazneau. Well, I’ll visit James’s Confectionery first, just see if the job’s still in the window.

She reached the corner where Rose Place met Cazneau Street and suddenly got nervous. She walked straight past the corner shop without even glancing in the window, and then stopped, pretending to look at next door’s display – and then looked in earnest.
LAWRENCE MEEHAN, BOOKSELLER
read the sign over the door, and the place was crammed with books.

Books! At school, Biddy had been a great reader, devouring everything the nuns had put within her reach. At home, her father had encouraged her love of books, though of late years she and her mother had simply not been able to afford it. But now, all her interest
was aroused over again and she went slowly along, examining every title on every spine, wishing she could go inside, turn books over, touch them, read a few words … if she had a job, of course …

She turned on the thought and retraced her steps, peering in the window of the small shop next door. There was a bright display of jars full of tempting-looking sweets, an enormous stone jar packed with the paper windmills dear to little children’s hearts, and a pyramid of small stone bottles of ginger beer. But no card advertising a job as a shop assistant.

There, you left it too late, Biddy scolded herself, her heart sinking down into her boots. What an idiot you were … what a coward! You were too afraid of the Kettles to come back here, and look how you are rewarded! A job in a confectioner’s would not be particularly well paid but at least it would have meant she was earning money and now she had lost even that hope.

But having come so far it seemed downright stupid to turn meekly on her heel and go back so she continued to walk up Cazneau, and when she reached the junction with Juvenal Street she hesitated for a moment and then turned left onto it. When she reached the Scottie all she had to do was turn right, walk a couple of hundred yards, and she would be outside Kettle’s Confectionery.

And when it came right down to it, what had she to lose? She might as well pretend she had never worked there, because she never would again, but it would be interesting to see what had happened since she left.

She walked on, turning the corner, walked on again. Probably Ma Kettle wouldn’t even recognise her in the pink dress and white straw hat, she reminded herself. She had never worn anything half so fine at the Kettle establishment. So she continued on her way with a certain confidence in her step. The boys would be at work, Ma would be busy … what a fool she had been not to do this before, it would have saved her a few sleepless nights if she had resolutely returned to the Scotland Road and faced what was just a silly fear of being embarrassed.

She reached the familiar shop front and stopped dead, her heart jumping into her mouth.

The shop was closed, the window draped with what looked like white sheets, and instead of sweets, flowers crowded against the glass. There were more flowers piled against the door … no, not flowers as such, wreaths.

The shock held her spellbound for moments and she was still standing there, a hand to her throat, when someone bustling along the pavement stopped in front of her.

‘Well, if it isn’t Biddy! The funeral’s in an hour or so, love … will you look at all them flowers!’

It was old Mrs Hackett, a regular customer at Kettle’s Confectionery. She was smiling, nodding her head at the wreaths, the white-draped window, the white card edged in black, all of which were blurring before Biddy’s vision.