Liverpool Taffy (12 page)

She was dead! The old battleaxe was dead, and all Biddy could feel was the most appalling guilt. I bobbied off and the ol’ skinflint tried to manage alone and it killed her, she thought dazedly. Oh my Gawd, there was me telling Ellen that I’d not bring men in, when I’ve as good as killed an old lady who never did me any harm … well, not lasting harm, anyway, she amended. Oh
poor
old Ma Kettle, what’ll the boys do without Ma to boss them and slip them money and look after them?

But Mrs Hackett was still standing there, smiling up at her, only the smile was beginning to look a little fixed. ‘Didn’t you know, queen? Well, I’m that sorry … ‘twas a shock to us all, a turble shock. But life must go on, as they say.’

With a great effort Biddy concentrated on Mrs Hackett and the scene before her. ‘No, I didn’t know, and I’m very sorry,’ she murmured. ‘What – what a sad loss, Mrs H.’

The old lady nodded and muttered and Biddy smiled down at her and shook her own head but her
mind was in a turmoil and as soon as she could decently do so she left Mrs Hackett and turned to make her way back along the Scottie and Juvenal Street. She felt she could not possibly go in and offer condolences to the boys, particularly as Kenny would undoubtedly try to persuade her to return and Luke would blame her for his mother’s sad demise. She found she had no desire to go up and down the Scottie, pop into Paddy’s Market, have a clat with old customers or neighbours. Even her curiosity over the sweet shop had vanished like frost in June. With Ma Kettle gone it no longer mattered who was in charge – perhaps Luke would leave work and take over, or perhaps his young lady would be behind the counter in a week or so. Whatever happened, people must know she had left the old girl in the lurch, they would put two and two together … oh Gawd, wherever she worked in future it wouldn’t be on the Scottie, where Ma Kettle’s death would be a nine days wonder for a lot longer than nine days!

At the end of Juvenal Street she turned back onto Cazneau and it was only then that something occurred to her. That bookshop had looked so nice, why not just pop in for a moment and see if the bookseller knew of any jobs going? Tradesmen and local folk often did know such things and although she had avoided this area in her previous searchings she now realised there had been no real need. Even now, though she would not work on the Scottie itself if she could avoid it, she could see how foolish she had been to ignore the busiest part of the city in her job search. And as she was here, right on the spot, she must do what she could to help herself.

She retraced her steps but instead of going into the confectionery shop she went into Meehan’s. An elderly gentleman sat behind the counter reading a very large book through equally large spectacles perched on the end of his nose. When he saw her he put a finger in the book to keep his place and gave her a pleasant smile.

‘Can I help you, madam?’

Madam! I am going up in the world, Biddy thought, trying to push back the thought that, if he knew she had as good as murdered Ma Kettle, he would not have spoken to her at all, let alone so kindly. She cleared her throat nervously.

‘I wonder if you could tell me whether there are any shops in the area needing staff? I came up this way because I understood that the shop next door, the confectionery, needed an assistant, but the job is taken, and since 1 do love books I thought I’d take a look at your stock and ask you, if you don’t mind, whether you know of anyone needing an employee with previous experience in the retail trade?’

The old bookseller smiled.

‘I don’t think you’ll find a lot around just at present, and I think I can guess why. The schools are all in, there aren’t any public holidays coming up … shopkeepers tend to wait for the children just leaving school in the summer so they can pay less, rather than having to pay for someone who’s been in work for a bit. Sad, but there you are. And rich folk are saving up for their summer holidays … if I were you I’d leave it for a few weeks. Ah … wait a moment, there was something I noticed earlier, when I was having a quiet read …’

He reached under the counter and came up with a copy of the
Echo
.

‘I contribute the odd review to the paper,’ he explained, ‘and one of my pieces is in tonight’s issue, so the editor very kindly sent me round the first edition off the presses. I did notice something …’

His gnarled finger ran down the column, then he cleared his throat and looked at her over the top of his spectacles.

‘Here it is; I thought I’d seen something. Shall I read it to you?’

‘Oh, please,’ Biddy said fervently. She was all too aware that it is usually the early bird which catches the worm and knew that buying the paper off the street vendors meant that she was seldom the first to reach a prospective employer. ‘What do they want?’

‘It’s one of the big shops on Ranelagh Street; they’re looking for a young person, it says, to do deliveries. Could you manage that, do you think? I imagine it would mean carrying heavy parcels for long distances, but you seem strong enough and often these places provide a bicycle. Ah, since it’s a large clothing emporium perhaps the parcels would not be so very heavy.’

‘Which … which shop is it?’ Biddy stammered. ‘I’ll go round there at once – as it says “young person” they might look on a girl as favourably as on a boy, don’t you think?’

‘I do. You must ask for a Mrs Mottishead and the shop is called Millicent’s Modes.’

‘Thank you very much; I’ll go round at once,’ Biddy said. She glanced around her. ‘And I’ll spend my first wages in here,’ she added spontaneously. ‘It’s such a lovely shop!’

‘Thank you again, madam,’ the man replied. ‘And if you do obtain the position you can tell me all about it when you buy your first book; good afternoon … Ah, one small thing.’

Biddy paused in her flight

‘Yes, sir?’

He was fumbling under the counter and presently held out his hand to her. ‘I wonder if you have money for a tram? Consider this a loan, if you like, but a tram would considerably speed your arrival at Ranelagh Street.’

‘Oh, sir!’ Biddy gasped, taking the money. ‘I’ll pay you back as soon as ever I can – this is so kind of you!’

‘Nonsense, my dear. I know a prospective customer when I see one! Now be on your way – and good luck!’

When Ellen came home that evening, Biddy met her at the door. Her whole face was alight and a marvellous smell of cooking came from the kitchen behind her.

‘Biddy! Don’t tell me you’ve gorra job at last!’ Ellen squeaked. ‘Well, I’m that pleased … where are you workin’?’

‘At Millicent’s Modes, half-way up Ranelagh Street,’ Biddy said proudly. ‘The money is nothing compared to what you earn, but it’ll do me until I can get something better. Everyone’s rather standoffish but it won’t make any difference to me, because I’m the delivery girl. They’re going to get me a bicycle and I’m to go all over the place, mostly between the shop and
the lady who does their alterations, who is a gem, a positive gem, Miss Whitney told me. Apparently this woman used to live in Renshaw Street, but she’s not been well so she’s gone to live with her daughter, in a back-to-back on Great Richmond Street, and Miss Whitney says she keeps having to send staff panting off up there when they could be more gainfully employed doing their proper jobs. I was lucky really, since they’d both thought of employing a boy, but having seen me, both Miss Whitney and Miss Harborough agreed that girls were, in general, more careful and that when I wasn’t delivering, I could serve customers. What do you think of that? And they’re going to pay me five bob to start and seven and six if I suit. That’s ever so much more than Ma paid me, when she paid me anything, that is. So … oh, Ellen, do you know, I’d clear forgot?’

‘Forgot what?’ Ellen said, squeezing past her and going into the kitchen. ‘Wharra you gorrin the oven, chuck? It smells that good!’

‘Roast mutton with onions and potatoes cooked in the gravy,’ Biddy said. ‘But Ellen, I went down the Scottie, and the most awful thing has happened. When I got to Kettle’s it was shut, and the window was all draped in white. Old Mrs Hackett said the funeral was in an hour and I came out of a shop and saw the hearse go past – ever so posh it was, with the huge coffin an’ black horses … I felt ever so bad about it.’

‘Oh, Bid!’ Ellen gasped, genuinely shocked. ‘Whatever ‘appened?’

‘I dunno. I suppose … well, she wasn’t used to doing the hard work herself, I suppose she overdid it. She was always tight-fisted – I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead but everyone knew she’d never spend a ha’penny if she could get away wi’ spending a farthing – so I daresay she couldn’t bring herself to pay someone to do all my work. I feel so guilty, Ellen, as if I’d killed her myself.’

‘Aye, you would, but you shouldn’t,’ Ellen said after a moment’s thought. ‘I don’t want to speak ill of the dead either, in case someone’s listening, but she were a right old bitch to you, queen, and you no more killed ’er than I did. In fact you probably give ’er a new lease o’ life, slavin’ for ’er the way you did. If it ’adn’t been for you she could ’ave popped off even earlier. I’m sorry she’s snuffed it – well, fairly sorry – but she didn’t do nothin’ for nobody, so I shan’t lose no sleep over ’er. And now just answer me this, afore I forget. Can you ride a
bicycle? I don’t remember ever seeing you aboard one?’

‘Well, strictly speaking I can’t, but I had a go on one the year before my Da died and I think I had the hang of it then. Da borrowed me one from a kid up the road and said if I could keep upright for the length of our street he’d buy me a bicycle of my own for Christmas. Only he died before he could. Does that count, d’you think?’

‘Don’t really marrer, I guess,’ Ellen said, putting her nose up and sniffing the rich scent of cooking just like the kids in the Bisto advert. ‘You’d learn quick enough when you ’ad to … an’ now let’s gerrat that grub before it overcooks on us.’

Biddy soon began to enjoy working at Millie’s, as the staff called it. She wobbled a good deal on the elderly bicycle at first and rammed the pavement edge several times, causing herself to suffer abrupt descents, but she soon got the hang of it, though of course with the big black iron carrier on the front piled with boxes, the balance was very different from the neat little machine she had learned to ride ten years before.

Miss Whitney and Miss Harborough were a couple of cold fishes though, and preferred to say nothing when she limped in with skinned knees, apart from a sharp ‘And what ’appened to that silk gown, Miss?’ before turning back to their own affairs once more.

But on the whole, Biddy decided she preferred it that way. The Kettles had taught her that, for good or bad, interference was not to be welcomed. Ma Kettle had tutted and got upset when Biddy burned her fingers by snatching hot tins out of the oven or inadvertantly pouring hot toffee too fast so that she splashed herself, but her concern had been in case Biddy was less quick next time, so it could scarcely count as genuine interest.

‘It’s ever such fun,’ she said blissfully to Ellen after a couple of days during which she had delivered a great many boxes to various addresses, all to her employer’s entire satisfaction. One of these deliveries had been a box containing a gown, a hat and some elbow-length gloves to a Mrs Isabella Purgold at No. 19 Grove Park. It was an enormous old house in Toxteth and the Purgold cook had
given Biddy a cup of tea and a Welsh cake hot from the oven, and this and other kindnesses had undoubtedly coloured Biddy’s view of her new job. ‘You’re out in the open air, cycling around, you visit posh houses which means you can have a good old squint at their lovely gardens and sometimes a close look at kitchens and hallways, too. Do you know, even in this day and age some of our customers employ butlers!’

‘I’ll ’ave a butler one of these days,’ Ellen said. The two of them were eating buttered toast before leaving for the day’s work. ‘Come on, let’s shift … at least you’ve got your old bike, I’ve gorra catch a leckie.’

‘You can come on my carrier if you like,’ Biddy offered, ducking to avoid the swipe her friend aimed at her. Ellen was very much the young lady in her tight skirts and frilly blouses; you wouldn’t catch her riding pillion on a bicycle, particularly if another girl were steering it.

‘Gerron wi’ you,’ Ellen said, snatching her coat off its peg and slinging it round her shoulders. She perched a small hat on her yellow hair and thundered down the stairs, shrieking over her shoulder as she went, ‘don’t forget to fetch me ’ome some chops, it’s my turn to cook tonight!’

When Biddy got back to the flat that evening, with the chops and a nice big cabbage, Ellen was already home and in a high state of excitement. ‘You know you’ve been teachin’ me to speak posh, Bid?’ was her first remark as Biddy entered the kitchen. ‘Well, I been doin’ it at work for weeks an’ weeks … well, ever since you come to live, anyroad … an’ when I’m with Mr Bowker, acourse. An’ it’s paid off. He’s takin’ me to London to look at autumn fashions, we’re leavin’ tomorrer mornin’ fust thing!’

‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ Biddy said rather doubtfully. ‘I’ll miss you ever so much, Ellen, but I’m glad for you. Where will you stay? Not together, will you, in case it gets back?’

‘Course together, an’ how can it possibly get back? We’re goin’ as Mr and Mrs Smith,’ Ellen said triumphantly. ‘We’re goin’ to ever such a posh ’otel, we’re ’avin’ a suite o’ rooms, an’ all, wi’ a proper tiled bathroom, fluffy carpets, a great big double divan bed … ooh, it’s goin’ to be ever so romantic.’ She hugged herself tightly, beaming at Biddy. ‘We’ll see the King an’ Queen, we’ll go to the the-aytre, we’ll ’ave us dinners at posh restaurants … no expense spared, Mr Bowker said.’

‘I’ve seen the Queen back in ’34 when she came to the “pool,”’ Biddy said complacently. Inside her head she thought,
and without having to put up with some old
man fumbling at my stocking tops, either
, but she said nothing aloud. Ellen had mentioned the fumbling at her stocking tops the first time she had told Biddy about Mr Bowker and though Biddy was quite shrewd enough to realise that the stocking tops had been but the beginning of Mr Bowker’s explorations, she found that her mind refused to go beyond that, and was thankful to find it so.