Liverpool Taffy (13 page)

‘You’re a poet and didn’t know it –
I seen the Queen
,’ Ellen giggled, obviously so excited over the prospect of the London trip that anything would have amused her. ‘Oh Bid, I can’t wait! We’ll ’ave a chauffeur-driven car when we wanna see the sights. Mr Bowker says the bath’s as big as me bed ’ere, very near … gold taps, ’e says, an’ bathtowels what two could share they’re so ’uge.’

‘You make it sound like the Giant’s castle in
Jack and the Beanstalk
,’ Biddy said, smiling at her friend’s pink, excited face. ‘Oh go and start packing, I know you’re longing to, I’ll cook tonight.’

‘Oh Bid, I love you!’ Ellen squeaked, rushing out of the kitchen without delay. Her voice echoed through the doorway. ‘Shall I wear me cream linen, or d’you think it’ll gerrall mucky in the train?’

It had never occurred to Biddy for one moment that she might have any sort of difficulty due to Ellen being away, but she did. She waved her friend off at an early hour in the morning then cycled off to work as she did each day.

She worked hard, and it was hot, so by six o’clock she was longing for a rest and a cool drink but she still had one more parcel to deliver before she could make her way home. And that, naturally, was at Mrs Bland’s, on Great Richy.

Biddy was rather looking forward to having the flat to herself, so she cycled off good-temperedly enough, weaving through the traffic and trying to avoid both the potholes – caused by motor vehicles – and the dung-piles – caused by dray-horses – so that she could keep both her person and her parcel clean and unrattled. She reached Mrs Bland’s daughter’s small house, delivered her box, refused an offer of a cup of tea and a cheese sarney with mixed regret, and turned once more for home and the flat on Shaw’s Alley.

She arrived there late, hot and rather cross, to find George on the doorstep, looking every bit as hot, though the crossness faded when he saw her pushing her bicycle wearily along the pavement.

‘Ello, Miss O’Shaughn … I mean Biddy; where’s Ellen?’ he greeted her. They had agreed that it was foolish for him to call her Miss O’Shaughnessy and
that Biddy would do very well some weeks before. ‘I
went into Gowns in me lunch break but she weren’t there, an’ that sharp Nixon woman told me Ellen ’ad gone ’ome early.’

‘Oh dear, how horrid of her, because she must have known perfectly well that Ellen wasn’t at work today,’ Biddy said, getting out her key and inserting it in the lock. She dared not leave the bicycle out in the Alley but always took it into the tiny, square hallway which they shared with the occupants of the ground-floor flat. ‘In fact she’s not here at all, she’s got a few days off and is staying with … with friends.’

She pushed the bicycle ahead of her into the hallway and propped it against the stairs. The ground-floor flat had a front entrance, she and Ellen the side, so she always left her bicycle down here, where she and Ellen – and any guests they might have – were the only people likely to go near it. Having stowed her bicycle, Biddy turned to George. He had come into the hall and was standing watching her, his expression enquiring, but as she spoke he heaved a sigh and turned towards the outside door.

‘She’s with ’im, you mean,’ he said resignedly. ‘Oh well, can’t blame ’er, I suppose. No point in me waitin’, then?’

‘No point at all, she won’t be home until the end of the week,’ Biddy assured him. She hesitated. He was a close friend of Ellen’s and he did look awfully hot. What was more, he would now have to turn round and walk all the way to Chaucer Street, and though the sun wasn’t as hot as it had been at noon, the streets were like echoing, airless canyons and would continue to be extremely stuffy until darkness fell. ‘D’you want to come up for a quick drink? There’s some lemonade on the cold slab.’

‘That ’ud be prime,’ George said gratefully, standing aside to let her lock the outside door. ‘It’s a long way back to Chaucer Street in this ’eat, though I could stop off at the Eagle, on Parry, for a quick bevvy, I suppose.’

‘Yes, I suppose you could,’ Biddy echoed guardedly. She knew that the Eagle was one of the public houses on Paradise Street but had no idea what sort of a reputation it had. ‘Come in, George.’

George followed her into the kitchen, where she hung her jacket on the hook behind the door and then went over to the cold slab to fetch the lemonade. She had made it herself, buying and squeezing the lemons, boiling them up with sugar and pearl barley and finally putting the lot through a fine hair sieve. Now she poured some into a glass, added water, and then turned to George. ‘I’d quite forgot, there’s a bottle of that stuff Mr Bowker drinks – sherry wine I think it is. He gave it to Ellen. Would you like to try some?’

George said he wouldn’t mind so Biddy poured him a tumblerful and pressed it into his hand.

‘Go and drink it in the living-room,’ she urged hospitably. ‘I’ll make a couple of rounds of sandwiches and then come through and join you. I really don’t think I could bear a cooked meal, not with the heat being what it is.’

George carried her lemonade and his tumbler of sherry through to the living-room and Biddy followed after about ten minutes with a big plate of cheese, lettuce and cold roast pork sandwiches, garnished with various pickles. She and Ellen were very fond of pickles.

‘There you go,’ she said, setting the plate down on the low table between them. ‘Dig in, George.’

‘Ta, Biddy. It’ll be a pleasure. My goodness, you cook the best bloomin’ sangwidges in the ’ole of Liverpool so you do!’

They laughed together at his small joke, then set to and demolished sandwiches, pickles and yet more lemonade and sherry wine.

‘That were grand,’ George said at last, leaning back in his chair. His voice sounded deeper than it usually did – slower, too. ‘Well, what ’ud you like to do now, chuck?’

Biddy shrugged. ‘I don’t have a lot of choice so I expect I’ll wash my hair, iron my blouse and skirt for the morning, and go to bed. How about you, George? I suppose you’ll be wanting to get back?’

She was too polite to indicate that he had been in the flat quite long enough, but she hoped, nevertheless, that he would take the hint and leave quite soon. So she was rather disappointed when he smiled and shook his head.

‘No ’urry, no ’urry,’ he said genially. ‘What about six pennorth o’dark?’

‘What’s that?’ Biddy asked.

‘I meant would madam like to accompany me to a moving picture? There’s quite a variety to choose from … did you get the
Echo?
If so, read ’em out and choose the one you’d most like to see.’

‘Oh … no thanks, George. I don’t think Ellen would be too pleased to find I’d gone off to the cinema with you,’ Biddy said, having realised that he was asking her out. ‘Anyway, it’s too hot.’

‘Not in the cinema it ain’t,’ George said at once. ‘Honest, Bid, it’s ever so dark and cool in the big picture ’ouses. Come on, be a sport … Ellen won’t mind, not you an’ me she won’t. Why, I don’t mind ’er goin’ off wi’ ’er old feller, do I?’

‘It wouldn’t make any difference if you minded like anything,’ Biddy reminded him sadly. ‘Still … what’s on at the Forum? Or the Futurist?’

‘That’s a fair way to walk, though,’ George pointed out fairly. ‘What about the one on St James Street? What’s it called?’

‘The Picturedrome. But George, if we go up to one of the cinemas on Lime Street it’s halfway back to yours and about the same for me. So that would be fairer.’

‘D’you think I’m the sort o’ feller what don’t walk a girl ’ome after a visit to the flickers?’ George said indignantly. ‘No, I wouldn’t dream of lettin’ you go off alone after dark. We could go back to Ranny to the Regal … but let’s make it the Picturedrome, shall us?’

Biddy frowned, but having examined the various attractions they chose the picture showing at the Picturedrome, mainly because it starred Mae West, about whom both had heard intriguing stories.

‘We can go in now, chuck, and you can still be in bed by soon after ten,’ George said, helping Biddy on her with her jacket. ‘Are you sure you wanna wear this? It’s awful ’ot still.’

‘You can’t go out without a coat of some sort, not at night,’ Biddy said, rather shocked. She decided not to bother with a hat, though, and put her hair up on her head with a length of pink ribbon to match Ellen’s pink cotton. Good thing I was wearing it when she packed, she thought, having examined her friend’s empty wardrobe, or I’d be going to the pictures in my working clothes!

She and George went down the street, joined the queue, and went into the more expensive seats. They settled themselves, George produced the humbugs he had bought on the way in, and they leaned back in their chairs just as the magic curtains parted to reveal the opening credits.

And that, Biddy thought afterwards, was just about the only enjoyable moment she spent in that cinema until the interval.

George, who had seemed so nice and sensible when Ellen was in the flat, became horribly active as soon as the main feature started and darkness fell. First he put his arm round her; then he tried to squeeze her breast. Shocked, Biddy discouraged this by elbowing him in the stomach and pinching the back of his hand, aiding
her efforts by telling him to ‘stop that’ in no uncertain terms.

The trouble was, George did not seem to understand that she meant what she said and only desisted, in the end, when she informed him, in a furious under-voice, that if he touched her once more she was going to walk out and go straight home.

‘I were only bein’ friendly, like,’ George muttered, shrinking down into his seat. ‘Dere’s no need to t’ump a feller!’

A hoarse laugh from someone in the seat behind cut him off short. ‘Dat’s ri’, gairl, you tell ’im! The cinema’s for watching de bleedin’ screen, not for pushin’ your luck wi’ your young lady,’ the hoarse voice commented. ‘Give ’im pepper, the ’ard-faced get!’

This caused Biddy almost as much embarrassment as George’s groping fingers and she dug him crossly in the side. ‘Now see what you’ve done, we’ll be a laughing stock. Just shut up and sit still.’

George morosely obeyed, but during the interval he bought her an ice cream and apologised. The hoarse-voiced one had either forgotten them or left the cinema, at any rate he didn’t comment again, and for the rest of the programme George behaved himself pretty well, though he did hold her hand. But Biddy, faced with either holding his hot and sweaty palm or letting that palm stray where it willed, decided that hand-holding was the lesser of two evils and grasped him firmly, her grip more constabular than fond, though George seemed unaware of it.

When the film ended George apologised again as he was walking her the short distance home. ‘I thought I were bein’ polite, see?’ he said miserably. ‘Ellen, she’d be mortal offended if I didn’t give ’er a cuggle an’ a few squeezes in the flicks. Honest to God, I were just bein’ polite, Biddy.’

‘I accept your apology so long as you don’t do it again,’ Biddy said resignedly. ‘Lor’, it’s quite lively round here despite it being so late – I suppose it’s because it’s been such a hot day and no one can sleep.’

It was true that on every doorstep men and women stood or sat, chatting, calling out in soft voices, eating fish and chips. Indeed, the smell of the vinegary fish and chips was so delicious that when George suggested he might buy them some, she was easily coerced into agreeing. With Ellen away she was too afraid of an unexpected expense to throw her own money about, but throwing George’s was a different matter. Besides, she thought rebelliously, he owed her something for all that wrestling in the cinema, which had quite spoiled her enjoyment of the main feature.

‘But you aren’t coming up to the flat unless you swear on your mother’s life that you won’t start any of that nonsense again,’ Biddy said severely. ‘What about it, George?’

‘I swear on me Mam’s life that I’ll be a good lickle boy,’ George said, putting on a squeaky, childlike voice. ‘Oh Miss O’Shaughnessy, I’ll be good, I’ll be good, I’ll be good!’

Biddy laughed, but unlocked the door and ushered him into the flat. ‘There’s plenty of that sherry still … or there’s a couple of bottles of stout left, if you’d prefer it,’ she said, peering under the sink where they kept their drinks. ‘Or I could make you a cup of tea if you’d rather.’

George opted for the stout so Biddy poured his drink and her own lemonade and carried the two thick, straight-sided glasses and the second bottle of stout through into the living-room. George was sitting on the couch, with the two newspaper-wrapped parcels before him on the small table. Biddy eyed him, but decided it was safe enough to sit beside him on the couch provided a good foot of cushion separated them. After all, he had sworn on his mother’s life, what more could she ask of him?

All through the fish and chips and the drinks they chatted amicably, and then Biddy stood up. ‘I’ve got to turn you out now, George,’ she said half-apologetically. ‘But it’s work tomorrow for both of us. Good night, and thank you for a very pleasant evening.’

She held out her hand. George took it – and pulled with a fierceness and abruptness which had Biddy catapulting forward with a gasp, to find herself neatly fielded by George’s arms.

‘Hey! This is just what …’

‘Every decent feller kisses a girl good night,’ George said smugly. He was holding her pressed so tightly to his chest that she had no room for manoeuvre, scarcely room to breathe. ‘Come on, be a – be a li’l sport.’

The little sport tried to kick and found herself suddenly sitting down hard on the couch, then being pressed back into the cushions by George’s weight. Then his mouth came down on hers – and it was absolutely horrible, even worse than being kissed by Kenny. Fumes of stout and sherry mixed were bad enough, but George seemed to have some mad idea that kisses were accompanied by
licking
, and by a spirited attempt on his tongue’s part to get into her … ugh ugh! … mouth!

At first Biddy fought with clenched teeth, but then she tore herself free for a moment and spoke. ‘George, I said …’

It was enough. Before she knew it he was on her again and this time, having opened her mouth, she found it horribly full of George, who was being quite disgusting and accompanying all this tongue business with hands which did not merely explore but pillaged. She heard the buttons on her – Ellen’s – pink cotton pop and scatter, felt cool air for a moment on her flesh, tried to get her hands up to drag the sides of her dress together, got them trapped somehow … tried to scream … but he was almost suffocating her, she could not breathe, she must breathe …