Queen of the Mersey (2 page)

‘This is Hester,’ she said. ‘She only lives across the street. Her poor dad’s had an accident at work and her mam’s had to rush off to Bootle hospital, so we’re looking after her for a while.’

‘Hello,’ Mary said brightly as she continued to undo knots.

To her and her mother’s consternation, Hester burst into tears. She reminded Mary of one of her dolls, the one with the bouncy cascade of golden ringlets and frilly frock that she’d christened Shirley after Shirley Temple. Hester’s frock was pink with puffed sleeves and lace edging around the collar and hem. Like the Shirley doll, she had bright blue eyes and a mouth like a petal. Mary had seen her before, but they’d never spoken. She lived almost opposite, had no brothers or sisters, and never played in the street with the other children. Afternoons, she went for walks with her mam. On Sundays, her dad went with them. They both looked younger than some of Mary’s brothers and ‘kept themselves to themselves’, according to her own mam.

‘I want my mummy,’ Hester sobbed.

‘Sorry, luv, but you can’t have her. You’ll have to make do with me for the time being.’ Vera picked up the girl, threw herself back into the chair she’d not long got out of, and gave her an extravagant cuddle. After a while, Hester stopped crying and complained her frock was getting creased.

Mary and her mother exchanged covert winks. It wasn’t the sort of house where people worried about creases. Hester was set down and told to amuse herself with Mary, while Vera got on with the dinner. Half the boys came in at one o’clock for a meal, including Dick, now twenty-five and living in rooms in Shelley Street, having been married for two years to a rather odd young woman called Iris who was out at work all day. There was mince ready to be served up on a thick slice of dry bread. On the assumption Hester would eat her share, Vera would have to make do with just the bread. She didn’t mind.

Glover Street was a narrow cul-de-sac of flat-fronted, three-storey houses less than a hundred yards from Gladstone Dock, Bootle. When their growing family could no longer be squeezed into their nice house in Southey Street where Vera had dozens of friends, the Monaghans had been forced to move to a property with more space. They were one of the few families in Glover Street to have a house to themselves, the rest mainly having been split into flats or lodgings. There were fewer children than in her old street, and people came and went by the minute. She hadn’t made many new friends.

Vera wasn’t one to complain, she was a lucky woman and she knew it, but she’d never felt entirely settled in the new house. The properties were stoutly built, the rooms spacious, and they even had an inside lavatory, but as the years crept by, the cul-de-sac had become surrounded by factories and warehouses, until by the time the Monaghans moved in, industry held Glover Street in its tight, forbidding grip.

The most dominating feature was the rear wall of the grain silo at the end, almost twice as high as the houses, blocking out the sun from midday on. During working hours, a nearby foundry emitted a never-ending thudding, hissing noise and a terrible, choking smell. Vera’s favourite time had once been early morning, when she would wake, Albert sleeping peacefully at her side, to the harsh cry of the seagulls soaring overhead and the mournful hoot of the boats on the river. She would listen to the busy Dock Road as it came to life; the rumble of the overhead railway, the crisp clip-clop of a horse and cart on the cobbles, the clatter of lorries. She would look at the sun through the bedroom window if it was shining, savour it, knowing that, unless she managed to get out of the house, she might not see it again that day.

Lately, Vera Monaghan had wished she didn’t wake quite so early. She’d sooner not have her thoughts to herself. During those dawn hours, she’d imagined the boys leaving home, getting married, happily settling down and providing her with grandchildren whom she would love to bits. When that happened, she would move back to Southey Street with Albert and Mary. But now the only thing that preoccupied her was the war that was likely to start any minute. There were signs of it everywhere; air raid shelters had appeared at the end of every other street and gas masks had been delivered – Vera had hidden theirs in the cellar so she wouldn’t be reminded of the horror that might face them. Worst of all, she had four strong lads over eighteen who would make fine soldiers; Dick had left home when he got married, the others might be leaving much sooner than expected, and Vera wasn’t sure if she could stand it.

Laura Oliver hurried down loathsome Glover Street, also worried about the war, about her husband, about her daughter, about every damn thing. How long would Roddy be off work with a sprained ankle? She supposed she should thank God it hadn’t been broken when he’d fallen off that stupid ladder. On the other hand, a broken ankle might have delayed his call-up, even put it off for ever. She’d known a chap who’d broken his leg falling off a horse and he’d walked with a limp ever after. Roddy wouldn’t be allowed in the Services with a limp. On the other hand, would he still be able to climb a ladder?

She knocked on the open door of number seventeen, the house where she’d left Hester, and prayed she hadn’t been too distressed without her mummy. The woman in the house was obscenely overweight, but looked quite kind. Her husband went out in a uniform of some sort, so clearly had a respectable job, and she had a whole tribe of very presentable sons as well as an impish little daughter, always laughing, unlike Hester who hardly laughed at all.

The fat woman came into the hall and gave her a warm smile. ‘Oh, there you are, luv! I’ve been thinking about you all afternoon. How’s your husband? Hester’s in the yard with our Mary playing bat and ball. Come in, girl. I’ve just put the kettle on for a cuppa.’

‘I should be getting back … oh, but I’d love a cup of tea. Thank you.’ Laura was drawn to the caring, sympathetic face, the warm smile. She was badly in need of sympathy at the moment. ‘I’d better introduce myself,’ she said courteously.

‘I’m Laura Oliver.’

‘And I’m Vera Monaghan. Laura’s a pretty name. I’ve never come across it before.’

She followed Vera Monaghan along the narrow hall into a comfortable room overlooking the tiny backyard. It had too much furniture, most of it chairs. A mother-of-pearl crucifix stood in the centre of the mantelpiece, accompanied by holy statues and photographs of the Monaghans’ numerous children at various stages of their lives.

‘How’s your husband?’ Vera asked again.

‘It turns out it was only a sprained ankle. He fell off a ladder.’

‘That’s good, luv. Still, a sprain can be very painful.’

‘Yes, but he thought he’d broken it, so he’s quite pleased. They’re sending him home in an ambulance later this afternoon. Has Hester been all right?’ she asked anxiously.

‘She was a bit upset at first, but she soon settled down. She ate a good dinner, and she’s been with Mary in the yard ever since. I’m afraid her frock’s got a bit dirty.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

‘What was your husband doing up the ladder?’ Vera enquired.

‘Putting in a window.’ Laura grimaced. ‘He works for a builder.’ It hurt to say it. Roddy’s ambition had been to become an architect, design grand buildings. He had intended to take a degree in the subject at university. Instead, he hadn’t even completed his final year at St Jude’s, missing his matriculation.

‘Our George is a builder’s mate. He sawed the tip of his finger off on his first day. Fortunately, it was on his left hand, so it didn’t inconvenience him too much.’ Vera had gone into the kitchen while imparting this piece of information.

She returned with tea in two severely cracked cups that didn’t match the saucers. ‘You don’t come from Liverpool, do you, luv? At least, you haven’t got the accent.’

‘No, I’m from Sussex, a little village not far from Eastbourne.’ She didn’t add, ‘Where my father is the vicar,’ and wondered, as she often did, if he was sorry he’d sworn never to speak to her again. He’d probably thought she’d return home with her tail between her legs, meekly beg his forgiveness, profess sorrow for the sin that he would never cease to remind her of for the remainder of his days. It hadn’t entered his head that she and Roddy loved each other so much they were prepared to run away. They’d never regretted it, even though they’d ended up in Bootle, in Glover Street, so different to anything they’d known when growing up that it could have been in China.

Hester came running in. ‘Mummy!’ she cried, as if Laura had been there all the time. ‘I’ve got a bump on my head. Mary hit me with the bat.’

‘It was only an accident.’ Mary followed behind, a pretty girl, with short, dark, curly hair and a mischievous face. ‘Anyroad, she knocked the ball right into me belly. I bet I’ve got a bump there too.’

‘I didn’t mean to,’ exclaimed Hester.

‘Neither did I.’ The two girls glared at each other, until Mary said, ‘Would you like to come upstairs and play with me dolls?’

‘Yes, please!’

‘Come on, then.’ They rushed out of the room and their light footsteps could be heard scrambling up the stairs. Laura felt a tiny bit hurt that she hadn’t been missed, but then supposed it was a good thing. Hester was starting school in September. Mother and daughter would be separated for the first time. It would help if she got used to other people in the meantime.

‘She’s not a bit like you – Hester,’ Vera remarked.

‘No, she’s got thinner features, like Roddy, but the person she’s most like is my mother.’

‘I bet she’s pleased about that, your mam.’

‘I’m afraid she’s dead. She died when I was eleven.’ Her father had immediately packed his only child off to boarding school. He’d always been disappointed that she wasn’t a boy. Laura had often wondered what her mother’s reaction would have been when she’d had to confess she was pregnant.

‘I’ve seen your husband on his way to work. He’s very handsome, lovely and tall.’

‘Isn’t he!’ Laura glowed. She was neither tall nor short and her own face had been described as ‘wholesome’. It had character, she’d been told. Her eyes were a quite ordinary brown, her mouth far too wide, and her nose was merely a nose, not quite straight, but almost. Her best feature was her hair, which was glossy black and very thick and wavy. It was the only thing about her that the girls at school had envied. She wore it long and held back with a slide. It looked old-fashioned, but Roddy liked it, and that was all that mattered.

‘Has Mary started school yet?’ she asked.

‘No, luv. She starts next term at St Joan of Arc.’

‘Hester’s going to Salisbury Road. It’s not that far away.’

‘You’re not Catholic, then?’

‘No.’ Laura took a sip of the tea, which was lovely and strong. ‘I’ll take Mary to school for you, if you like,’ she offered. She felt almost glad Roddy had fallen off the ladder. It had enabled her to get to know at least one of her neighbours. They’d lived in the street for almost a year and this was the first proper conversation she’d had with anyone other than her husband. She was too shy, too unhappy, and had imagined people making fun of her posh accent.

‘That’s nice of you, luv, but the thing is …’ Vera paused and Laura had an awful feeling she was going to say she didn’t want a non-Catholic going anywhere near her daughter, but Vera said in a rush, ‘They’ll be closing down St Joan of Arc’s if there’s a war. It wouldn’t be safe from the air raids, being so close to the docks, like. The kids are being sent miles away, to St Monica’s up Orrell Park way. I don’t know what’s happening to Salisbury Road.’

‘If there’s a war!’ Laura whispered. ‘I can’t imagine there being a war. I can’t imagine there being air raids. It’d be total madness.’

Vera’s face had lost its smile and her eyes were bleak. Laura had a feeling it was a face that people didn’t see often, if at all. ‘Madness,’ she echoed in a voice as bleak as her eyes. ‘The boys don’t realise. They claim to be looking forward to it, as if it were just a game.’

‘Roddy’s a bit like that, though he’s worried what will happen to me and Hester.’

‘Men!’ Vera sniffed and looked as if she might cry. ‘I won’t let them talk about it. It upsets me too much.’

‘We won’t talk about it, then,’ Laura said. ‘I’m sorry the subject came up.’

‘I don’t mind talking about it with you, luv, another woman. Women can see war for what it is, anything but a game. Would you like more tea?’

‘I’d love some, thank you.’

Vera fetched the tea, which was even stronger than before, and explained that she had four lads of call-up age. ‘Next March, our Victor turns eighteen, and Charlie the year after.’

‘According to Roddy, it won’t take long to give Adolph Hitler a kick up the backside – they’re his words, not mine,’ Laura added hastily. ‘He thinks it’ll all be over by March.’

‘That’s if it starts at all.’

‘I pray every night that it won’t.’

‘Me too, Laura. Me too,’ Vera said sadly.

‘Oh, Albert, she’s ever such a nice girl!’ Vera told her husband that night.

‘Only twenty-one and she talks like Queen Elizabeth. Her mam died when she was eleven and her dad sent her to boarding school. Boarding school,’ Vera repeated, struck all of a heap. ‘I’ve never met anyone who’s been to boarding school before.’

‘And you’re not likely to again, not in Bootle,’ Albert replied drily, not the least impressed.

‘That’s where you’re wrong, Albert. Her husband went to boarding school too.’

‘But he’s not from Bootle, is he? People here have got more common sense. When they have kids, they look after them themselves, not dump ’em on other people.’

‘Actually,’ Vera dropped her voice, though there was no one within earshot, the older lads having gone out and the others scattered about the house, ‘I suspect something went on.’

Albert raised his eyebrows. ‘Went on?’

‘Don’t ask me what, I dunno, but they’re both dead posh. What are they doing in Glover Street, I’d like to know, when they’ve been to boarding school? She must’ve only been sixteen when she had Hester. I reckon she got in the club and her dad chucked her out.’

‘You’ve been reading too many of them daft magazines, woman.’ Albert rattled the Daily Herald that had been left on the tram. He would quite like to do a bit of reading himself. ‘Make us a cuppa, there’s a good girl, then I’d appreciate it if you kept your gob shut for the next half hour, so’s I can catch up on the news.’