by Martina Cole
‘That was the Japs, you prat. Here, did you see in the paper today about Hedy Lamarr? Got caught shoplifting in Holly-wood! With all that money, she’s out skanking!’
Lenny automatically began pouring them out tea laced with whisky. He didn’t mind the whores, they were a good earner. The women chatted on about nothing very much, all aware that they had got off lightly, all unwilling to admit that fact. It was common for women to be found dead in the docks; they all knew they were prime targets. Used and abused by sailors who came and went within days, hours in some cases, the police didn’t bother looking too hard into the case when one of them was murdered. The attitude seemed to be: one fewer to harass, one fewer to police. Their age, lifestyle and looks condemned them to such a livelihood in Custom House. Even the dingiest bars in Soho would shun them. They were the lowest of their kind and all too well aware of that fact.
Yet, united, they possessed a certain rough dignity of their own.
Young Eamonn opened his eyes and yawned heavily. At ten he knew he was getting too old to sleep with his stepsister but her warm presence reassured him. He lay listening to her soft snores. Then, remembering she’d been up in the night, he felt a pang of guilt. He knew he should have got up with her; instead he had gone straight back to sleep. He looked at the curtains and saw the weak winter sunshine coming through them and snuggled down under the covers once more. Cathy didn’t mind getting up and she would soon have the kitchen nice and warm for them. Under the pretence of turning over, he pushed against her roughly, knowing she would waken. Then, pretending still to be asleep, he burrowed down deeper into the bed. As he felt her get up, he smiled to himself.
Cathy was good, she knew what had to be done and she did it. In twenty minutes she would have tea and toast ready for him and he could get up and scamper through to the heat of the kitchen.
Cathy shivered as she lit the small stove, turning on two burners to try and heat the place up. She cut the bread expertly and put it under the grill, then pulling down the door to the wooden larder, she checked over the provisions. There was margarine and a small amount of jam. Humming now, she began to prepare breakfast. Just as she had made a large pot of tea Madge let herself in the front door.
‘A nice cup of tea! Just the thing, it’s freezing out there.’ Opening a newspaper parcel, she revealed some cold sausages. ‘I got these from the cafe for you, love.’
‘I’ll put them into sandwiches. I love sausages.’
Cathy smiled at her mother, grateful for the small kindness. Good money was earned with regularity in this house, but the amount that went on food was paltry. Drink was the mainstay of the household, as were new clothes for Madge when she was flush, and elaborate furniture, which was always repossessed.
Somehow, doing a weekly shop was beyond her. They got tick, like everyone else, at Tamlin’s, and lived from day to day, paying a bit off the back only when refused more food or cigarettes.
Madge took off her old coat and grinned. ‘Bleeding thing! I’ll have to get a new one. I look like fucking Yogi Bear walking about!’
Cathy laughed delightedly. ‘That means Betty must be Boo Boo!’
They laughed together at the joke.
Madge, full up with bacon, eggs, tomatoes and sausages, turned her nose up at the sandwiches. As she watched her daughter deftly work in the small kitchen, she felt a momentary pang of regret. Looking at the tangled blonde hair hanging down the child’s back, and her large blue eyes, she realised that she loved Cathy dearly. She was a good kid, you could rely on her to do what needed to be done. In a few years she’d be a real little asset . . .
‘Give us a kiss, baby.’
Cathy went dutifully to her mother. Putting her thin arms around Madge’s ample waist, she kissed the cheek which her mother bent to offer her.
‘I love you, Mum.’
Madge nodded sadly. ‘I know you do, darlin’.’
Madge hugged her little girl against her, savouring the sweetness of her smell and her wiry thinness. Cathy would be all right, she was a survivor. Madge told herself this every day of her life.
Eamonn Senior watched them from the doorway and shook his head in wonderment. How had God in His wisdom ever seen fit to give them both children?
He surveyed Madge’s smeared make-up and fat belly, her varicose veins and swollen feet in tight silver stilettos. In her big moon face there was still a trace of the beauty she had possessed once. Madge was just thirty-five years old.
Pulling his braces up over his shoulders, he walked into the little kitchen. ‘Sausages, is it? Have we no eggs?’
Cathy shook her head, happy at the jovial tone of his voice. Madge took a pound note from her bag as Eamonn Junior came into the kitchen, face still creased with sleep.
‘Go down the shop and get a dozen eggs and a paper. Pay this nicker off the bill, and get yourselves some sweets too.’
The boy took the money and ran from the room.
‘Leave the sandwiches there, child. I’ll cook us a couple of eggs to go with them, eh?’
Cathy nodded happily.
As the big Irishman poured himself out a cup of tea he spoke to Madge. ‘How was the night then?’
‘Fifteen quid. Rolled a Chink, and he only came back, didn’t he? Talk about run! We poodled up the Commercial Road like greyhounds! He stabbed me, look.’ She showed them the dressing on her arm. ‘Nothing too serious though, just three stitches. They put ’em in up the London, that’s why I’m late home. He was only little and all. Four foot and a fag paper!’
Eamonn laughed. ‘It’s a fine woman you are, Madge.’ He wiped a hand across his stubbly chin. ‘Any chance of a loan, like? A fiver would do it.’
Cathy watched her mother give him the five-pound note and sighed inwardly with relief. Madge had had a tickle, as she called it. That meant they would all get a good breakfast and the house would be ringing with laughter instead of oaths. All in all, not a bad start to a Thursday.
She was looking forward to school. Cathy liked it there. It was orderly, it was warm and her teacher, Mrs Platting, called her ‘darling’.
Grinning now, she watched her mother and the big man chatting and smiling, and after she’d poured them both out another cup of tea, she had a sneaky puff on her mother’s cigarette.
Madge saw her and laughed once more. ‘Did you see that, Eamonn! She’s smoking.’
They both looked at her delightedly and Cathy basked in their affection.
Moments like this were rare and she had learned long ago to enjoy good things, because you never knew just how long they would last.
Chapter Two
1965
Madge poured herself a large measure of Black and White whisky and settled once more into her chair. Belching loudly, she glanced at the clock. Eleven o’clock in the morning and still no sign of her man.
Lighting a cigarette, she turned the radio beside her down low, letting the smooth strains of the choral music wash over her. She could hear Cathy’s voice in the kitchen as she prepared the chicken for their Christmas dinner. Young Eamonn’s laughter mingled with her daughter’s and for a few seconds Madge smiled in contentment. Then, remembering that the boy’s father had not come home last night, the smile faded.
He was staying out more and more of late, and Madge Connor, who prided herself on the fact that she could smell a rat long before it was stinking, was forced to accept that there was a bird in the offing. Now her Eamonn having a roll on the side wasn’t anything unusual, but this bird had been a regular thing for weeks and that meant it was serious.
After five years, he was going on the trot. She knew it in her heart as surely as she knew her own name. Stinging tears of drunkenness filled her faded blue eyes, and her chin trembled dangerously. Swallowing more Scotch, she forced herself to be calm.
Cathy walked into the room with a bacon sandwich and a cup of coffee for her. ‘Here you are, Mum, a bit of breakfast.’ She eyed the empty glass in her mother’s hand and rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, co
me on, Mum, you promised. No drinking until dinner. Mrs Cartwright at school says that drinking during the day means you’ve got a problem with—’
Madge cut off her daughter’s voice with a bellow. ‘Bollocks to Mrs know-it-all fucking Cartwright! If I want a drink on Christmas Day, I’ll have one. All right?’
Cathy’s face paled at the vitriolic attack and Madge felt a second’s shame. It was her old man she was angry with, not her daughter. As Cathy walked back into the kitchen, the suppressed tears spilled over on to Madge’s cheeks.
Where was her Irish boy, the bastard? Christmas Day and he was nowhere to be seen.
In the kitchen Cathy sipped her coffee and pulled on her cigarette. At twelve she looked fifteen and knew it. Acting as if she were older was something she had done ever since she could remember. Now she got herself wolf whistles with her walk, and the nickname of ‘Jailbait’ roundabouts.
‘Do you know where your old man is, Eamonn?’
The boy, who at fifteen already topped six feet, shrugged nonchalantly. ‘If I did, I wouldn’t tell her anyway. What would be the point? You know what me dad’s like - he’ll be home eventually and they’ll have a fight and that’ll be it until the next time.’
Cathy nodded. Putting out her cigarette, she checked on the small chicken in the oven.
‘That smells handsome, girl.’
Cathy smiled. ‘I know! Eamonn, can I ask you something without you laughing at me?’
The boy nodded, a smile already curving his wide mouth. Like his father, he had the black-haired good looks of the Irish.
‘Would you ever get married?’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘Not in a million years, Cath. Have this all me life? I don’t think so! I’m off, mate, as soon as I can earn me own dosh.’
She lit another cigarette. ‘I want to get married, and I want a nice house and a couple of kids. I want to have a garden with nice flowers in, and a husband who adores me and goes to work regularly. And I’ll cook him lovely dinners and he’ll kiss me all the time . . .’
Her voice was wistful, and instead of laughing Eamonn put his arm around her shoulders and cuddled her. ‘And that’s exactly what you’ll get, love.’
Cathy pulled on her cigarette and shook her head. ‘No, I won’t. Any decent bloke would run a mile from her in there, and I don’t blame them. Do you know what Desmond Blackburn’s dad said to me the other day? “You’ll soon be pulling your skirts up like your mother, girl, and I’ll be first in line.” The dirty old git! I told him to fuck off, I was so annoyed, and he laughed and said: “You’ve already learned the language. What else has Eamonn Docherty taught you?” I didn’t know if he meant you or your father.’
‘Oh, he did, did he?’
Cathy pushed her heavy blonde hair away from her forehead. ‘Don’t get all het up, they ain’t worth it. Anyway, you can’t blame the neighbours, the way our two go on. Look at last Friday - me mum and Betty fighting in the bloody street! I’m sick of the lot of it. She could get a proper job, Christ knows there are enough of them about, but no, not her. We could move away where no one knows our business. When I suggested it to her, she went barmy. I hate her sometimes. I know it’s wicked, but I can’t help it.’
Eamonn nodded sympathetically. ‘At least you’re not the namesake of a fucking lunatic Irishman. I hope he don’t come back. I hope he’s dead somewhere. It’s the only way I’ll ever be shot of him. Anyway, Merry Christmas.’
He smiled at her then and they both began to laugh for no reason.
‘Do you know the funniest thing of all?’ Cathy said, looking up into his merry blue eyes. ‘I love me mum really and I don’t know why. She sits on her arse all day, and then flogs it all night. She won’t do a hand’s turn in the house and yet she expects clean clothes miraculously to appear from nowhere. She’ll eat herself unconscious and yet she wouldn’t cook a boiled egg! But, despite all that, I look at her sometimes and I get a tight feeling in me guts. It’s as if she’s the kid and I’m the grown-up.’
She shook her head in wonderment and laughed again.
‘It’s mad, ain’t it? Then, in the next breath, I see her waddle down the street and I hate her with all my heart. Yet if someone says anything about her, I want to kill them. Even though I know what they’re saying is true.’
Eamonn watched her as she began to peel the potatoes, cigarette dangling from her lip, her eyes screwed up against the smoke.
‘I can leave school next year - I can’t wait to earn me own money,’ he told her. ‘I’m going in the docks. I’ve got the size and the savvy, as me old man would say.’
‘You’ll do all right there, they earn a good wedge. I wish I could get a proper job.’ Cathy pointed the potato knife at his chest. ‘One day, right, I’ll have everything that everyone else has - and more. Loads more. Because this ain’t gonna be my life, Eamonn, and I intend to make that statement a fact.’
Before he could answer, the front door opened and Betty’s voice was heard throughout the flat.
‘Merry Christmas!’ The fight with Madge already forgotten, she bowled in with an armful of presents. ‘Something smells handsome! I wish you’d come and live with me, Cath. I’d pay you to do all this, straight up.’
Cathy smiled, showing small white teeth. ‘I know you would, Auntie Bet, but me mum’s put a block on it.’
Betty followed her back into the kitchen. ‘Here, Eamonn, you big git, take these presents. How is she?’
Cathy shrugged as she put the potatoes into a dish for roasting. ‘Pissed, as usual. He ain’t come home again. You know the scenario, Auntie Bet. Why should Christmas be any different? As me mum will say later, it’s only a day like any other.’
Betty took off her beaver lamb coat and folded it carefully over the back of a kitchen chair. ‘It’s serious this time, love.’
Both Eamonn and Cathy looked at her.
‘Who is it then?’ Cathy asked.
‘It’s Junie Blacklock, her that was widowed. No disrespect, Eamonn, but you know your father as well as any of us. Junie’s insurance was a tidy sum, plus she’s an Irish like him. She ain’t got chick nor child and she’s a looker, I’ll give her that. Kept herself nice always, even during the war. She’ll never see forty again, but that’s neither here nor there, is it? I got the SP from old Mother Wacker, and you know her - if it’s not true she won’t mouth a word of it. According to her, Eamonn’s moving in with Junie, so that means you’ll be moving in and all, boy, because where he goes, you go.’
Cathy closed her eyes and shook her head in consternation. ‘The rotten bastard! The least he could do was wait until after the holidays. This’ll finish Mum now. Apart from me, he’s all she’s ever had.’
Eamonn put the kettle on and said, ‘Still, look on the bright side. At least I won’t be far from you. That’s something, I suppose.’
Betty bit on her thumbnail nervously. ‘I’ll have to tell Madge. I mean, at the end of the day she is me best mate. She’d rather hear it from me than someone else, and if Mother Wacker knows about it, then the whole world and his dog will know by the morning. Mouthy old bat she is.’
Cathy turned off the oven.
‘What you doing? I’m starving,’ Eamonn protested.
Cathy looked into his eyes and said sadly, ‘There’ll be no dinner here today. She’ll go garrity when she finds out. There’ll be ambulances arriving and no prizes for guessing who the occupant will be, eh? Go on, Auntie Bet, tell her. Before someone else does, and not as kindly.’
Five minutes later Cathy heard the high keening coming from the front room and an answering cry rose inside her. For all Madge Connor’s faults, she was Cathy’s mother and the girl loved her.
More, perhaps, than she deserved.
Junie Blacklock was a small woman, with a handspan waist and good teeth. She prided herself on her neat home, her neat figure and even neater bank balance. A woman whose husband had joked she could put elastic on a shilling and stretch it through to the next week, s
he had saved a tidy sum over the years and now added to this was his life assurance money, which meant she had a good sum and was comfortably off. Meeting Eamonn Docherty, her heart had been stolen from her breast by his smooth Irish tongue and impressive appearance. For the first time in her life, Junie was in love and it showed.
Lying in the woman’s sweet-smelling bed, Eamonn savoured the aroma of the turkey cooking below and the full feeling in his belly from the eggs and bacon she had fried him earlier. The house smelled of furniture polish and Eamonn loved it. He and the boy would be well set on here. Junie was Irish by birth and understood a man’s need for a drink. As long as he worked at the docks and provided that at least for himself, he’d live the life of fecking Riley here. He was fifty-six, and the thought of going into his twilight years with Madge frightened him. He’d turn over a new leaf now, marry the little pickaheen in the kitchen below and look forward to an old age full of the finer things in life. Food, drink and a bit of the other now and again. What more could a man ask?
Getting out of bed, he pulled on his trousers. He glanced idly towards the window and froze. Through the clean nets he saw Madge weaving unsteadily up the street, with Betty and Cathy in tow. Sinking down on to the edge of the bed, he put his hands to his head and said: ‘Feck!’ over and over to himself.
Junie opened the front door with a wide smile on her face. She had been expecting these visitors for some time and was both frightened and exhilarated that the moment had finally come.
‘Can I help you, dearie?’ Her soft Cork voice was polite-sounding, with an undertone of pure steel.
‘I want my old man, and I want him now!’ Madge’s voice was loud, slurred and agitated.
Junie smiled then. ‘Is it your husband you’re looking for? Only I wasn’t aware you had one.’ She put a finger to her lip as if thinking then said, ‘Would it be your lodger you’re after? Mr Docherty?’
Cathy felt a moment’s pleasure as her mother went for the stuck-up piece. She and Betty watched the fight in stone cold silence, until Madge had gained the advantage and was straddling the other woman, banging her head on the pathway.