by Maureen Lee
‘No, she didn’t.’
It were a bought house, and half of it were mine. And there was money, too, hundreds of pounds …
‘You know I got married again, don’t you, luv?’
‘Lily told me, years ago.’
‘I knew from the start Alf only married me to get a roof over the head of him and his kids. I didn’t mind. I only married him for the company, so I reckon that makes us equal. We don’t get on too bad.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘He was a copper, see, and about to retire, which meant he’d lose his nice police house. Trouble is, Alf’s rather keen on the horses, so his pension goes up in smoke, which leaves me the only one working. I’m still in the same place, you know,’ she said proudly.
‘I thought his grown-up children lived with you?’
‘Oh, they do, but they’re in and out of jobs by the minute, and more often out than in. I often come home and find one or other of the nice things me dad brought from abroad have disappeared to the pawn shop. I don’t mind, not much.’ She looked anxiously at Josie, and gave the cheque a little shake. ‘Alf knows nothing about this, luv. It’d be gone with the wind if he found out. I’ve made a will, leaving the house to him and the kids. In the meantime, you and Dinah can have the money. That seems only fair, doesn’t it, luv?’
‘I suppose it does.’ After all, it was Mam’s money. ‘Thank you very much, Aunt Ivy,’ Josie said politely, ‘though I’m afraid six hundred pounds wouldn’t buy a house.’
‘For goodness’ sake, girl,’ Aunt Ivy cried. ‘I told you, it’s been invested since before the war, moved from one account to another to earn higher interest.’ She puffed out her chest conceitedly. ‘I even had some shares once in this big electrical company that went bust, but not before I sold the shares at a profit. This cheque’s for over five thousand pounds.’
The house was at the end of a row of five, dead in the centre of Woolton, once a little village on its own but now very much part of Liverpool. The tiny houses were invisible from the busy main street less than a hundred yards away. They were reached down a narrow gravel path called Baker’s Row, which ran between a shoe shop and a greengrocer’s, and had been built almost two centuries before the shops and the main street existed.
Josie’s house was the only one not modernised. The others had had their kitchens extended, bathrooms added. They had pretty latticed or bow windows, shutters, wrought-iron gates, glazed front doors. Josie’s front door hadn’t seen a lick of paint in years, and the wooden gate only had one hinge. The gardens, front and back, were a wilderness of overgrown grass and weeds. Her kitchen still had a deep, brown earthenware sink. The only attempt at modernisation was that the wash-house and outside lavatory had been knocked into one and made into a bathroom which was accessed from the kitchen.
When she tried to scrape the wallpaper off the walls, she discovered five thick layers, each pattern more hideous than the one before. Sid Spencer said soaking the paper with warm water would help, and loaned her Little Sid to give a hand.
The house was the cheapest she could find in a place she liked. It had cost fifteen hunded of the five thousand pounds from Aunt Ivy. It would have been easy to buy a place much grander, but Josie wanted to conserve as much as possible. Sadly, she was too far from Spencer & Sons to do their typing, and she needed money to live on. She felt a bit guilty when she bought a television and washing machine, and resolved that as soon as Dinah went to school she would look for a part-time job.
Josie felt very odd, slightly depressed, the day she moved in with the things she had acquired for the attic room. There were times when she was scared she didn’t know who she was. The woman she should have been had died with Laura and when Jack had gone away. That woman would never return – only her shell remained.
She would never love another man the way she had loved Jack. She had his child, his little girl, so different from Laura. She loved Dinah, but suspected that Laura would always have first place in her heart.
At twenty-seven, she had many years ahead of her, at least she prayed so for Dinah’s sake. But what did those years hold, now that the adventures were all over and the romance had gone?
Baker’s Row
1965–1974
1
‘Eh, Jose. I wish you’d get a phone.’ Lily came puffing into the house with Gillian on her reins. Lily’s plans had gone madly awry a second time. It had taken three years for her to pluck up the courage to have another baby, to be blessed with pretty, roly-poly Gillian instead of Troy. She blamed Neil.
‘I can’t afford one, can I?’
‘I thought you were going to get a job when Dinah went to school?’ Lily said crossly.
‘Give us a chance, Lil.’ Josie went to put the kettle on. ‘She’s only been gone a week. Anyroad, I’m waiting to hear from the accountants round the corner. They want a part-time shorthand-typist, though I’m useless at figures. Anyroad,’ she shouted, ‘why is it suddenly so important that I have a phone?’
‘It’s always been important.’ Lily looked at her irritably. ‘I don’t know how anybody can live without a phone. Look at this morning. I had to take our Samantha to school, and she screamed blue murder. She hates it, not like your Dinah. I reckon it’s because she’s more sensitive. Then I had to race over to me ma’s for the letter, bring it here and I’ll have to drive you back to ours to make the phone call. You’re a terrible nuisance, Jose. You’ve really mucked up me schedule. Tuesday’s the day I clean the fridge and vacuum upstairs.’
‘What letter? What phone call? What are you on about?’
Lily took an envelope from her bag. ‘Some firm in California has written to me ma and da’ wanting to know where you are. Your whereabouts, they call it. Hang on a mo, I’ll read it out.’
‘“Dear Mr & Mrs Kavanagh,’” Lily read out a touch pompously, ‘“I am anxious to trace the whereabouts of Mrs Josephine Coltrane (née Flynn), and have been given to understand you may be able to help. Should this be the case, I would appreciate any information you are able to provide with all possible speed. It may even be that Mrs Coltrane herself is in a position to respond. In the case of a telephoned response, please reverse the charges. I look forward to hearing from you. Yours sincerely, Dick Schneider.”’
‘It’s from Crosby, Buckmaster & Littlebrown – Jaysus, what a mouthful. I wonder if the Crosby’s any relation to Bing? Their address is 17 South Park Boulevard, Los Angeles, California, USA. They’re lawyers. Fancy a lawyer calling himself Dick. If it were me, I’d call meself Richard in me letters, wouldn’t you, Jose?’
Josie’s blood had got colder and colder as she listened to the letter. She burst into tears. ‘Jack’s dead!’
‘Don’t be morbid, Josie,’ Lily said impatiently. ‘Anyroad, it beats me why on earth you should give a fig if the bugger’s dead or alive. You haven’t seen him in years, and who’d have given them our address if he’s dead?’ The kettle boiled and she went to make the tea. ‘Come back to ours and you can phone from there. Though make sure you reverse the charges.’
‘But what on earth can it be about, Lil?’ Josie cried frantically. Perhaps he was dying, and wanted to see her one last time. Or he just wondered how she was, might even want to come and visit. But if that was the case, there was nothing to stop him from writing to the Kavanaghs himself.
They drank the tea hurriedly, Lily just as eager to know why a firm of Californian lawyers wished to contact her friend as Josie herself was.
Josie sat on the stairs of the Baxters’ smart new house in Woolton Park, less than a mile from her own. Lily found the code for the international operator in the book and told her what to dial. ‘Don’t forget to reverse the charges.’
‘You’ve already said that half a dozen times.’ Josie raised her eyebrows. ‘I wouldn’t mind some privacy,’ she said, when Lily looked set to stay.
‘I know when I’m not wanted.’ She picked up Gillian and flounced into the kitchen. The letter from America on her knee, Josie dialled the operator …
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Ten minutes later Lily crept into the hall and found Josie in exactly the same position at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I didn’t realise you’d finished. Why didn’t you say? I’ve made tea. You look a bit sick, Jose. What’s happened?’
‘He wants a divorce,’ Josie whispered dully. ‘They said Jack wants a divorce. He’s going to marry someone else. Honesty, Lil, I love him so much, I don’t think I can bear it.’
They went into the kitchen. Lily did her best to be sympathetic, but she had disliked Jack as much as he had her, and couldn’t understand how you could still love someone you hadn’t seen for nearly six years.
‘I just do,’ Josie sobbed. ‘I don’t know how or why, I just do.’
‘It means you can get married again yourself,’ Lily said comfortingly.
‘Oh, really? Who to? Not only have I no intention of getting married again, but there isn’t exactly a horde of would-be husbands beating their way to me door.’
‘There’s …’ Lily’s face contorted painfully and she virtually spat out the next words. ‘… Francie O’Leary.’ It was a sore point that Josie and the first man Lily had ever loved had become such close friends.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lil.’ Josie managed to raise a smile. ‘I don’t think of Francie that way. Anyroad, he’s a confirmed bachelor.’
‘I wish he’d told me that when we first went out, before he broke me heart, like.’
Josie went back to her own little house, where she could be alone, think, though it was torture to imagine Jack in another woman’s arms, marrying another woman, smiling at her, touching her, saying the things he’d said to her.
‘You’re stupid,’ she told herself angrily. ‘Dead stupid.’ She made tea – one of these days, she’d turn into a packet of tea – and carried it out to the deckchair in the garden. It was a lovely warm September day, and she hoped it would stay nice for Dinah’s fifth birthday party on Saturday. Best to think about the party instead of Jack.
The narrow garden looked dead pretty. She’d cleared the wild grass and the weeds, grown a new lawn from seed and a neat privet hedge from cuttings off the woman next door. The rose bushes in each corner were from the same source, and this year they’d come on a treat, with big, bulging pink and yellow blooms. Dinah collected the petals and kept them in a bowl in her room. The front garden had been turned into a rockery and the heathers were spreading nicely.
Josie sipped the tea, trying not to think of Jack. Inside the house it was just as pretty. There was still the earthenware sink and the claw-toothed bath. She’d had no improvements made, but the walls were covered with delicately flower patterned paper and all the woodwork was white. She’d gone mad with indoor plants, and Aunt Ivy had let her have one of the lovely, colourful, glass-shaded lamps from Machin Street.
‘They’re called Tiffany lamps,’ she said. ‘Me dad brought them from America. One’s already gone – to the pawn shop, I presume. I thought I’d give you the other before that goes, too. They have them in George Henry Lee’s and they cost the earth.’
Life was so unpredictable and topsy-turvy. Aunt Ivy was a regular visitor nowadays. She adored Dinah, and Dinah, such a strange little girl, regarded Ivy as one of her favourite people.
Josie finished the tea, sighed and went indoors to wash the dishes. She stacked everything on the wooden draining-board, very unhygenic according to Lily, who had stainless steel and couldn’t understand why everyone oohed and aahed in admiration over Josie’s house, so titchy and run-down, when hers was much nicer modern, miles bigger and full of G-plan furniture. She even had an Ercol three-piece, bought when Neil was promoted to under-manager, or it might have been over-manager, at the Post Office.
‘And you have so many visitors,’ she pouted. ‘Hardly anyone comes to ours, except me ma and da’.’
It was probably because Josie didn’t expect visitors to remove their shoes before being allowed on the carpets, or frown if they wanted to smoke, or watch them like a hawk in case a drop of tea spilled on the furniture.
On Monday nights, Daisy, Eunice and Francie came and played poker for halfpennies. Josie hoped she wasn’t showing her daughter a bad example by letting her join in for a while before she went to bed. Dinah had caught on quickly and usually won. At some time during the week, usually Wednesdays, Josie went with Lily to the pictures or the theatre. The same with Francie. Aunt Ivy was only too willing to babysit. Chrissie and Sid Spencer often popped in on Sunday afternoons to see how she was – two of their lads were now married, and they had three grandchildren. Mrs Kavanagh came frequently, her husband less often now that he was plagued with arthritis and had had to sell the shop.
Josie went upstairs to make the beds, still doing her best not to think about Jack. She had a lovely house, and loads of friends, which was rather surprising as she’d never thought of herself as a sociable person. She’d been careful with the money from Aunt Ivy, and there was still plenty left if she didn’t find a job immediately. As she plumped up Dinah’s pillow, Josie wondered why, despite this undeniably pleasant, even enjoyable existence, she felt only half alive.
It rained on Saturday morning, but the sky had cleared and the sun was shining by two o’clock when it was time for Dinah’s party.
‘I hope no one fetches me dolls. I hate dolls,’ Dinah had said earlier as they’d wrapped tiny gifts in sheets of newspaper for pass the parcel.
‘I know, luv.’ Josie’s present had been, by special request, a xylophone. Dinah could already pick out ‘Silent Night’.
‘Auntie Ivy’s got me a trumpet. Francie said he had a lovely surprise. He’s bringing it tonight.’ Dinah frowned. ‘Samantha and Gillian have got me a doll. Samantha told me, though she wasn’t supposed to. It opens its mouth and says “Mama”.’
‘You mustn’t let anyone guess you don’t want it, luv,’ Josie warned. ‘Pretend to be dead pleased.’
‘Oh, I will, Mummy,’ Dinah assured her seriously. ‘It’s called being polite.’
Dinah was a very serious little girl. Her conversation, her reasoning, was almost adult. Josie had never discussed where soil came from, how flowers grew, what clouds were made of, why the Queen was the Queen with Laura. Yet she was conscious that there wasn’t the same intimacy between her and Dinah as there’d been with her other child. Dinah was too self-contained. She liked her privacy.
Josie often got up in the morning and found her sitting up in bed looking at a picture book, or lying on the floor, her pretty, pale, rather tight little face hidden behind a curtain of creamy hair, doing a jig-saw or some other puzzle and talking to herself. It never crossed her mind to jump into bed with her mam. A few weeks ago Josie had walked into the bathroom when Dinah had been on the lavatory, and her little tight face had got tighter with obvious annoyance. ‘You should knock first, Mummy.’ Since then she’d fastened the bolt.
Perhaps Josie over-compensated for those first few months when she had resented Dinah so much for taking Laura’s place. It was hard to believe, now, that she could have been so stupid, so insensitive as to resent a tiny baby. She must have been unbalanced, sick in the head. Ever since, she had tried to make up by cosseting Dinah too much, fussing over her endlessly, finding it hard to leave the child to her own devices. Sometimes she wondered if she got on Dinah’s nerves!
She glanced at the clock. ‘It’s time you changed into your new frock, luv. People’ll be arriving soon.’
‘Why didn’t Mrs Kavanagh make my frock like always?’
‘She’s had to give up sewing, hasn’t she? Poor Mrs Kavanagh can’t see that well any more.’ It was sad. What with arthritis and glaucoma, the couple she’d regarded as a substitute mam and dad for most of her life had suddenly become very old and frail.
Lily and the girls were the first to arrive, dropped off by Neil on his way to a football match, followed by two little girls from Dinah’s class at school. Then Aunt Ivy appeared bearing the trumpet, and Mrs Kavanagh a sewing set. Everyone went into the garden, where deckchairs wer
e provided for the older women and Lily sat on the grass. Josie took the presents into the minuscule dining room where the table was set for tea – the big, rather ugly doll squeaked ‘Mama’ whenever it was moved. She wasn’t looking forward to organising games for five little girls to fill in the time before the birthday tea.
It was difficult, trying to ensure that Gillian, three years younger than the others, wasn’t left out, particularly with her mother watching keenly. And stopping Samantha from cheating, something that the same keen-eyed mother didn’t notice. Josie prayed the children weren’t as bored as she was. She was slightly relieved when Aunt Ivy shouted that there was a knock on the door, seeing it as an opportunity to collapse, exhausted, on the grass.
‘I’ll go.’ Lily returned minutes later with a tall, sad-faced man. Two excessively thin children followed timidly behind, a boy of about twelve, a girl a few years younger. ‘Look who’s here,’ Lily said in a funny voice. ‘It’s our Ben, with Peter and Colette. They’ve been home, and me da’ sent them here.’
‘Ben, is that our Ben?’ Mrs Kavanagh tried, unsuccessfully, to struggle out of the deckchair, and for some reason Josie recalled the sprightly woman in the blue coat she’d met in Bladder’s bargain basement where she and Mam had gone to look for a tray. ‘Ben, son, I haven’t seen you in ages.’
Before his mother could get up, Ben did the most surprising thing. Every muscle in his face seemed to collapse, and he strode across the grass, knelt in front of his mother’s chair and buried his face in her breast. Mrs Kavanagh gently stroked the fair hair of her youngest son. Lily looked set to burst into tears. Ben’s children watched, their faces showing not the slightest flicker of emotion. The five little girls stood awkwardly on the grass, knowing something strange was happening. Josie, shaken by the pathos of the situation, had no idea what to do. Should she take the little ones inside?