The House By Princes Park

by Maureen Lee

  What could she do now other than go back to Foster Court? At least she could get dry, have a rest. She thought about lying on the grubby palliasse, resting her head on the discoloured bolster, and her stomach turned. For the briefest of moments, she considered returning to Brambles, even if it meant walking there, spending the night to come and all the nights to follow, in her yellow and white bedroom wearing one of her pretty nighties – she remembered she hadn’t brought a nightie with her. If asked, she would swear she had no idea where Jacob was. Emily would need her company after what had happened with Bill, with whom she’d seemed so much in love and he with her.

  But she couldn’t desert Jacob. She would never sleep easily that night, or any night, if she did. The memory of her treachery would haunt her the rest of her days. Jacob needed her far more than Emily ever would. What’s more, he loved her and she loved him. She felt guilty for being so impatient when she’d left Foster Court and began to hurry. He was probably wondering why she’d been gone such a long time.

  The shops were all closed now, hardly anyone was about. Trams rolled by, crowded, taking lucky people back to their homes or out for the night. Still smarting from the way she’d been treated in Overton’s, Ruby eyed them enviously as she splashed through puddles, uncaring, her feet couldn’t get more wet than they already were. She walked past the pub with the notice ‘Cleaner Required’ in the window, then stopped and retraced her steps. She’d been good at cleaning in the convent. She’d been good at everything. It was her attitude that was at fault according to the nuns. She made no secret of the fact she didn’t like carrying out a single one of the tasks she was given to do and would like them even less if she was put into service and had to do them for a living.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind doing them for myself,’ she would say with a superior expression on her face that drove the nuns wild, ‘but not for anyone else.’ She resented the notion she’d been put on earth solely to make other people’s lives more comfortable.

  But now Ruby was willing to throw her principles to the wind and apply for the job as cleaner in the Malt House as the pub was called according to the sign outside. The landlord’s name was painted over the door: Frederick Ernest Quinlan.

  She threw back her shoulders, confident again, and went through the swing doors into a large, brightly-lit room, with a polished floor and round, polished tables. The bar occupied most of one wall and was backed by a decorative mirror with a gold-painted border, reflecting the whole room. The mirror also reflected the back of the middle-aged barmaid, a tiny whisper of a woman, a whole head shorter than Ruby, wearing a mauve crocheted jumper and diamanté earrings, her hair as gold as the border on the mirror, except for the roots which were black. Expertly made-up, she looked worn out, despite the night having scarcely begun – there were only four customers present at such an early hour, all men.

  ‘I’d like to see Mr Quinlan about the cleaning job,’ Ruby said, coming straight to the point.

  ‘Then you’re out of luck,’ the woman said tiredly. ‘But I’m Mrs Quinlan and you can see me if you like. I need someone straight away.’

  ‘I can start straight away, now if you want.’

  A man entered and came over to the bar. ‘A pint of best bitter, Martha, luv. Where’s your Fred?’

  Showing slightly more animation than before, the woman replied acidly, ‘Where d’you think? In bed, bloody asleep.’

  ‘So, Fred’s in bed with a sore head,’ the man chortled as he took the drink.

  ‘Only a man would find it funny, the landlord drinking the profits and leaving his wife to tend the bar,’ Mrs Quinlan remarked when the man went to take a seat.

  ‘Is that what he does? That’s disgraceful,’ Ruby said sympathetically.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ The sympathy was clearly appreciated. ‘He manages to stagger down at midday, but by three o’clock, closing time, he’s as drunk as a fiddle and ready for his bed. He might condescend to join us about nine in the evening to get tanked up again, which means he can’t be raised next morning, leaving yours bloody truly to clear this place up. I’m working fourteen hours a bloody day, flat out, and I can’t stand it any more. That’s why I need a cleaner, mornings, eight till ten, half a crown a week. Fred thinks it an extravagence which is a bloody cheek when you consider the amount of ale he consumes a day.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Ruby agreed. ‘About the job...’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Mrs Quinlan looked properly at Ruby for the first time, clearly liking what she saw, and no doubt influenced by the fact she was on her side against Fred. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Sixteen.’

  ‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Under eighteen, you’re not allowed on licensed premises. You shouldn’t be here, in fact.’

  ‘In that case, I’m eighteen. My name’s Ruby O’Hagan, by the way.’

  ‘In that case, Ruby, you’ve got the job,’ Mrs Quinlan said promptly, looking slightly happier than when Ruby had come in. ‘I wouldn’t expect you Sundays. I’ll just have to clean the bloody place meself, but you can start Monday.’

  ‘Make it three shillings a week and I’ll work Sundays. And I’d appreciate being paid by the day, Mrs Quinlan, if you don’t mind,’ Ruby said daringly, having gauged Martha Quinlan was a good-natured person and open to such suggestions.

  ‘I don’t mind, luv. I don’t mind so much, I’ll pay you beforehand.’ She opened the till. ‘Here’s a tanner for tomorrer. You’ve got an honest face. I trust you not to let me down. Oh, and call me Martha, everyone does.’

  She’d done it! She’d got a job. Added to that the rain had stopped, she had tenpence in her purse again, and there was the most delicious smell that made her taste buds water.

  A fish and chip shop! She was about to buy twopennyworth of chips and take them back to Foster Court, but decided to fetch Jacob first. They could buy the chips together and go for a walk. It would do him good to get some fresh air.

  But Jacob was fast asleep in their decrepit little room, fully dressed and snoring softly, his face buried in the yellow bolster, his nice new suit all creased as he lay, curled up like a baby, one arm shielding his face.

  Ruby no longer felt hungry. She removed her damp cardigan, folded it into a pillow, and lay beside him, putting her arm around his waist. In no time at all, she was asleep herself.

  Martha Quinlan was a hard taskmaster. Due to the fact she no longer had a watch to know the time, Ruby arrived more than half an hour early and got her out of bed. Without her make-up, in a shabby dressing gown, she looked wretchedly weary. It was midnight by the time she’d gone to bed, she complained. ‘Fred came down and a couple of his cronies stayed long after closing time. I had to hang about and lock the bloody place up. I don’t trust Fred to do it proper.’

  The bar, so spruce and shining the night before, looked as if a hurricane had swept through it. The tables were laden with dirty glasses, empty cigarette packets, and overflowing ashtrays. There were more glasses on the floor, cigarette butts, spent matches, two dirty hankies, and a copy of yesterday’s Daily Herald, which Ruby put aside to read later.

  She set to, taking the glasses into the kitchen, emptying the ashtrays in a bucket, wiping the tables, sweeping the floor. She washed the glasses in hot, soapy water, dried them, and took them into the bar, hanging the tankards on the hooks provided, putting the others on a shelf underneath.

  ‘I’ve finished,’ she announced to Martha who was perched on a stool, smoking, and watching her with a hawk’s eye.

  ‘In a pig’s ear, you’ve finished. Them tables need polishing and the glass marks removed, floor has to be buffed. You’ll find everything you need in the kitchen. After that, I’d like the place dusted; window sills, doors, chairs, and them bottles behind could do with a wipe. Then you can take a look in the men’s lavvies in the yard, mop ’em out. We only had a few women in last night and none of ’em used the lavvy, so the Ladies won’t want touching.’ She grinned. ‘Oh, this is nice. I feel like a lady of leisure,
I do. If you weren’t here, I’d be doing all this meself. When you’ve finished, I’ll make us a nice cup of tea and some toast.’

  ‘How long have I been here?’ Ruby felt as if she’d been slaving away for hours.

  ‘Not long enough to earn even half the tanner you got last night,’ Martha said with another grin. ‘I suppose you think I’m finicky, Fred does, but I like to keep the place nice. There’s some pubs just sprinkle a handful of sawdust on the floor each morning, but not me. Come on, luv,’ she urged, ‘get a move on. The sooner you finish, the sooner we can have that tea.’

  ‘Do you want the bread cut thick or thin?’ Martha asked an hour later, though to Ruby it felt more like ten. They were in the kitchen, the kettle was about to boil, and the grill was on waiting to toast the bread.

  ‘Thick, please.’

  ‘I’ll put the jam on the table and you can help yourself. I suppose you’re fair worn out.’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll get used to it,’ Ruby said stoutly.

  ‘I’m sure you will. You’re a hard worker, I can tell. Thorough, like meself. We’ll get along, you and me.’ Martha turned the toast over. ‘Do you live nearabouts?’

  ‘Foster Court – but it’s only temporary.’

  Martha wrinkled her nose. ‘By yourself ?’

  ‘No, with Jacob. He’s my husband.’

  ‘Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, girl,’ Martha gasped. ‘You’re never married at your age!’

  ‘We did it secretly, then we ran away from home. It only happened on Friday. I haven’t even got a wedding ring yet.’

  ‘Your poor mam and dad, I bet they’re dead upset, wondering where you are.’

  ‘I haven’t got a mam and dad. I’m an orphan. Oh, look, the toast’s burning.’

  ‘She always burns the toast,’ said a caustic voice and a woman came in, a much younger version of Martha. Her blonde hair was pinned in curls against her scalp and covered with a flesh pink net. She wore a flowered crêpe dressing gown and fluffy slippers. ‘Is that piece mine, Mam?’ she demanded.

  ‘It’s Ruby’s. If you want toast, our Agnes, make your own.’

  ‘I’m not Agnes, I’m Fay,’ the young woman said crossly. ‘I don’t know how many times I’ve got to tell you.’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned, miss, you were christened Agnes Quinlan, and Agnes Quinlan you’ll stay. Fay!’ Martha hooted. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense.’

  The newcomer pouted. ‘Agnes is a horrible name. What do you think, Ruby? Isn’t Fay much nicer?’

  ‘I like them both,’ Ruby said tactfully, more interested in the toast.

  ‘Just because she works in the Town Hall she wants her name changed,’ Martha sneered. ‘Agnes isn’t good enough for her any more. She’s ashamed of living in a pub in the Dingle, an’ all.’

  ‘So would you be,’ Agnes/Fay said hotly, if you worked with people from places like Aigburth or Woolton. Some even live in houses with names, not numbers.’

  ‘Where you live’s got a name, it’s called the Malt House.’

  ‘Oh, shurrup, Mam. I’m going back to bed. You can wake me up in time for midday Mass.’

  ‘Ta, very much, Agnes.’

  ‘She’s me daughter,’ Martha announced, as if Ruby hadn’t already guessed, after Agnes/Fay had gone in a huff. ‘She’s too big for her boots these days. You’d think she was lady-in-waiting to the queen herself, not just a bloody receptionist in the Town Hall. Mind you,’ her face grew fond, ‘I’m proud of her. What mother wouldn’t be? Though I’d appreciate some help with this place, but our Agnes wouldn’t be seen dead behind the bar. As to cleaning, she wouldn’t know where to start.’ She sighed. ‘Our Jim now, he’s a different kettle of fish altogether. Always willing to lend a hand, but he’s in the Merchant Navy and we only see him once in a blue moon. Would you like more toast, luv? That piece went quick. And, oh, I’ll give you tomorrer’s money now, if you like, seeing as how you’re obviously short. It works out to fivepence a day.’

  Jacob had been asleep when she left that morning. When she returned to Foster Court, having been to nine o’clock Mass in a church called St Finbar’s on the way, he was still in bed, wide awake, staring glumly at the ceiling. His eyes flickered in her direction when she went in.

  ‘I’ve got a job, cleaning,’ she announced breezily, ‘and I’ve got money, too. We can have fish and chips for our dinner. With your wages on top of mine, we can be out of here by the end of the week.’

  He didn’t answer, but rolled over, away from her, facing the wall.

  ‘Your suit’s in a terrible state,’ Ruby continued in the same breezy voice. ‘And my dress is even worse, it was damp when I lay down to sleep. We need an iron. We need all sorts of things: soap and towel, dishes, knives and forks. If we had a saucepan, I could make us something to eat in the kitchen downstairs. Perhaps tomorrow. Oh, and we definitely need bedding, except I’m not sure if we’ll need our own once we’re living somewhere else. Another thing, Jacob...’

  ‘I want to die, Ruby.’

  ‘Jacob!’ She leapt on to the bed and folded him in her arms. ‘Don’t talk like that. Everything’s going to be all right, you’ll see. We’ll soon be out of here.’

  ‘I don’t want to be out of here,’ he said despairingly. ‘I don’t want to be anywhere except back on the farm.’

  ‘But that’s not possible, Jacob. You can’t go back to Humble’s, not ever. But in a while, once we’re on our feet, maybe we can move out to the countryside, find another farm.’ She’d hate it, perhaps not as much as he hated the town, but she was hardier than him, she realised that now. She could stand up to things, make the best of them.

  ‘I’m a murderer, Ruby.’ He turned over and she shivered when she saw the dead empty eyes in a face that had lost all its colour, like the face of a corpse. ‘I killed a man. I don’t think I can live with it. That’s why I want to die.’

  ‘It was an accident, love. Oh, please don’t be like this. I can’t stand it.’ She put her head on his chest and began to weep.

  Jacob would have wept with her, but he was beyond tears, beyond everything, except sleeping and staring at the wall. And loving Ruby, yet wishing she would go away, back to Emily, leaving him to rot on the stinking bed. It made everything worse, seeing her so dishevelled when she’d always looked so smart, knowing the girl who could dance like a butterfly had got a job cleaning. It was enough that his old life was ruined. It wasn’t possible to imagine feeling better, but he wouldn’t feel so bad if Ruby hadn’t been there, sharing the agony with him.

  ‘Take your suit off, Jacob. It’s getting ruined.’ She began to help him off with his clothes, tugging at them.

  Something stirred within him, a longing to forget, to lose himself within her. But even that didn’t help. They made half-hearted love and the furore in Jacob’s brain continued unabated and he forgot nothing.

  Later, he couldn’t bring himself to go with her to look for food although, despite everything, he was hungry. Ruby went alone, returning with a bottle of lemonade and two bars of chocolate – the fish and chip shop wasn’t open on Sundays.

  ‘We’ll have something nice and tasty tomorrow,’ she said comfortably, resting her hands on her rumbling stomach.

  Next day, Jacob felt exactly the same, as if he was secured to the bed with invisible chains, capable only of using one of the unspeakable lavatories when it was dark and no one could see him.

  ‘But we’ll never get out of this place if you don’t go to work!’ Ruby cried. She had been to the Malt House and bought a comb, soap and towel on the way back. Her frock was off and she was in her silky petticoat, trying to remove the frock’s creases with her hands, shaking it. Having fetched water from the kitchen in the lemonade bottle, she was pouring it into her hands, splashing it on her face and under her arms, drying herself with an energy that made Jacob wilt, knowing he couldn’t match it to save his life. Then she combed her hair, tugging at the knots, looking almost her own self again, and suggested he went out and
found a job.

  ‘No,’ said Jacob, wishing there were bedclothes he could hide under.

  A few weeks later, there were. Ruby got them secondhand: thick, flanelette sheets, frayed at the hem, a bolster cover. There were other things: dishes, cutlery, a shaving brush and razor that Jacob hardly used, though Ruby had insisted he wear the moleskin pants and thick shirt she’d got for when he started work. It saved his suit, now hanging behind the door, waiting for when she could afford to have it dry-cleaned.

  The saucepan she’d bought had disappeared off the kitchen stove, along with a quarter of a pound of stewing steak and potatoes for their tea, poor Ruby unaware she should have stayed and kept watch. Anyone could have taken it: the woman who lived on the first floor with her eleven children, the mad man in the basement who wore nothing but a dirty blanket and shouted obscenities at everyone, the two women on the ground floor who entertained a suspiciously large number of male visitors.

  By this time, Ruby had another cleaning job because she wasn’t earning enough at the Malt House. There were still things needed to make life bearable. She was desperate for an iron, a rope to hang the washing on, and doubted if there would ever be sixpence to spare for a wedding ring.

  It was Agnes/Fay who got her the job in the Town Hall, evenings, six till eight, five days and half a crown a week, mopping floors, cleaning stairs, polishing the chairs and tables in the stately council chamber.

  ‘Why do you do it?’ Agnes/Fay, with whom she’d become quite friendly, wanted to know. ‘You could get a proper job. You talk nice, you’re presentable, at least you would be if you ever ironed your frock.’

  ‘I’d sooner clean,’ Ruby replied. She was so busy, she didn’t have time to think about Jacob, mouldering away in Foster Court which she would do if she worked in a shop, as she would have preferred. Jacob was asleep when she left for the Malt House and ready for sleep again by the time she went to the Town Hall. It meant she could keep him company during the day. All he did was sleep, or lie on the bed staring at the ceiling while she talked to him, tried to cheer him up. He would leave the bed only to eat the food prepared in the cockroach-ridden kitchen, which Ruby did her best to use when it was empty of the sullen, angry women who lived elsewhere in the house.