by Maureen Lee
Beth took Ruby’s hand and squeezed it, as if in farewell. In another few weeks, she and Jake would be gone.
An era was over and a new one about to begin.
Ruby’s girls
Chapter 9
1957–1958
Heather O’Hagan sat on the bed and watched her sister in her frothy pink party dress get made up in front of the dressing table mirror. ‘That lippy doesn’t suit you,’ she said critically. ‘It’s too dark.’
‘D’you think so?’ Greta put her head on one side and studied her reflection. ‘I thought it made me look glamorous.’
‘It makes you look like a tart. Fair-haired women should wear pale lippy.’
Greta pouted. ‘You’re always saying that, sis, but Marilyn Monroe doesn’t, and she looks glamorous.’
‘No, she doesn’t. She looks like a tart.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Greta rubbed the offending lipstick off with her hankie and applied a lighter shade. ‘What’s that like?’
‘Much better.’ Heather smiled, having got her way. For as long as she could remember, she’d felt responsible for Greta, who could very easily make a complete mess of things without her help. She never seemed able to do things right. Say she’d worn that horrible maroon lippy at her party! It was all right Mam saying, ‘People learn from their mistakes,’ but they could learn better and less painfully with good advice.
Ruby opened the bedroom door. ‘Greta, it’s eight o’clock and your first guest has arrived.’
Greta quickly dabbed scent behind her ears, then tipped the bottle against a piece of cotton wool which she tucked inside her bra. She jumped to her feet. ‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know, love. It’s a he, and he’s very handsome. I told him to put some records on the gramophone.’
‘It might be Peter King.’ She rushed out of the room.
‘Don’t let him see you’re interested,’ Heather called.
‘I think that’s up to Greta, don’t you?’ Ruby said pointedly.
‘But he’s a drip, Mam. He’s already got a girlfriend.’
‘It can’t be all that serious if he’s come to Greta’s party on his own.’
‘I don’t want her to get hurt, Mam.’ She’d sooner be hurt herself, any day, than let Greta suffer a broken heart.
Ruby’s face softened. ‘I know. But you can’t protect her for ever. Oh, there’s the doorbell. Answer it, there’s a love. I’ve sausage rolls in the oven that need seeing to and sandwiches still to make.’
‘All right.’ Heather stood and smoothed the hips of her plain black skirt, glancing briefly at her tall reflection in the mirror. With the skirt, she wore a white, tailored blouse, and her long, black hair was pinned back with a slide. The whole effect was deliberately severe because she didn’t want to overshadow her sister on her twenty-first.
Frankie Laine was singing ‘Jezebel’ and everywhere smelled of a strange mixture of baking and scent – June, the girls’ favourite. There was a lovely atmosphere, heady, excited, as if the walls of Mrs Hart’s house knew there was going to be a party. Ruby still thought of it as Mrs Hart’s house, even though it had belonged to Matthew Doyle for twelve years – twelve long, very tedious years, she thought, making a face as she took the sausage rolls out of the oven. The lodgers lived upstairs and the two downstairs reception rooms had been turned into bedrooms, one for Ruby, the other for the girls. The rather dark room at the back, where the party would be held, was their living room. Fortunately, the kitchen was big enough for the lodgers to eat in. Unfortunately, it meant she had to keep it scrupulously clean, or at least she tried.
Every time she thought she had enough saved for a deposit on a house of her own, houses had gone up another few hundred. It was like being in a race she stood no chance of winning. She’d probably end up the oldest landlady in the world.
The doorbell rang again. ‘Will someone get that!’ she yelled.
‘I’ll do it.’ Mr Keppel appeared at the kitchen door. ‘I’m just on my way out.’
‘Thanks. Have a nice time.’
‘It’s the dress rehearsal tonight. I’m a bag of nerves.’
‘I hope it goes well.’ Mr Keppel had only been living upstairs a few months. He worked in a bank and his spare time was taken up with amateur dramatics. Ruby was going to the play’s first night at the Crane Theatre on Monday. She was glad Mr Oliver and Mr Hamilton were away for the weekend, leaving only Mr Keppel, who was no trouble, and Mrs Mulligan, who was a pain.
A few seconds later, Martha Quinlan came into the kitchen, a shopping bag in each hand. ‘This is the cake,’ she puffed, putting one bag on the table. ‘And the other’s a couple of bottles of wine, for us, not the kids. D’you fancy a glass now?’
‘I wouldn’t say no. I’m a bit nervous, Martha. I’ve never thrown a party before.’
‘It’s not like you to be nervous. Remember that wedding during the war? I’ve never had such a nice time since.’
‘That was different. People were more easily pleased. Let’s see the cake.’ Ruby had made the cake herself and Martha had iced it. ‘Oh, it’s lovely!’ she exclaimed when the elaborate pink and white creation was removed from its tissue wrapping. ‘Very artistic. Did you actually make the roses yourself?’
‘’Course, I did. That’s what I went to night school for, cake decoration. I’ve got the candles separate.’
Martha was nearing seventy, grey-haired, slightly stooped, deeply wrinkled, but as hard-working as ever. It was almost a decade since Fred had retired as licensee of the Malt House, and the licence had passed to Jim and his wife, Barbara. The older couple still lived on the premises and Martha was often called upon to lend a hand behind the bar. According to her, Barbara was a lazy bitch. ‘You’d never dream she’d been a nurse,’ she frequently remarked. ‘I used to think our Agnes was idle, but at least she bucked up her ideas when she got married and had kids. That Barbara won’t have a baby, she’s too scared.’
‘Do you want white wine or red, luv?’ she asked now.
‘White, please.’
A bottle was expertly uncorked, the wine poured. Martha began to put twenty-one pink candles on the cake. ‘How many’s coming to the party?’
‘Twenty, half girls, half boys – that sounds like more now,’ she said when the doorbell rang. ‘They’re mostly Greta’s friends from work, a few of Heather’s. Charles and Connie might pop in later, but only if they can get a babysitter for the boys.’
‘They can stay in the kitchen with us,’ Martha said comfortably. ‘We can have a nice natter. It will be quite like old times, except Beth won’t be here.’
‘She rang earlier to wish Greta a happy birthday.’
‘How’s she getting on?’
‘Just fine,’ Ruby lied, because Beth wouldn’t have wanted Martha to know anything else. ‘Jake’s at university in Boston and her other three kids sound incredibly clever – much cleverer than mine. Daniel’s got his own law firm and they’ve just bought a lovely new house. It’s got central heating, a double garage, and its own swimming pool.’
Martha looked impressed. ‘She certainly fell on her feet, didn’t she, our Beth, when she married Daniel.’
Ruby gave a non-committal smile. Only she knew how unhappy Beth was. She recalled the very first letter she had written from Little Rock; how pretty the place was, how the sun always seemed to be shining, the clothes in the shops so smart, Daniel’s brother, Nathan, was teaching Jake to play baseball. Everything sounded wonderful until Ruby reached the end and there was a PS which she could remember almost word for word.
‘Oh, Rube,’ Beth had written. ‘I’m so miserable I could die. Daniel’s mam doesn’t like me, you’ll never guess why; because I’m too pale.’ The ‘pale’ was underlined. ‘She says I’m “high yeller”, whatever that is. And my poor Jake is almost white. We don’t fit in anywhere, Jake and me. The whites hate us because we’re black, and the blacks don’t like us for not being black enough. Nathan’s OK, but he’s the only
one. I can’t wait for Daniel to be demobbed and come home.’
Daniel came home, but things only got a little better. With her husband deeply involved in his work, and his spare time taken up with advancing the cause of black people, Beth felt increasingly lonely and friendless. Everywhere was segregated; shops, restaurants, buses, even schools. She yearned to return to Liverpool. Yet she loved Daniel and couldn’t bear to leave.
‘Oh, listen!’ Martha suddenly yelped. ‘It’s Bill Haley and the Comets singing “Rock around the Clock”.’
‘Someone must have bought Greta the record as a present.’
‘Fred ses I’m turning childlike in me old age, but I love rock and roll.’
‘I’m not averse to it myself. I wonder what time I should serve the food?’
‘Nine-ish?’ suggested Martha.
Ruby began to arrange the sausage rolls on a plate. ‘I should have done this earlier, but I’ve been run off my feet all day. I hope fifty sarnies are enough; salmon paste and cheese – not together,’ she added hastily. ‘I made the little vol-au-vent things and the cheese straws last night.’ She laughed. ‘Lord! If the nuns could see me now, they’d be so proud. I used to hate cookery lessons – well, I hated everything they taught us, but some of it must have sunk in.’
At nine o’clock, she sailed into the noisy, crowded, smoke-filled living room with the refreshments and put them on the sideboard for the guests to help themselves. Most were dancing, a few attempting to talk above the din, and one couple were squashed in an armchair in a passionate embrace, though the young man quickly disengaged himself when he saw the food.
‘I’ll fetch the cake later,’ she called, but no one heard.
Charles and Connie had arrived earlier, but could only stay a little while. They’d asked a neighbour to watch over their two little boys, but she wanted to be home for ten o’clock to see a play on television.
‘I’d love a television,’ Martha sighed. ‘But our Fred claims they’re nothing but a time waster. Mind you, he should know. If anyone knows how to waste time, it’s bloody Fred.’
‘A chap upstairs, Mr Hamilton, has one,’ said Ruby. ‘I switched it on once when I cleaned his room, but nothing happened. I was worried I’d broken it.’
It was Charles’s opinion that televisions would never catch on. ‘People are too intelligent to sit and watch a little screen all night long.’
Connie grinned. ‘Then I must be very unintelligent, because I wouldn’t mind having one a bit. I’d love to see What’s My Line, and the lads would enjoy Watch With Mother.’
‘I think this calls for an instant divorce,’ Charles said sternly, grinning back.
They waited for Ruby to carry the cake with its twenty-one flickering candles into the other room, following behind with Martha, singing ‘Happy Birthday to You...’
‘You’ve done them kids dead proud, d’you know that, Ruby,’ Martha said when Connie and Charles had gone and they were alone again in the kitchen.
‘It’s only a party, Martha.’
‘I don’t just mean the party, girl. I mean over their whole lives. And you’ve done it on your own, without a husband most of the time, and not a single relative around to give a hand. Yet they’ve turned out such lovely girls.’ She gave Ruby a look of real affection. ‘I’ll not forget the day you came into the pub about the cleaning job. You looked as if you’d just got out the bath with your clothes on. Fred said I was a fool, advancing you sixpence. He didn’t think I’d ever see you or the tanner again. But I knew I would.’ She patted Ruby’s hand. ‘I wonder if your mam’s around somewhere? If so, it’s her that’s the fool, giving up such a lovely daughter.’
‘Oh, Martha, stop it.’ Ruby blushed. ‘You’ve had too much wine and it’s made you maudlin. You’ll be crying any minute.’
Martha seemed about to continue with her eulogy, but was interrupted by a knock on the kitchen door and Iris Mulligan came in, her stout, fiftyish body wrapped in a tweed dressing gown, a thick brown net covering her mousy hair, and her face greasy with Pond’s cold cream. Mrs Mulligan had occupied a front upstairs room for nearly five years and was a champion complainer, almost certainly the reason she was there now.
‘Is that noise going to go on for much longer, Mrs O’Hagan?’ she whined. ‘It’s ten o’clock and some of us have to sleep.’
‘I told you the other day we were having a party, Mrs Mulligan,’ Ruby said plainly. ‘I apologised in advance for the noise, remember? It’s Friday, you don’t have to work tomorrow. It’s also my daughter’s twenty-first. I’m afraid the noise will continue until midnight and then everyone will go home.’
‘That seems most unreasonable, Mrs O’Hagan.’
‘I’m afraid it can’t be helped, Mrs Mulligan.’
‘You’ll just have to read a book,’ Martha growled. ‘Jaysus! How do you stand it?’ she exlaimed when Iris Mulligan had departed in a huff.
Ruby shrugged. ‘I’ve stopped taking any notice. She complains about every single thing. If it’s not the noise, it’s the food, or the other lodgers – Mr Oliver snores and Mr Hamilton has his television on too loud. At least she does her own washing and ironing, not like the men.’
‘Fancy ending up at her age living in a room in someone’s house! Has she got any kids?’
‘No. Actually, Martha,’ Ruby dropped her voice, concerned she might be overheard, ‘someone told me her husband brought a woman home only half his age, and she was given the choice of putting up with it or getting out.’
‘He couldn’t do that!’ Martha gasped.
‘He did. She ended up with nowhere to live and without a stick of furniture. That’s why she’s here.’
‘Bloody hell! My Fred doesn’t seem so bad after that. No wonder the poor woman’s miserable. I’d be the same if I was her.’
Next morning, the party was declared a great success. It had gone suspiciously quiet over the final half hour, but Ruby hadn’t bothered to investigate. She could hardly complain if they were indulging in a bit of snogging when she’d got up to far worse with Jacob when she was only sixteen.
‘Are you staying in town this afternoon?’ she enquired over breakfast. The girls had appeared at half-past seven in their dressing gowns, as fresh as daisies, despite going to bed so late. Both worked in the city centre; Greta as a switchboard operator for a firm of accountants and Heather as filing clerk in the Royal Liver insurance company. Saturday, they finished at midday and usually spent the afternoon roaming the clothes departments of the big shops, always arriving home with something new. Ruby would have done the same at their age, but lack of money, followed by clothes rationing, had proved rather inhibiting.
‘I might spend my birthday money on a new frock,’ Greta announced, munching on a piece of toast.
‘And I need new shoes.’ Heather regarded her long, narrow feet. ‘Wedge heels would be nice for a change.’
‘I wouldn’t mind new shoes myself.’
‘You can have my red ones if you like, Mam. I don’t like them anymore. The heels are too squat.’
‘Squat!’ Ruby hooted. She and Heather took the same size. ‘I’ve heard of high heels and flat heels and Cuban heels, but never squat. I’ll try them on later. It’s come to something, a mother inheriting her daughter’s cast-offs. You’ve got more money than sense, the pair of you.’
An hour later, she waved them off into the soft April sunshine, arms linked, heads bent towards each other, already deep in conversation. In her spindly-heeled sandals, Greta was almost as tall as her sister. She wore a stiff, taffeta petticoat under a flowered dirndl skirt, and her wide belt was pulled so tight it was a wonder she could breathe. On top, she wore a gathered peasant blouse with smocking on the yoke. Her hair was held back with wide pink ribbon. Ruby smiled. She would have looked perfect stuck on top of a Christmas tree.
Heather favoured a more tailored look. Her suit was classically styled grey flannel, worn with a white blouse, black shoes, and a black felt beret.
They made a striking pair; Greta small and pretty, a pale, natural blonde, Heather elegantly tall and very dark. Her sombre face could look quite beautiful when she smiled.
A van passed, and the driver had to brake sharply as he almost ran into a lamp-post, his attention distracted by the sight of Ruby’s girls. He caught her eye, looked her up and down, and winked appreciatively. She would be thirty-eight in a few weeks’ time, but could turn male heads as easily as her daughters.
Ruby closed the door and began to sort through the post which had just arrived. There were two belated birthday cards for Greta, letters for the lodgers, and an electricity bill for herself – she winced when she opened it and saw the amount. She left Greta’s cards on the hall table and took the rest upstairs, shoving the letters under the appropriate doors.
Downstairs again, she met Tiger, ancient now, emerging from a marathon sleep in the cellar where he spent most of his time in his wardrobe. Floppy had disappeared years ago and hopefully hadn’t ended his days as someone’s dinner. She gave the big cat a cuddle and a saucer of milk, then went into the girls’ room and tried on Heather’s red shoes. The heels were a bit thick, but otherwise very smart. They fitted perfectly, but she had nothing to wear with them. She searched through Heather’s clothes, found a nice navy-blue frock she hadn’t seen her wear in ages, and wondered if she dropped a hint she’d be given the frock as well. It would have been nice to wander round the shops with the girls, buy herself new clothes, she thought ruefully, but every spare penny went in the bank towards a house.
In Owen Owen’s, Greta was agonising over whether or not to buy a short-sleeved angora jumper. ‘It’s a lovely blue and ever so soft.’ She rubbed the stuff between her fingers.
‘It’s daft buying a jumper in April,’ Heather said. ‘It’ll itch like mad in the heat.’