He picked up his tankard and finished the last of his beer. ‘Sorry, Amy, I was wondering what price the captain of the Cotapaxi will put on the spoilt sacks in the morning. He’s new to this port. Never seen his name on a manifest before. The new ones are always a bit tricky.’
Lockie’s mind was always on the business. He knew how to work hard and save money, but not how to say no to Amy. As she talked on and on, he couldn’t help comparing her to Lily, and Amy came off worse, by far.
‘Well, you should be thinking about me, not the captain of the Cotapaxi,’ said Amy sullenly.
The parrot on the bar chattered away to the customers and they had to speak louder than was usual to rise over the sound of chinking glasses and laughter. Above the line of the semi-opaque window opposite, Amy could see that it was dark. Night had truly set in. She had no watch on and there was no clock on the wall in the snug, but she guessed that it must now be about nine. She would have to get a move on. Her parents were away, making a second attempt at a holiday, and she was supposed to be staying with the McConaghys. They had all watched her like a hawk since that awful night. A night that haunted her every day.
‘You have brought my rheumatism on something awful,’ her mother complained. ‘My nerves are so bad.’
And then her father had snapped. He had dealt with the entire fallout since he’d found Doreen, and he continued to be filled with shame. Both Amy and her mother knew he was at his wits’ end. So when he said, ‘I need a holiday,’ her mother did not object. She daredn’t.
Doreen had not spoken to Amy since that night, but Amy was haunted by everything that had happened. It had been seven weeks and three days and she was counting every minute.
‘I’m going home tonight for clothes, Auntie,’ she had said to Mrs McConaghy. ‘I haven’t enough. And I’m off to the hairdresser’s later on, it’s the only time she can fit me in. So I’ll stay at Mammy and Daddy’s.’
Mrs McConaghy had no chance to object and, frankly, she liked her niece more when she wasn’t living with her. ‘The truth is, I can’t think of her in the same way since the incident,’ she said to her husband. ‘She has had everything in the world given to her on a plate, that one, and yet she has no friends. Lost the one she did have, such an awful thing to have happened. Thank God our name wasn’t in the Echo. It could have been bad for business to be associated with that whole awful affair. The girl could have died. I still don’t think we know the truth about what happened and she has brought shame on us all. She should have been sent away.’
‘Your sister has always been more interested in herself than she ever was in Amy,’ Mr McConaghy replied. He took a long pull on his pipe.
‘Yes, but look at Lily. From what Sister Therese says, she has nothing but the dress she stands up in, and would she behave in that way? Not in a million years.’
Mr McConaghy snapped open the pages of the Echo and, looking at his wife over the top, replied, ‘You don’t buy loyalty or good behaviour, ’tis earned. Lily must have good parents to be as good and hard-working a girl as she is.’
Mrs McConaghy twisted her handkerchief around in her fingers. That was not what she’d heard from the likes of Sister Therese and Lockie, but she had to step carefully. She was also worried about Amy. She had woken that morning to the sound of Amy vomiting in the bathroom and as far as she was concerned, there was only one reason that happened to a woman. It would be her sister’s problem to deal with, but if she was right, Amy could not stay in Liverpool. The scandal would be bad for business and she would not tolerate it. If her sister and brother-in-law put up a fight, they could wave goodbye to their five per cent as far as she was concerned. She nursed her cup and saucer and stared into the fire as her husband flicked over the pages of his newspaper. No, I can’t be right. I’m letting the worry and responsibility for that girl run away with me, she thought to herself. It’s a bug. I’m wrong. She drained her cup and promptly forgot her concerns about Amy.
Amy and Lockie had been in the Grapes since work had finished. Amy had made sure he was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps, under the watchful gaze of Mrs McConaghy as she stood at the side of the office window. She watched as Amy ran down the steps, as Amy knew she would. She had told her auntie that she was going to have a quick drink with Lockie before she took the bus to the hairdresser’s. It was just one more lie heaped on to the others she seemed to have to tell daily. As she approached Lockie, she took him by surprise and reached up and kissed him full on the lips, with passion. She wanted Mrs McConaghy to believe another lie she was preparing, that she had been dating Lockie for weeks, in secret. She wanted her to report this back to her parents. To make them believe she had been too nervous to confess that Lockie was her secret beau.
As Lockie spoke, Amy plotted. She needed to get him out of the pub and soon. She also had to make sure that, for whatever reason, the barman remembered them. What had to be done could not be done there. Time was running out. It had been weeks now. Ben had not come back to find her since her father had chased him out of the house. But it was too late, the damage had been done.
Lockie began to slur and Amy looked at his face. His red hair had caught the glow of the fire and looked as though it was alight. His eyes were soft and blue, his birthmark had deepened to almost black, and she thought to herself, he will do. All things considered, he will have to do.
‘Let’s go back to my house, Lockie.’ She sidled across the wooden pew and, slipping her hand down to the base of his back, whispered in his ear as she kissed the side of his face.
‘Amy!’ Lockie exclaimed and shot away as though her touch had given him an electric shock. ‘That is not a proper way for a lady to behave. Wasn’t it enough, kissing me in broad daylight like that in the street?’ He looked around the pub frantically to see if anyone had noticed.
Amy wanted to be noticed. She sighed. This was going to be so much harder than she had first thought. Why couldn’t Lockie just be like other men? Why couldn’t he be the one trying to get her to go home with him?
Jesus, am I not just irresistible, she thought. She felt affronted. In any other circumstances, she would have told Lockie where to sling his jute and stormed off. However, tonight, that was a luxury she did not have. ‘I’ll fetch you a chaser,’ she said, ‘and then we’ll leave.’
‘No you won’t,’ said Lockie. ‘Are you mad, Amy? No woman goes to the bar.’
A minute later, he was back by her side. A dry amontillado and a refilled pint jug sat between them.
‘Lockie, if you don’t want me to kiss you here, come to my house then.’
Lockie stared at Amy. She looked at his eyes and saw them darken. His facial muscles tightened and a nerve in his jaw twitched.
‘Your da?’ he croaked.
‘He’s away. Look, how about I make you a fried-egg butty and then you can leave after a quick kiss and a cuddle. Go on, you’re safe with me, Lockie. And besides, you’ve had nothing to eat yet tonight.’
As they left the pub and stepped out into the chilly night air, Amy slipped back into the bar. She handed the landlord a five-pound note and as she did so, she blew him a kiss. ‘Here you go, mate,’ she said. ‘Get the parrot a budgie for a friend.’
The landlord looked at the note in his hand and his mouth dropped open. But before he could speak, Amy had gone.
*
Half an hour later, Amy reached up with her key to open the front door. She found herself quite looking forward to what lay ahead. Her problem solved, her goal achieved, and another conquest. That always made her feel good.
Lockie moved ahead of her into the hallway. Closing the door, Amy went to switch on the light, but she was already having second thoughts and knew she would have to move fast. Jesus, he could pass out with the drink soon, she thought. Turning to Lockie, she dropped her handbag to the floor, placed her arms around his neck and kissed him.
His hands slowly came up and unfastened hers from around his neck. ‘Amy,’ he whispered, ‘we can’t.
’ His voice was thick and slightly pleading. It was a tone she had not heard before. A thrill shot through her. She was nearly there. Just a little more effort.
‘Oh, Lockie, don’t disappoint me,’ she whined. ‘I have been looking forward to this,’ she whispered and she kissed him again. He groaned as he opened his mouth slightly. He was yielding. She was winning.
She gently pushed him against the wall, wriggled her slim body in between his legs and pressed herself against him. She felt him harden as she undid his belt and slipped her hand down the front of his trousers. He slid down the wall. Come on, she thought to herself, want me. He didn’t. He allowed her to push him, but he didn’t want her. There was a reluctance, a hesitation, and then the thought struck her: God, he’s a virgin. He’s scared.
Her hands worked instinctively, coaxing and encouraging until he was beyond staging any pretence of serious resistance.
‘Come along, Lockie,’ she said as she took him by the hand, ‘I have something to show you.’
An hour later, lying in her empty bed, which smelt of beer and sex, Amy smiled. ‘Thank bloody goodness,’ she said as she slipped her hands down on to her belly. There was the faintest mound. It might mean nothing more than she had eaten too many of her auntie’s cakes. But Amy was taking no chances. The sickness in the morning could just be that she wasn’t used to all the sugar her auntie couldn’t get enough of. But she had to make plans, just in case. Sugar didn’t stop a monthly and she had not had any sign of one. She was sick of running into the toilet every time she thought it might be coming, only to be disappointed. It was not uncommon for babies to be born a couple of months early. If she had to, she could say that. Plenty of others had and did.
But she had a better plan. Her number-one plan. She would find Ben and tell him, because if he knew she was pregnant, he would surely want to do the right thing. To care for them both. She would find him and she would tell him she needed just five minutes to talk to him. She missed him. She missed the fun. The nights out, the laughs. She resolved that tomorrow she would call round to his house and see if he was there. To the address she had memorized. But Amy was no fool. If the worst came to the worst and she couldn’t find him, Lockie would do. And if she needed to prove that Lockie was the man who had made her pregnant, there were plenty of witnesses. The barman wouldn’t forget the red-lipped, well-dressed girl who’d given him a five-pound note for a budgie.
16
‘Stand in line, lads,’ shouted Dessie to the group of apprentices known as the porter’s lads. The lads were in the hospital yard awaiting inspection.
‘Come on, lads, stop larking around. Tom, give Harry his cap back, please, now.’
That was all it took, a dip in Dessie’s tone, and the sound of boots on cobbles filled the air as sparks flew from the steel heel-tips and toe-caps. The lads shot into their places as fast as bullets fired from a gun. Not one of the lads would willingly upset Dessie. He commanded their respect, just as he’d commanded the respect of many of their fathers when they’d served in his regiment.
Dessie took all of his apprentices from the poorest houses along the Dock Road. Those where a father had fallen during the war. Few of his boys came from a home where both parents were still alive.
Each morning was the same. Across the road from the hospital stood St Angelus church. By the time the last bell had rung out at 8 a.m., the porter’s lads were in two rows, standing to attention. Dessie had replaced his army parade ground with the porter’s yard at St Angelus. If his lads were to be ferrying laundry baskets and vegetables, repairing tiles or buildings, stoking up the furnaces or running between kitchens, wards and doctors’ and nurses’ homes, they had to begin the day spick and span. Dessie insisted on each one of them visiting the public baths on their day off for a full wash down, and they had to come from a home where there was soap available every day.
Dessie’s inspection began at the beginning of each shift and there were two shifts per day. Twenty-four lads on the day shift, which began at eight in the morning, and ten on the night shift, which began at eight in the evening. Dessie undertook both inspections himself. Towards the end of the day, after the patients’ suppers and prior to visiting time, Dessie would allow those boys who had worked hard and done well to leave for home, with no deduction from their pay. Every lad worked his hardest and spent his life in fear of disappointing Dessie.
‘Don’t you let Dessie down. He’s a good man, giving you that job. He knew your da, you know.’ Those were the words that chased at the back of each porter’s lad as he ran down the road to St Angelus each morning.
‘Get out of that bed and away to your job! There was never a porter’s lad injured or died at the hospital, not like down on the docks or in a muddy field like your da,’ mothers would shout to lads who were turning over in their beds for ‘just another five minutes’.
‘How’s our lad getting on, Dessie? Is he doing well?’ Dessie would be asked often down at the local shop. A son with a job at the hospital was a source of pride among those who thought they had little to be proud of, even if their menfolk having made the greatest sacrifice of all in the war should have made them prouder than anyone. But when paying the rent and the coalman was your weekly struggle and you lay awake wondering how you would make the money stretch until the next pay packet arrived on Friday night, it was hard to feel anything but anxious.
The hospital provided the lads with a uniform of brown overalls, but Dessie insisted on freshly washed hands and faces and highly polished boots at the start of each shift. He demanded that the glint on the lads’ boots match the shine that would have graced their own fathers’ boots when he was sergeant of their regiment. He felt a paternal duty by proxy towards the boys. Having no children of his own, he was well aware that his army of porter’s lads filled that gap.
This morning, Dessie was being harsher than was usual. The prospect of a visit from the new assistant matron, Miss Van Gilder, or Miss Bone Grinder, as she had already become known, hung over him like the worst of a morning smog. It had depressed his spirits.
‘Look at the state of your boots, Bryan,’ he shouted to one of the newer recruits. ‘Your toe-caps look as though they have just arrived back from Dunkirk, and I was there, so I know what I’m talking about.’
‘Sorry, Dessie, sir.’ The porter’s lad looked sheepish.
‘Right, you can spend the entire day on the bins then, Bryan, as a punishment. I’m not having those shoes on any corridor or ward inside the hospital. Miss Van Gilder would be down my throat in a flash if she saw you. If you have run out of the Cherry Blossom at home, there’s a tin and brushes in the lodge, as you well know. Call in tonight before you leave for home and give them a good going over. I’ll be there. I’ll show you how your dad used to have to do his, every single day.’
Bryan nodded. The war had ended only eight years ago, but to the fatherless boys, the memory of the dads they’d hardly known was already fading. There was no blacking at Bryan’s home. There was only his money and his mother’s cleaning money coming in. It was spent on food and the rent and what was left over went on coal for the fire. His mother was running a house on a boy’s wage. Dessie made a mental note to send Bryan home with blacking and an extra shilling. He didn’t want to embarrass the lad, but he had to understand, Dessie was a man of standards. St Angelus was run like clockwork and, never mind the assistant matron, Matron herself could spot a pair of dirty boots a mile away from her office window on the first floor.
‘Make sure you put the newspaper underneath first and give a good spit on the leather.’
As he spoke, Dessie looked down at the leather on Bryan’s boots. They appeared as though a good polish might see them off. He sighed as he pushed his cap back on his head and wiped his brow. He bought the boys steel heel-tips out of his own money and they lived in a large jam jar on a shelf in the porter’s lodge for the lads to help themselves. They helped save the boot leather. He was well aware that the nineteen shillings a week the la
ds earned was not enough to keep siblings properly fed and buy a new pair of boots.
Bryan was in trouble, but he knew how to take his punishment. ‘Yes, sir,’ he answered again. ‘Sorry, Dessie.’
Dessie placed his hand lightly and with sympathetic understanding on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Right, the lot of you, Jake has the rota, so listen up and set to. No slackers now. Plenty of lads after your jobs, you know.’
There was never a truer word spoken. One mother had stopped Dessie on his way up the lane only that morning.
‘Honest to God, Dessie, I don’t know what we would have done without you. They’ve stopped taking them on at fourteen down at the docks and that’s because the bastards know the war pension stops just as soon as the lad hits fourteen. The harbour board is trying to starve us out of our homes. The work’s slowing down, not as many ships coming in, and there’s a rumour that they want to sell our houses to the corpy and build new ones.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ said Dessie. ‘They were talking about that before the war. Said every house should have a bathroom, too – that’ll be the day.’
‘Everyone is fighting to get on a gang down there to keep a roof over their head. I don’t know where it’s going to end. We would be lost without our Tom’s money from the hospital, and he’s got prospects, hasn’t he, Dessie?’
Dessie never wanted to lie. There were prospects, but they were few and he was finding it a continuing struggle to justify having twenty-four day lads. Miss Bone Grinder had demanded he present the worksheets to her and there was no doubt in Dessie’s mind that she was going to be a difficult customer to satisfy. She had sent shockwaves through St Angelus and she had only been there for a matter of days.
‘Right, you lot. Jake, read out the rota.’ Dessie turned to Jake and almost dropped his clipboard. Attached to Jake’s wrist by a length of bailing twine was a scruffy grey dog. ‘What the hell is that?’
The porter’s lads were still standing to attention, but their two regimentally straight rows began to titter.
The Children of Lovely Lane Page 21