A Liverpool Girl

by Elizabeth Morton

  Dear Callum,

  I know I’ve only been away a few days but I miss you so much. I’ll come straight to the point. I’m afraid I have some bad news. I have to stay here longer than I thought I would. The thing is, Hannah, my little sister, is not doing so well. Or rather, my mother is not doing so well looking after her. My brother Pat says it’s not right to leave Mam in the lurch and Hannah has got nowhere to stay as my Aunty Kathleen, who usually looks after her, is bad with her knees at the moment. There was talk of Hannah coming back with me to Anglesey, but it turns out that’s not practical as there’s no room for her. So, for now, three weeks Mam says, I’m stuck in Liverpool. I hope you’re not too disappointed. I hope you won’t forget me!

  I’m wearing the thimble you gave me around my neck. I’ve tied a ribbon around it and it looks quite pretty. I’m also wearing the coral necklace. Nobody has asked about either of them. If they did, I would tell them you gave me them, and they’re the most precious things I have. And Callum, when I go to bed at night and I press my face into the pillow and hold my breath, it makes me dream about you so vividly it’s like I’m still in Anglesey, actually with you. The other night I dreamed about us in the shippen and when I woke, I swear I could smell the cows in my bedroom.

  Nothing has changed here, except that things have just got a little bit worse, when they should have got a little bit better. That’s here at home, Joseph Street, but it’s the same for Liverpool too. More steamrollers have gone in to the bomb sites and smashed the remaining houses to the ground. It’s almost completely flattened, apart from a few left round our way, which will go any day. I feel sorry for the kids. We had such a laugh playing steeries and cowboy and Indians – and now if you were to play hide-and-seek, I swear it wouldn’t work at all well, as you’d have nowhere to hide. They say it’s because they want to make the place safer but I think they just want to stop people having fun. Whole streets have just gone. Apparently, they’re going to build new houses with running water and lavvies inside, which sounds grand, but I’m not so sure, and for now there’s nothing round here.

  Towards Lime Street Station, it’s a little better. I must admit, there are pockets where the city is still beautiful: the Liver Buildings, and the columns at Saint George’s, and of course the docks. But without you here, it just seems pretty grey.

  I wish I knew what to do about mother. It’s like she loves me and hates me all at the same time. Probably you know what would be the best thing to say to her. Like the other day. That was a humdinger of a row. Hannah has taken to threading the silver tops of milk bottles on to a piece of string and sitting on the step and selling them as necklaces for a halfpenny. I thought that was a lovely thing to do, but Mam shouted at her and said it was ridiculous, we didn’t want the whole world thinking we were beggars. In the commotion, Hannah spilled a bottle of milk and you’d think she had started World War Three. Mam did a lot of shouting and Hannah did a lot of crying – and I worried about what’s going to become of us. We’re all in a complete and utter mess.

  Anyway, I hope this doesn’t all sound too desperate. I can’t wait to get back to you at the end of the month. How are the twins? Still getting into trouble? Still stealing the butter? And Mrs Reilly? Have you had to do any more mucking out? I better go now. I can hear footsteps on the stairs. You are the first and last thing I think of every day. And the best moments in my life, so far, are the ones I can’t tell anyone about.

  All my love, Babby.

  PS. Guess what? I am going to sing at the Tivoli pub. Mam will kill me if she finds out, but I’ve decided I don’t care. It’s the only thing that will keep me from going crazy.

  Chapter Ninteen

  Babby and Johnny found Gladys cleaning the glasses and the squeak, squeak, of the coronation tea towel as she shoved her fist into the beer glass and twisted it round and round was the only sound for a minute. Babby couldn’t help squinting at Gladys’ quivering hair. The lacquer had dried in droplets that clung to the peroxide blonde castle and Babby decided they could easily be mistaken for nits’ eggs.

  ‘So, sweetheart. You’ll play here tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How old are you now?’

  Babby hesitated, mesmerised by the glinting bunches of glass grapes that dangled from slits in Gladys’ elongated ear lobes; they swung gently as she spoke and tilted her head from side to side.

  ‘Eighteen,’ lied Johnny.

  ‘And you’ll play the accordion? Like your dad? Johnny tells me you are a devil at it. I’ve got one in the back that your da used to play when he forgot his.’

  ‘I’ll have a go,’ answered Babby.

  ‘Good. It’ll bring in the punters. Always did.’ She patted her immaculately sprayed head, took a pink cigarette with a gold tip from a pearlised case, tapped it on the bar, and stuck it in her mouth. ‘You’ll do some of your dad’s sea shanties? I could sell you as Jack’s lass. And some of this new stuff in hit parade?’

  ‘Some of the modern stuff sounds funny on the accordion, but I’ll have a go.’

  ‘You know best; I’ll leave it up to you to decide. We still get quite a crowd and I’ve even opened up a ladies bar. I’m hoping you might bring in a better class of person to the Tivoli.’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Babby, beaming. ‘But I thought Johnny told you this were a one-off? I’m only in Liverpool for a few weeks.’

  ‘Best laid plans …’ said Gladys, ominously. ‘And Babby, love. Just a warning. We might have fancy new curtains and a new sign outside the door, but Friday nights can still be like hell’s gate. Especially when the boats come into the docks. You’ve seen it, haven’t you, Johnny?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Worrall.’

  ‘Good luck. Give ’em hell, dearie.’

  Babby sat in a grubby back room, no more than a cupboard, with plastic daffodils in a vase, overflowing ashtrays on the windowsill, and, written in lipstick on a cracked mirror, Rita loves Frank Sinatra. Johnny perched on a rickety table beside her. The room smelled of Brylcreem, stale cigarettes and cheap liquor. The bare lightbulb flickered intermittently, hanging on grimly for dear life as it gave off a sickly yellow glow. The sounds of the pub were getting louder beyond the door.

  ‘You look right nice in that sticky-out skirt. You’re like just like Doris Day, except with brown hair and freckles,’ said Johnny.

  Babby smoothed the poodle skirt – the ‘something girlish’ that Gladys had insisted she wear. She nervously tucked in the white blouse that cascaded in ruffles over her shoulders. The lipstick Gladys had also given her, fuchsia pink, was much brighter than she was used to wearing, and it tasted like Parma Violets.

  She thought what Violet might say if she could see her.

  ‘Just off to see if there are any crates for firewood left over at Paddy’s Market before they pack up,’ she had lied to her as she walked out of the door of Joseph Street.

  ‘Do you need Pat to help?’ Violet had asked.

  ‘No. And I might pop into the Gallagher’s on my way back,’ she had added, thankful that Violet was on her second glass of Makesons and the fuzzy veil of drink was beginning to take its effects.

  There was a knock on the door of the dressing room – actually, more of a cupboard with brooms and buckets. A small, sweaty, barrel of a man wearing a bow tie poked his head round the door.

  ‘You all right, treacle?’ he asked. He was as Scouse as the Mersey Tunnel but friendly.

  She did some sucking in of breath through her teeth and told herself, once again, that it would be fine; Violet would never find out because she would never step foot in the place, so Babby was going to enjoy this. The fat man asked her if he should make an announcement, saying she was Jack Delaney’s girl. He said it was probably better to do that now, get it over and done with, rather than keep the audience guessing. She could hear the voices swelling in the bar beyond, like a low grumble. She could even hear women’s voices. They must have let them in from the ladies bar, to the main bar. A rare thing, indeed. Someth
ing to do with Gladys’ idea about smartening the place up.

  ‘Do you have to mention me dad?’ she asked, worried that her singing tonight might get back to Violet.

  ‘Well, that’s why they’re here, love,’ he said. ‘We’ve already put it around.’

  He left. Babby was breathless with nerves. She could hear him speaking from the bar. ‘One. Two. You know what to do … Now let’s ’ave a bit of ’ush for our next act, a lovely little girl and her accordion – Babby Delaney! And what a smashing chip off the old block she is – she’s Jack Delaney’s girl. So give her a big ’and!’

  Babby made her way on to the small raised dais. There was faint-hearted applause. Waiting behind a moth-eaten red velvet curtain, letting her fingers run scales over the keys of the old squeezebox that Gladys had dug out, and finding the dent in the middle C button, whispering Tweedledee, Tweedledum as she pushed it in and out, she heard the compere make a joke about his mother-in-law being unusally fat. She felt sick – partly nerves, partly because of the large glass of cherryade she had gulped down. The musky smelling curtains jerked open, the right one only halfway, leaving Babby hidden from view apart from her shoes poking out from underneath the gold braid fringe. Eventually the man ran on stage and yanked back the curtain, nodding at her to begin, worrying that she appeared so startled, like a rabbit caught in car headlights.

  ‘Ready, queen?’ he hissed. As she came blinking into the harsh lights of a follow spot, the smell of beer and cigarettes made her gag. Smoke swirled in the beam of light. With her old-fashioned blended musical tones, glossy hair tied in a neat girlish ponytail, she felt out of place. But she knew some of the audience would be pleased to see Jack’s girl – the spitting image of him, with her glittering eyes and obdurate chin, and beautiful lyrical voice.

  Johnny, leaning against the bar with pint of pale ale in his hand, winked and gurned, and gestured wildly for Babby to smile, which she did. But catching the expressions on the faces of the people sitting at the tables whose skin had turned an eerie shade of yellow and pink from the lights, she faltered. The women nudging their men to be quiet and the men, who when they stopped talking and raised their eyes from staring with love into pints of Tetley, threw glances between each other. Seeing the expectant faces, Babby became sallow with fright. This was nothing like playing ‘Second Hand Rose’ for Hannah in her bedroom. The accordion keys felt strange under her fingers and the bellows were stiff when she pressed the button to fill it with air. She noticed a few more raise their eyes from their pork scratchings and pints of Guinness, lean in to one another and whisper behind raised hands. Gladys called out, ‘Bag o’ shush, Bag o’ shush!’

  Babby’s brows knitted together in a frown. ‘Go on love,’ mouthed Johnny, palms sweating. She could hear the pub becoming rowdier. She darted a look at Johnny as he gave her the thumbs up. She could see him smiling hopefully now, picking nervously at the skin around his thumbnail, willing her to drive herself on. Gladys, taking her place beside Johnny, swivelled around on the high bar stool and smiled at her as well. It gave her the courage she needed. Something about the sound of the accordion, even though it wasn’t hers, as she played the first part of a tune, brought back a memory of her father, but there was no time for that now, so she pushed it aside, took a deep breath and began to sing.

  After the first few notes, she saw that Johnny was beginning to relax. He took out another cigarette and lit it from Gladys’. Babby began to sing louder under the swell of the borrowed accordion and the pub went quieter; her voice rang out sweetly, clear as glass and true.

  ‘Farewell to Princes’ landing stage, River Mersey fare thee well …’ she sang, losing herself in the song, and the words.

  ‘Gladys!’ said Rex to his sister, when he walked into the bar, as Babby, flushed with success, took her bow. ‘That’s Babby Delaney! Who said she could play here?’

  ‘I did, Rex. It’s my pub, in case you had forgotten. Look around you. They’re loving it. What have you got against it? It’s good for business. What’s the harm?’

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Rex. ‘You know what her mother would say. I want nothing to do with this.’

  ‘You seem more worried about Violet Delaney than the kid.’

  Rex bridled. ‘Don’t start, Glad.’

  Gladys snorted and replied that money was tight – and if Babby brought in the punters, that was all that should concern him. It was her pub, and if he didn’t like it, he could lump it.

  ‘Keep your nose out, Rex. When you pay the bills, you can have an opinion,’ said Gladys flatly, at the end of her speech.

  Babby and Johnny ran all the way to the tram stop. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Run!’ They had ten minutes before they missed the last tram.

  Grasping her hand as they raced around the corner, and without pausing for breath, he dragged her on to an oncoming Green Goddess that slowed in front of them outside bombed-out dance hall. He pulled her after him as they made their way upstairs to the top deck where they sat on the platform.

  ‘Babby, I were so proud of you,’ he said. He moved closer to her, went to casually place his arm around her shoulders, as the tramcar clattered away on its tracks and the small yellow light bulbs rattled in their sockets. Instinctively, she shrank away and scooted along the warm seat, fixing her eyes on the road ahead. He tried again, and this time she felt the arm rest firmly about her. Should she say something or do something? Tell him that, even though he was her very best friend, she didn’t like him in that way and then politely ask him to remove his arm. Or should she just shove it away or wriggle out from under it and hope he got the message. Who had heard of anyone who had been friends with someone for years like they had, kicking around in the hollas, playing merry hell with the steeries, suddenly wanting to start kissing each other? Is that what he was planning to do?

  ‘Ta for coming tonight, Johnny.’

  Her eyes met his then slid away. He laughed. Babby sucked on a piece of her hair. Taking it out of her mouth, she surveyed its sharp point, then went back to chewing it.

  ‘You shouldn’t do that. I’ve heard stories of girls dying and when they were cut open had matted balls of hair as big and as round as grapefruits rotting inside their stomachs,’ he said, smiling, shuffling up to her closer, his arm still draped across her shoulders, pulling her to him, and she felt as uncomfortable as if it were a dead cat lying there.

  ‘We’ve been friends forever, haven’t we? I mean since we were nippers,’ she said, in a volley of words. She looked at him, looked at his face, and mentally flipped through the consequence of what she was about to say.

  ‘Aye …’ he replied.

  ‘But Johnny …’ she said, sighing. Would this be something she might regret? She took a deep breath. ‘I’m glad that we’ve met up again, and hope that we can remain friends always, but that’s the way I want it to stay. You’re a grand fella. Top rate. I know you’d walk the end of the earth for me. And me for you. But no – well, you know – hanky-panky funny business – love and stuff …’ She tried to lighten the mood, gave him a playful nudge. ‘Bit of the other, how’s your father. That’s not for you and me, Johnny.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I certainly do,’ she said, shoving his arm away. He grinned. He liked the way her eyes flashed with annoyance, bringing out the coppery tones in her hair, but he didn’t want to accept that she was saying that this must go no further.

  ‘So why did you ask me to come with you?’ he said, trying to sound reasonable.

  The knot of frustration in her stomach grew tighter. She pulled the sleeves of her jacket over her hands.

  ‘Babby,’ he said, and went to put an arm around her shoulders again. She winced slightly and recoiled, not knowing what she should do.

  Then the clippie came down the tram.

  ‘Two halves,’ said Johnny.

  ‘You’re never a half,’ replied the conductor. His hand rested on the register.

  ‘He is,’ said Babby, lyin
g.

  The conductor raised his eyes, twisted the handle and gave them two tickets.

  ‘D’you want a ciggie, Babby?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘You know I don’t smoke,’ said Babby. She wasn’t going to tell him about her attempts to impress Callum.

  He rummaged around in his jacket pocket and took out a packet of Swan Vesta matches.

  ‘Right, my stop,’ said Babby, and got up out of her seat, which was not easy to do as the tram swerved and swayed along the curved steel tracks.

  ‘Babby,’ he said as he moved down the tram to catch up with her. ‘What’s the problem?’

  She sighed and looked into the distance.

  ‘I have a fella,’ she said. ‘Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘Have we finished, then?’ he asked, in a small voice.

  ‘Did we even start?’ she replied, puzzled. ‘His name is Callum and you could never be my sweetheart, Johnny.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘Why?’ she said, genuinely bewildered by the question. ‘Oh, Johnny, I’m so sorry,’ she added, going down the stairs and jumping off the tram and heading off in the direction of home.

  ‘Where have you been?’ asked Violet when she got in.

  ‘Been with Johnny Gallagher to see about doing some washing glasses at the Crow’s Nest,’ she said falteringly.

  ‘That won’t pay much, only coppers.’

  ‘And doing the coal. They say I could help with the delivery bags.’

  ‘Never heard such a thing!’ Violet snorted. ‘You?’ she said, her eyes big and round and accusatory.