The woman wondered if he was lost.
‘You’re not from around these parts, are you?’
‘Am I anywhere near the Tivoli, missus?’ he said.
‘Aye. Top of next street along – turn left …’
The boy nodded.
‘Can I help you with anything?’
‘I’m looking for a lass called Babby Delaney,’ he said.
‘Are you now?’ She paused for effect. ‘Well, as it happens, I know her. Tivoli pub, you say? Walk down Havelock Street. Look out for John Bagot hospital. Mind you don’t take too many deep breaths. It’s the hospital for tropical medicine and infectious diseases. Never know what you might catch,’ she said, laughing. ‘And then past the hollas. You can’t miss the hollas. Great big hole in the ground. Then you walk straight down the hill from there, then down Gordon Street, wiggle around the back roads to Regent Road – that’s the dock road – and you’ll see the Tivoli pub.’
‘Ta,’ said the young man, jogging in the direction that she was pointing.
Following her instructions, with the clock face on the hospital building shining like the moon and lighting up the way, he reached the dock road.
The Tivoli pub stood at one end. When he got there, he went to the window and shaded his hand to peer inside.
Just then, Gladys came out with a sweeping brush.
‘This the Tivvy pub?’ he asked her.
‘Who’s asking, love?’ she said, leaning on her brush, and lighting up a cigarette, the ash slowly curling from the end as she smoked it.
‘It doesn’t matter. Is this the Tivvy?’
Gladys Worrall paused, nodded upwards to the sign up above her, gestured at it with her brush. In elaborate gold swirling letters it read ‘The Tivoli Pub’. Removing the wilting fag from her mouth, she blotted her crudely painted lips on a handkerchief, leaving traces of a red feathery cupid’s bow, appearing more interested in that than the boy as he pushed open the doors of the Tivoli and was greeted by a blast of warm air, the smell of beer, and the welcoming sounds of chatter and laughter.
‘I’m looking for Babby Delaney,’ he said to Elsie, the barmaid, who was emptying ashtrays.
Babby stopped dead in her tracks, the ice in the drink that she had just accepted from Olaf clinking against the glass. Oh, that voice! The slight catch, the soft Northern burr, the flat vowels. Her heart rose to her throat as she spun around.
She gulped air, excitement welling up from the pit of her stomach.
‘What the ’eckers are you doing here, Cal?’ she said.
Seeing him grinning at her like an excited schoolboy, it felt that the time apart had fallen away to nothing in an instant.
He paused, as if he was going to tell her something. Something urgent, something important. But then he smiled. ‘Couldn’t keep away,’ he said, laughing, as she put on her coat. ‘That’s Amore,’ he sang, taking her hand and swinging her arm.
‘I don’t believe it!’ said Babby.
‘And I thought you might need this,’ he said, indicating her accordion, slung over his shoulder.
‘Oh, God, Cal!’
He seemed so happy to see her, with his hand pushing his black hair over the top of his head nervously. He was trying hard to look relaxed, but failing, grinning from ear to ear. ‘It’s good to see you, love,’ he said.
‘Thank you! Thank you, for bringing the accordion. The one I play here is terrible.’
He smiled again.
‘Let’s go outside,’ said Babby, taking his hand. She noticed that he had tried to look respectable, no jeans and denim jacket, but wearing a tie and ill-fitting demob jacket. It made him look slightly out of place, standing amongst the rubbish and discarded newspapers that people had chucked on the pavement after buying their penny worth of chips from the Acropolis chippie.
He drew deeply on his cigarette which glowed in the indigo black of the night. The leaves whirled around his feet. How different he looked, here, in the city, instead of in the fields, thought Babby. He flicked his cigarette end on to the pavement, and grinding it with his heel, he said, ‘I missed you, Babby …’ and came towards her suddenly, pulling her to him with an arm around her waist, and kissed her. With every breath she took, she felt a swelling in her breast and her pulse racing.
‘Oh, Callum! I can’t believe it! Me too!’ she said. ‘But why didn’t you answer my letters?’
‘Letters?’
‘I wrote to you so many times …’
‘Don’t know what you mean. But I could ask the same of you.’
‘What?’
‘I wrote to you an’ all. You didn’t reply and I thought I had the wrong address.’
Babby’s face clouded. Mam, she thought. ‘You don’t think anyone has been interfering?’ she asked.
‘Why would they do that? Who would do that?’
Babby couldn’t answer, but her expression seemed to say she had a good idea who. Almost certainly her mother. Is that why she had been acting so strangely? She had thought it was the drink, but now she wasn’t so sure.
‘Who cares? I’m here now. And Mrs Reilly doesn’t know I’ve left. She’s gone with one of the sisters for two days to a retreat in Wales. I’m supposed to be looking after pigs but I’ve got one of the lads to do me errands.’
‘You cheeky bugger,’ said Babby.
‘I was going to go to your house to find you, but thought I’d try the pub first. You told me about it …’
Babby hesitated. Just as well she thought; if Violet had been the one sabotaging them because of the letters, he would have got short shrift at Joseph Street.
‘The woman at the cab shelter told me she knew you.’
‘Peggy? Been there for years, giving out teas to the cabbies, collecting the gossip …’
‘I’m glad I asked her.’
‘So am I,’ she replied. ‘What now, then?’ she asked.
‘Can I walk you home?’ he said.
‘Long bloody way to come, just to walk me home, but yes, you may.’
None of it made sense. But as they linked arms and walked on towards the hollas, it dawned on her, as they walked up Gordon Street, that there were many stories that she had been told that didn’t add up. Perhaps the time had come for her to make some stories of her own that did. This was as good a time as any.
They could barely contain themselves. Words tumbled over words, sentences crashed into one another, laughter punctuated every pause for breath. When he asked her what she was doing at the pub, she told him she was singing, and how it was a good way to make a few bob, just for the few weeks that she had to stay on in Liverpool, but that she’d rather do that than clean folks’ steps or work in a typing pool – she’d hated those lessons at school though her nimble fingers had made her the best in the class. She also told him that Violet had said that the pub wasn’t the place for a lady.
‘Surely she’ll find out?’ asked Cal.
‘Probably.’
‘Not sure I like you at a pub, either,’ said Cal. ‘Pretty grim …’
‘You sound just like me mam! God, she hates it. But the truth is she just doesn’t like me singing. It can be awkward, with all the sailors watching and wolfwhistling and catcalling. But I can handle meself,’ she said and laughed. ‘You mustn’t worry.’
They walked on, dizzy with the familiar scent of each other, and drunk on the heady chatter that ricocheted between them – about when Babby was coming back to the farm, of how there was nothing here for her in the city apart from singing at the pub.
‘And your Hannah?’ he said.
‘Ah, Hannah. She’s the only thing for me in Liverpool,’ she responded.
‘Jesus, I’ve missed you,’ he said, as they walked in step, exhilarated by the perfect rhythm of their feet treading the pavements, stepping out harmoniously, excitedly, together again at last.
‘This the famous hollas?’ asked Callum when they reached the bottom of the hill.
‘Aye,’ replied Babby. ‘Come and have a look. Not much l
eft of it, but there’s still one derelict old house standing.’
There was a pause as they caught their breath after climbing in through a door off its hinges. ‘What now?’ asked Callum, as they looked around at the empty room, at the rubble, a ripped fluttering curtain, an upturned kettle on the floor.
Babby, laughing, picked up the curtain, wrapped it around her. ‘I’m the Queen of Sheba …’
He grinned and led Babby to the darkest corner of the empty bombed-out terrace house, picking their way through bricks and cement, split floorboards and mangled bedsteads and a rusting stove. He opened her coat and put his arms around her waist. Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure he’d make a comment about it.
‘I thought I’d never see you again,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘I’ll bloody kill me mother.’
‘Nowt to worry about on that score, so stop frettin’’ he replied.
And as he kissed her, she did exactly that. She stopped worrying. Stopped worrying about Violet. And Hannah. And Pat. She didn’t even worry about his hand tugging away at her blouse, trying to free it from her waistband. She just let him, and gasped as his fingers touched her bare back.
‘What about your mam? Will she be waiting up?’ he asked, withdrawing for a moment.
‘I left a note, said I’d be back at eleven and let meself in. Anyway, if she has been interfering, with the letters and stuff, I don’t owe her anything now.’
‘Well, I’m glad you did a runner. What’s for us now? Gretna Green? Eloping?’
‘Not bloody likely! I barely know you,’ she said and laughed.
‘I know I love you, Babby …’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I mean it! So does anything else matter?’
‘I suppose not,’ she murmured, enjoying the sensation of the feel of his warmth breath on her cheek.
‘Babby,’ he said, ‘you know I start National Service next September? Though they’re saying they’ll finish that soon, so I may be lucky …’ His little hot puffs of breath hung on cold air. He slipped his right hand under her shirt. Not content with the barrier provided by her clothing, he was making for the hooks and eyes of her bra. ‘I just wanted to tell you,’ he whispered as he undid the strap, ‘I think you’re a grand girl … the best … Can you really not come back to the farm tomorrow?’
‘I’ll follow you,’ she gasped, breathless. ‘As soon as I’ve got money and sorted out me mam.’
‘I can’t bear it. That this might be the last time I’ll see you for ages. Hey, tell your mam you’re going to go to another lassie’s tonight, a friend maybe, and come to mine instead. I’m staying at a boarding house in Canning Street. It’s a right dive, but I could sneak you in.’
‘I don’t have any friends like that. Only Johnny Gallagher.’
He made a face.
‘Who’s he?’
‘One of the Kapler Gang. Just a boy. Trouble. But he looks out for me.’
Babby could hear a train in the distance, the gentle sound of hiss, chuff, chuff, hiss, as it went along the overhead railway. Two dogs that were running about in the street began to howl. Looking over her shoulder through the smashed window, she could see them racing in circles and sniffing the air. He kissed her again. It was a kiss that was deep and throaty and with a tongue counting every tooth, twisting and winding around hers, as if he could eat her whole if she would let him. She gasped. And as he continued to kiss her, it felt so good, and sweet, and right, that everything that mattered so much, seemed like nothing much to worry about at all.
‘Cal …’ she said finally, when she came up for air. But the sound of the engine and the screeching of the wheels on tracks was so loud, he didn’t hear. When she gazed into his face, he looked so hopeful. He began to pull up her skirt, yanking a button off its thread. Fear gave way to a new energy with the feel of his hands on her skin. She let herself enjoy the smell of cigarettes on his breath and the feel of his tongue dipping and diving in her mouth and his whispering in her ear, ‘God, Babby, I’ve missed you something rotten. You do strange things to me, all right.’ If you can’t be good be careful, were the words Violet had often sung out to Pat as he left the house to see Doris. Would Cal’s mother have called out the same to him if she’d lived, she wondered?
She placed her hand gently on his arm to stop for a moment. He didn’t. So, she pinched, quite hard, her nails making clean white crescents in his skin. He peeled his upper body away from hers.
‘What is it?’
‘You’ll never leave me, Cal?’
He smiled, pushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. ‘Never,’ he replied. ‘Like I said, I love you.’
He began to kiss her again and she kissed him back. This girl could kiss so hard, she made his lips sore, he thought. Then he paused. ‘Are you OK with this?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to make you do anything you don’t want to. You must tell me when to stop.’
‘I’m fine,’ she answered. She just wanted to look at him for a minute, trace the line of his forehead with her fingertip, kiss his brows, one, then the other.
‘Lie down, then,’ he said. He took the Queen of Sheba curtain, shook out the dust, and placed it on the floor. He sat and took her hand, drew her to him. They wriggled up to each other, lay down side by side, looking up at the inky sky through a gaping hole in the roof. The cold air, laced with hops from the nearby brewery, made her dizzy, feel drunk with anticipation of what was to come.
He turned to her, kissed her again. His right hand was pressing her left shoulder gently into the floor and the other hand spread across her thigh; when he withdrew it, she caught him glancing down to see the imprint of his long fingers on her white skin.
‘Sorry, Babby. You really OK?’ he said, in between short urgent breaths. ‘Just want you so much.’
‘I’m so happy,’ she answered, whispering close into his ear. She touched his cheek, his lips, his neck. ‘Carry on … please don’t stop …’
Was this ‘the heat of the moment’ that her mother talked of? wondered Babby. She certainly felt as if she was in the eye of the storm. And, allowing his hands to wander over her body, it occurred to her that they should at least be courting, or married, to be doing what they were doing right now. Getting carried away. But this felt so different. Like they were running out of time. He going back to Anglesey, she had Violet to contend with. And then he kissed her again, more forcibly than he had ever kissed her before.
‘You feel grand – and you taste delicious,’ he said. His voice sounded different, modulating sweetly to a lower, more seductive tone. He rolled on top of her.
‘Babby …?’
‘What?’
She could feel the full weight of his body on hers. Exhilaration sharpened her senses.
‘Please … please … Can I?’
She was searching for a reply which of course was ‘no’. This was what had been drummed into her by nuns, aunties, Violet. If he really was planning to do to her what she thought he wanted to – well, this should be her wedding night. This should be about making babies. At the very least, this should be the man she wanted to marry, or was going steady with. But she hardly knew Callum. And what with God right there, looking down on her, horrified, no doubt … It was just, well, the truth was she liked it … more than liked it. She was excited by it, excited by the way it felt when he kissed her, and the way it made her forget all those things about her father and Violet and being poor and having to sneak off to sing at the Tivvy, and feeling guilty about abandoning Hannah.
The growing sensation within her filled her with a boldness that allowed her to summon up the courage to whisper in his ear, ‘Do it.’ And shocked that she wasn’t telling him to stop, when he did, she shuddered, jerked, and cried out with vivid and surprised pleasure. Finally, as he rolled off her with a long exhaling of breath, he kissed her gently on the nape of her salty neck. ‘Are you really all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied, smiling and trembling. She had no idea what had
just happened, but knew that, whatever it was, it felt good and kind – and true.
They tidied up their clothes and sat, side by side, staring at each other, her head nestled into the hollow of his damp armpit. He peeled a wet strand of hair off her cheek.
‘I really, really, love you,’ he said.
They lay there in the dark, unmoving, with the moon shining in. And they both knew that this guilt-laced encounter, in someone else’s bombed-out old house, had changed them forever.
‘Me an’ all. Love you, I mean …’ she answered. Watching the moving shapes that a cloud passing over the moon was making on the ceiling, Babby could hear the shrill sound of a bird cawing and the swish of the tall grass that had grown up in clumps through the floorboards. She was bursting to talk to him – about the farm, his plans, her plans, his parents, Pat and Hannah, Violet’s betrayal.
The thought of that sent a shiver down her spine. She had never defied her mother before like this, surely the biggest act of defiance that was possible. But Babby wasn’t able to think about the consequences of anything much now. Because, with Cal, she had been prepared to risk everything. Because this was being alive, wasn’t it? The very best of life, she thought.
She felt him move away from her and thrust his hand in his pocket then produce a packet of sweets.
‘Ever had one of these?’ he asked. ‘Spangles?’
Babby shook her head as he unwrapped one and popped one first into her mouth, and then his own.
‘Suck it,’ he said. ‘Suck it really hard … Stick your tongue in the middle. Feel it making a hole?’
After a few minutes, he took the sweet out of his mouth. It had done just that.
‘Give me your hand,’ he said, and slipped the sweet on her finger as if it were a diamond ring.
‘Oh Cal, I’ll wear this forever.’
He smiled. ‘Come on. I’ll walk you home. Can I come and see you in the morning?’
She wavered. ‘I’m not sure. About Mam …’
‘Well, I’ve got to see you before me boat at six.’
Sounds lisped in the shadows and the trees and Babby hoiked the accordion over one shoulder. She hesitated.
‘I’m doing the lunchtime shift at the Boot Inn. I mean the Tivvy. You could come and see me after, when I’m done,’ she said.
A Liverpool Girl Page 14