A Liverpool Girl

by Elizabeth Morton

  ‘The Boot Inn?’ asked Callum.

  ‘It used to be called that. Changed its name to go posh. After the trouble there.’ Babby lapsed into silence.

  ‘What trouble?’ said Callum.

  She faltered. ‘A fight. My dad played his accordion there and he was mixed up in it. Badly.’ The words seemed to echo in her head.

  ‘How badly?’ he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘I was ten. It was so long ago …’ She realised it had been years since she had talked to anyone about what had happened and though she wanted to tell Callum her father had died in the fight, she couldn’t. Not now. She just couldn’t.

  Callum said nothing, and she turned to him, leaning up on her elbow.

  ‘What’s the matter, Cal? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Are you all right?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Aye,’ he said again, drifting into silence before they gathered themselves up and walked on towards Joseph Street.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  After they had said goodbye and Callum had kissed her on the front step, he didn’t walk towards Canning Street where he had told Babby that the boarding house was. He walked the other way, back to the pub. Last orders had been called but there were a couple of stragglers still at the bar. He came through the door, out of breath and ashen-faced.

  ‘Any of you know a fella called Delaney? Used to play his squeezebox here?’ he asked a thickset docker who was draining his pint.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Nowt much.’

  ‘Aye. What’s it to you?’

  ‘Someone I know liked to drink here.’

  ‘Terrible business. Jack Delaney died, got tangled up in a brawl with someone he should have kept clear of.’

  ‘Did they call this fella the Mouse?’

  ‘They did. Know of him?’

  Callum felt a chill wrap around his neck with icy fingers.

  ‘Aye. He is, was, me Da,’ he said. So quiet, so low, so troubled, he was uncertain that anyone even heard.

  Before he had time to say any more, Gladys appeared at the door. ‘Locking up for the night, son,’ she said. ‘Come back tomorrow when we open.’

  ‘Right y’are,’ he said. ‘Ta very much.’

  And he turned up his collar to the wind and walked off into the night towards the new flats rising up from the hollas, similar and ugly against a black velvet sky.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Violet would be sleeping. That was all she ever did, nowadays, thought Babby, when she got back home, flushed with happiness, but still angry about the mystery of the letters. Quietly she went upstairs, put the accordion back under the bed, pushed open the door and saw Violet lying sprawled out on the bed, sheets all rumpled up beneath her, nightdress gaping, snoring loudly. She was spark out, all right. Creeping back downstairs, she made her way into the back room.

  She opened up the top drawer of the dresser. Reaching into the back of it, she trembled. From upstairs, she heard a noise, someone coughing, the creaking of bedsprings. Shoving her hands into the depths of the drawer, she retrieved sheaves of papers, rolls of ribbon, bias binding, hemming tape, safety pins, then she found a fat envelope tucked into the far corner, lodged under more papers and the rent book and an old ration book. She grasped it and pulled it out.

  Feeling it around the edges, she discovered it contained two letters. She went over to the range and found the matches, struck one and lit a candle that was in a metal holder, placed it on the table and allowed the flickering flame to illuminate the first letter. ‘Dear Babby,’ she read under her breath.

  She squinted at the words again, repositioned the candleholder, to make sense of them, for here was the proof that Violet had intercepted Callum’s letters; probably the nuns in Anglesey were doing the same with her letters to Callum.

  Dear Babby,

  God I miss you. You can’t believe how hot it is here. Absolutely sweltering. I went swimming in the sea yesterday so perhaps you and I could do the same when you get back. I took the twins and the girls wore knitted costumes and they looked a sight when they bagged up and got sopping wet. You know what skinny dipping is? When you come back I’ll show you …

  So it really was true. Violet had been hiding the letters. Babby staggered backwards and slumped into a chair. She looked again at the sheet of notepaper, turned it over, and as she did so, gathered up her skirts and scrunched and twisted them into a knot in her lap. ‘Come back soon, love Cal’ it ended.

  The truth of what had been happening over the past two weeks was there in black and white.

  She stood, reeled, paced around the room as she clutched the letter to her breast, stumbled, and rifled through the papers again. It was so upsetting that, for a moment, she forgot how to breathe, seemed to temporarily lose her sight and the use of her legs.

  And then, suddenly, Violet was standing there, white luminous face smeared in cold cream, nightgown billowing out behind her.

  Babby flicked on the light switch and turned so that Violet got the full force of her anger. ‘You hid my letters from Callum! Didn’t you?’

  Violet shrugged.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ Babby said.

  ‘No, I’m not drunk … just a glass or two helps, that’s all.’

  ‘Mam …’

  ‘Oh, do be nice to me … I had to hide those letters … Sister Benedict told me to.’ She sighed. ‘The truth is …’ She faltered. ‘Are you sure you want to hear this?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The nuns warned me about this boy. They said he’s a bad lot. Don’t think you’re the first to fall for his charms.’

  Babby moved forward, jabbed a finger at her mother. ‘What rubbish,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not rubbish. Why d’you think he’s there in the first place? Because he’s a saint? No, because his family can’t look after him – because he’s out of control. Just like you.’

  Her words struck at the very core of Babby.

  ‘He’s just the kind of boy who could get a girl like you into trouble. It’s just a silly crush, you have. Do you want to end up in Saint Jude’s?’ said Violet.

  ‘How can you say that?’ cried Babby, feeling her bones tensing and separating.

  Violet dragged a chair across the linoleum, sat down. Babby pressed her lips together, held herself stock-still, without moving a muscle, as if she had been frozen in time.

  ‘I’m so disappointed in you, love,’ said Violet.

  Babby noticed her mother was slurring her words.

  Violet continued, ‘Your dad, I had a dream about him last night. He was standing right at the end of the bed. He looked like a blurry Jesus without the beard, and with those huge hands of his. He said, “Keep an eye on Babby. She’s a wild one … Keep her away from Anglesey. God forbid she’ll end up at Saint Jude’s.”’

  ‘What cobblers! You should never have read our letters. That’s evil! Anyway, why is everyone so worried about what will happen to me? Why are you always going on about Saint Jude’s?’

  ‘Oh, darlin’, darlin’, I worry, that’s all. You’ve seen how easily that happens. I know several girls who’ve gone there and never been seen again. So tragic,’ she said mysteriously.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Never mind. All I’m saying is that I’m allowed to worry. That’s my job. I’m sorry I didn’t pass the letters on from your lover boy, but I was only trying to protect you.’

  Something, a sense of someone listening to their conversation, made them both turn and look towards the door. Hannah was standing there in her nightdress, holding her peg doll. The little girl associated Violet’s drinking with laughter and gaiety and waltzing around the parlour to the wireless – and she was sure that she was drunk right now, so she hoped that her mother would jump up and start dancing around the table.

  ‘Tell me about Daddy in the dream,’ said Hannah.

  Babby wondered how long little sister had been standing there, how much had heard.

  Violet sigh
ed. ‘Never you mind. Get back up those wooden hills.’

  ‘Did he sing that song about the bald mouse?’ asked Hannah. She moved to her sister, tugged at her skirt. ’You sing it, Babby, I love it when you sing, we all do. They say you sound like Dad … but I don’t remember him. Did he look like a blurry Jesus in real life?’

  Babby shot a look at her to tell her that this was serious but she didn’t understand.

  ‘I won’t be singing, Hannah.’

  ‘Will you sing it then, Mam?’

  ‘Of course I will, chicken.’ She pulled Hannah on to her knee and they began to sing it together, falteringly at first, then louder, as Babby looked on, aghast.

  ‘Daddy was looking better than ever in the dream,’ Violet said when they’d finished, brushing her hair out of her eyes. ‘Full of life. Those gorgeous rosy cheeks of his …’ She rearranged herself, clipping pins into a tightly wound bun she had scraped off her face. Cooing and stroking Hannah’s hair, rearranging her nightdress, she said, ‘You, me, Babby and Pat. We must all stick together – that’s our only hope.’

  She stood up, swayed unsteadily on her feet. ‘And another thing, Babby,’ Violet said. ‘That accordion. When it comes back from Anglesey, I’m taking it to the Rotunda and selling it. It’s what your dad would have wanted. He mentioned it to me many times, that – that he wanted rid of the thing. It’s brought bad luck to this family.’

  Babby could feel a rush of tears well in her eyes.

  ‘That’s not true!’ she said.

  Violet’s words built to a crescendo with a flurry of sighs and moans. ‘Yes, it is!’

  ‘Have you told her, Mam?’ asked Hannah, wanting to bring the arguing to an end.

  Violet plonked herself down on the chair in front of the range, turned around in it, patted the hair on her head.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Told me what?’ asked Babby.

  ‘Tell her now. You promised,’ said Hannah.

  Violet sighed. Her body folded into itself as she sat and then shifted in the chair.

  ‘Go on, Mam,’ urged Hannah.

  ‘Babby, I’ve been a bad mother. I should never have sent you away. I’ve decided, we all have, that we don’t need you to stay for just a few more weeks. I’ve decided you’re coming back … For good.’

  Babby could feel herself trembling, her whole body shaking.

  ‘I want us all to be together again, us Delaneys. This boy is no good for you and Hannah is not going back to Kathleen’s.’

  But I’ve grown used to my new life! Babby wanted to scream. I like the fresh air and the country and Mrs Reilly I even like the skinny, grubby kids that spend the summers with us … and I thought I could stay until I was eighteen!

  Instead, in shock, tears springing to her eyes, she just said, ‘I’m going out to get some air.’

  ‘No one is going anywhere,’ said Violet, rebuking Babby with a stare. She nodded at Hannah to shut the kitchen door. She laid a flat hand over the checked tablecloth, folded creases into the corners, and sighed one of her sighs. ‘Sit down, Babby,’ she said, simply and gravely. ‘Those letters were shocking.’

  Babby felt that strange, twisting thing in her stomach and her palms go sticky and hot with the dread of what was to come, and refused to sit.

  ‘I want to stay in Anglesey until I’m eighteen. You promised.’

  ‘I want you back. I’ve missed you and I want us all to turn over a new leaf,’ Violet said.

  ‘I thought I was just coming back for Pauline’s funeral.’

  She could see Hannah sucking on the sleeve of her nightdress nervously, with a look of panic on her face.

  ‘Mam said you were coming to look after us. That everything was going to be different now you were a big girl … seventeen, ain’t you?’

  Violet reached for the bottle glinting on the table.

  ‘Mam, stop it! Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ Babby asked Violet, trying to snatch the bottle from her. Violet wrestled it back from her and Babby could do nothing but watch as she poured herself another Harvey’s Bristol Cream sweet sherry. Violet’s recent drinking was not something that anyone talked much about, but there was no escaping it tonight. Hannah was still too little to understand. She called Violet’s drink Ma’s happy juice. But everyone knew there had long since been anything to celebrate. It used to mean sing-songs, and dancing around the table, and kisses. It meant the Boot Inn, Jack’s accordion, and wild protestations of love. But now it meant raised voices, frustration, and, with the business of sending Babby away to Anglesey, spitefulness.

  ‘That’s that decided, then,’ Violet said, to bring the conversation to an end.

  Had she actually gone mad? wondered Babby.

  ‘Are we excited about Babby coming home?’ The way Violet said it, chin thrust out, and with a toss back of her hair, was infuriating to Babby. ‘Are we?’

  Hannah nodded and gave Babby a desperate smile.

  If only her father were still here, thought Babby. He would know what to do. He would make everything all right. She missed his footsteps leaving reassuring muddy imprints on the brown hall carpet so they would know he was home from the docks or the Boot Inn. She missed him bringing home sherbet dib dabs, and chocolate to melt on a plate in the fire and smear on the brokies. She missed the money, which meant they could afford the gas bills and half-decent cuts of meat instead of the scrag ends, and shoes that didn’t have to be shod with metal caps. But most of all she missed his calming influence on Violet, which meant she didn’t make such vindictive decisions, like this latest announcement.

  ‘Please let me go back to Anglesey? Just for the summer?’ asked Babby, her big eyes pleading.

  ‘Do I have to tell you again? Quite apart from Hannah needing you, those letters were deeply troubling,’ said Violet.

  ‘You shouldn’t have read them …’

  ‘I’m glad I did. I have spoken to Sister Immaculata at Saint Patrick’s about what’s been going on between you and the boy, and Sister Benedict and Sister Scholastica and Mrs Reilly as well, they all agree you shouldn’t go back.’

  ‘No! Benny read them as well?’

  How could Benny have done this?! Now Violet had produced an envelope from her pocket, took out the letter that was inside and unfolded it.

  ‘We’re all worried about you, Babby, that’s all. Worried about you going off the rails. I sent you away so that wouldn’t happen. You’ve always been a problem child, ever since you were little. Read this – it will explain everything. There’s no hiding from the Lord. Or at least, the bride of the Lord. Sister Benedict.’

  The paper Violet thrust at her was headed, with a crucifix, and a picture of the Virgin Mary. At the top Babby read the address clearly, Sisters of Pity, Saint Coloma’s. This was a bad sign.

  Violet crossed her legs, her bottle at her side. She held the letter between thumb and finger as if it were a dead mouse as she handed it to Babby who began to read, ‘Dear Mrs Delaney, We think it unwise to have Babby staying with us at the farm, at least for the foreseeable future. She is developing an unhealthy relationship with one of our summer children. A boy. Callum Lynch is his name. This will only end in unhappiness. I am enclosing a written extract of her diary to give you a measure of the problem.’

  Babby screwed the letter up savagely and threw it at her mother.

  ‘Read the rest of it out,’ said Violet.

  ‘I won’t,’ said Babby.

  ‘Then I will.’

  Violet picked up the note, smoothed it out on her lap and began to read, enunciating each word slowly and deliberately, snorting at the end of each sentence, clutching the glass full of sherry, the veins on the back of her white knuckled hands standing out like knotted ropes.

  ‘Callum put his hand on my leg’ she read. ‘I didn’t want him to stop. He is so handsome, like Johnny Halliday and Eddie Fisher rolled into one; he makes my stomach go into knots just to look at him. When Johnny Gallagher made me kiss him, I didn’t want to, and I neve
r would have done. This is different. I would let Callum do anything to me. I know it’s wrong, and that makes me a terrible person, not a good girl at all, but that’s the way it is.’

  She put the glass down on the worn pink chenille tablecloth for emphasis, took a slug, sighed, put the glass back on the table,

  Babby took a deep breath. Then, snatching the letter from Violet, she scoured the words across the page again, read another couple of sentences. Such a betrayal! It couldn’t be Mrs Reilly. It must be the nuns. They were all the same, Saint Hilda’s, the farm, Saint Jude’s. She glared at her mother sitting at the table.

  ‘Well. That was embarrassing, wasn’t it? I would let Callum do anything to me? No wonder the nuns are terrified. Perhaps they should just go ahead and warm the bed for you at Saint Jude’s? What have you got to say for yourself?’ asked Violet.

  Babby shouted a reply. ‘I’m not staying here. I am going back. You said I would stay there until I was eighteen. I’m not eighteen. I’m going back. I have to. Mrs Reilly will have me back.’

  ‘No, all this nonsense! I’ve tried so hard with you Babby. It’s pointless—’

  ‘Mam, I’m going back to Pentraeth Farm!’ she cried.

  ‘Didn’t you listen? They don’t want you!’ shouted Violet.

  ‘Yes, they do! I’m going back! You sodding watch me!’ she cried.

  ‘Oh, aren’t you the clever one? With a mouth on you like the Mersey Tunnel. You’re impossible!’

  ‘You can’t stop me!’ Babby slammed a fist on the table, making the cups and dishes rattle.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’re not going anywhere.’

  Shiny tears gathered in Babby’s eyes. The very act of breathing became difficult.

  Violet softened. ‘We want you here – we do actually love you, Babby,’ she said, hoping it would all be forgotten about in the morning, and with that, she scrunched up Callum’s letters and Sister Benedict’s and threw them into the range, where they curled, first at the corners, and then towards the centre, until they floated like gossamer, up into the chimney, and there was nothing left but ash.