A Liverpool Girl

by Elizabeth Morton

  She didn’t know what she was going to do, but she knew that this was a place that would welcome her. She could sing. It was the one thing that brought her some comfort. She could lose herself in the words and the music, and she couldn’t describe it, but she supposed it was a sense of belonging.

  ‘Mother went to get a fork to stick in donkey’s ass, but stuck it into father’s head, and out went the gas …’ She heard the lewd and beery strains of a chorus coming through the doors and people were clapping along, some banging their glasses in rhythm on the table. Thrusting her hands deep into her pockets amongst the lint and penny wrappers, she drank in the sound of it. Pulling her coat around her for courage, she took a deep breath and pushed open the swing door, pressing hard on the brass handles. And it hit her. A tide of warmth and welcome, the fear disappearing in a moment as heads turned and looked at her – and smiled.

  ‘My God! It’s Jack Delaney’s girl, isn’t it?’ a woman’s voice said. ‘Come in, love.’

  The roaring fire. The ceiling with chamber pots hanging from it – there must have been three dozen of the things at least. The woman who’d spoken – Florrie, that was her name, Babby remembered – was standing on a three-legged stool, reaching up, trying to keep her balance, with a feather duster in her hand, carefully dusting them one by one.

  ‘Is it Jack’s girl? My, you’ve grown, haven’t you? And how is Violet?’ she said.

  Babby nodded. ‘Well,’ she answered, and felt she had passed her first test. She could feel the warmth, the heat from the flames prickling her cheeks and reddening her face. She heard the squawk of a parrot in its cage behind the bar. Florrie had been trying to teach the old bird to mimic the customers when they asked for a pint of beer. Trying to be casual, Babby walked towards her. Men, nursing pint glasses of brown ale, stood aside like the parting of the red sea.

  ‘Mary’s told me about your singing,’ said the landlady, kindly. ‘Take your coat off, love.’

  ‘No, I’m fine,’ answered Babby. ‘Thank you.’

  She knew it was unlikely that Florrie could solve her problems, but she was far enough away from the part of Liverpool that Violet would be searching to try and find her and bring her back when news got out of her running away from Saint Jude’s Mother and Baby Home. ‘I’m looking for a job – and I can sing,’ she said.

  ‘You sung before?’ asked Florrie.

  ‘The Boot Inn – well, the Tivoli, as it now is,’ she answered.

  ‘How are Rex and Gladys?’

  ‘Grand,’ she answered. ‘Grand …’

  ‘Well, we’ll always welcome one of Jack’s …’

  Babby hesitated. ‘How did you know I was Jack’s girl?’

  ‘Same eyes, love. Same smile. Terrible thing what happened to your dad …’

  Babby nodded. ‘I’ve heard a room goes with the job,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, a room. It’s no palace, but the sheets are clean – and apart from the pub sounds coming up from under the floorboards, it’s grand … There’s even a sink. I need someone to wash the glasses, and the singing would be a rare treat. If you could do a few Irish tunes like “Mountains of Mourne” and “Whiskey in the Jar”, it would remind me of home and that would be even better.’

  ‘I-I have a stage name,’ she stuttered, thinking it might buy her time before Violet tracked her down.

  ‘That’s nice. What is it?’

  ‘Coral,’ Babby answered. She touched the coral necklace around her neck that Callum had given her.

  ‘Well, Coral. You’re very welcome. Any friend of Mary’s is a friend of mine. As long as you keep your hand out of the till and a smile on your face for my customers, we’re going to get along just fine.’

  Later, in the room upstairs, she lay on the bed and stroked her belly. She would have done anything to feel the griping pain that came each month, but she had given up on that long ago. Her stomach was a tiny rise now, still able to be disguised, but the inevitability of what that would become was as certain as night would follow day.

  Florrie had left her a Valor stove which Babby had lit. Now she took comfort in the warm glow it gave off, the patterns on the ceiling made by the grill with small holes, the low hiss of the gas, and the heady smell of fumes. Violet had one in the small outside lavatory at Joseph Street and for a moment she had a pang of feeling homesick, for her sister, for Pat, even for Violet.

  But then a picture came into Babby’s head. Of herself, in a cream shift dress, lined up with the twenty other girls, barefoot, on the landing outside the dormitories, waiting to be inspected by the nuns before chapel. She knew that she would recall that day with vividness for the rest of her life, the feeling of tender swollen breasts, the knowledge of what was in her belly. But as she drifted off to sleep, her heart juddering at the thought that she had no idea what she was going to do in the future, not the slightest notion, she took heart in the fact that tonight she had a bed and a job to go to tomorrow. And, for now, that was enough.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  No doubt word was going to get around pretty quickly, but she reckoned she had at least a week to think. The nuns and Violet might even believe she had done something ridiculous like set off to Italy. The night before Florrie had listened to her sing – just to be sure she could – and told her she would cook her a breakfast of porridge on weekdays and, at the weekend, salt fish. In return, every morning, she would collect the glasses, clean up the slops, help drag up the crates of beer. In the evening she would sing for the customers when it was getting close to chucking-out time. She’d nodded gratefully. The work sounded hard, but nothing like the Mother and Baby Home, no crucifixes waved at her, or freezing baths, or being woken for chapel at five thirty. The customers would love to see her face full of freckles and her chestnut-coloured hair – and they would love the sound of her voice. They liked the old Irish songs, almost as much as Florrie did, and that was saying something.

  That first morning, when Babby had dressed, she was greeted by a knock at the door and a steaming cup of Ovaltine, two oatcakes and a slice of orange on a tray. Florrie smiled. ‘Here get this inside you, lovey.’ She sat on the edge of the bed. ‘And how do you know Mary, then?’ she said. Babby hesitated.

  ‘School.’

  ‘You went to school with her?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘Saint Hilda’s.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ answered Florrie. ‘And how is Mary? Still got those ideas in her head? Fighting for the cause?’

  Babby nodded.

  ‘She’s got fire in her belly, that one,’ said Florrie. ‘Sometimes I wonder where it’s going to get her,’ she added, nodding sagely.

  Happy to sip at the cup of Ovaltine and nursing the mug against her cheek, Babby decided she had never tasted a hot drink as good as this. ‘Thank you,’ she said, as she stirred in a huge heaped teaspoonful of sugar and cupped her hands around it for warmth.

  Florrie ran through a list of other duties that she should be expected to do at the King’s Arms.

  ‘You should answer the door to the coalmen. Then show them where the coal-hole is. Take away the food leftovers from the tables and always make sure the ashtrays are empty and the bottles removed when they’re finished. You should wash the glasses ready for the first customers to arrive and sweep under the tables. Dust the chamber pots – you’ll have to get up on a ladder for that one, but that needs to be done early, mind, for we don’t want customers to come in and find a young lady like you perched on top of it. I shouldn’t wonder if a good few of them might try to get a sneaky eyeful where the sun don’t shine,’ she added with a laugh. ‘You also need to help behind the bar, always with a smile and a pleasant tongue. And no cursing or flirting with the customers. But now we come to the important bit, the reason why you’re here.’

  Babby felt herself jolt. Getting ready with an apology or an excuse with a mouthful of Ovaltine, she stammered, ‘W-why I’m here?’ Did Florrie know about her ‘condition’?

  ‘The singing,’ said F
lorrie. ‘We lost Molly, our piano player, and though there are plenty who will give it a try – I’ve even had a go at it myself – there’s nothing like an accordion.’ She waited for a response. ‘I hear you play one.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Babby. ‘But I don’t have it with me.’

  ‘Never mind about that,’ Florrie said. ‘We can get you one right now. Christie’s father works at the Rotunda on Scotty Road. Do you know it?’

  Of course, Babby knew it. Everyone knew it. The Rotunda was the pawnshop where people took their watches, silver and pearl necklaces, wedding dresses, all items with a story or two behind them. It was where Violet had threatened to sell her Da’s accordion.

  ‘That will be grand,’ said Babby. ‘I’ve learned how to sing loud enough so my voice reaches over the top of it. And really, I’ve been practising all my life.’

  ‘That’s settled, then; I’ll call Christie. You can start with the squeezebox tonight?’

  Babby smiled and nodded agreement. How, in just twenty-four hours, she could go from feeling so dreadful, to this hopeful, she couldn’t quite comprehend.

  After a day of Florrie teaching her how to pull a pint, how to smooth the cream off a Guinness with her finger, how to flip the top off a bottle of beer, and how to use the optic measures for spirits. Christie Murphy arrived that evening looking quite the romantic hero, with dimples in his cheeks, a tangle of red hair, and soft downy blond hairs on the back of his hands. He had a bag with him and the accordion slung over his shoulder. He was a big man and as he stood in the doorway, blocking out the light, his shoulders could barely fit the frame. Florrie called him over and he smiled warmly and laughed.

  ‘You didn’t tell me it were a lassie you wanted this for. Who’s this?’ he asked Florrie.

  ‘Me name’s Babby. I have a tongue – you can ask me,’ she said. She was mesmerised by his broad shoulders, ruddy cheeks, and hands as big as hams.

  ‘You going to be able to play this beast, love?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I can play as good as any man. I had the best teacher,’ she replied.

  He grinned. ‘Oh aye? And who was that then?’ he asked.

  Babby glanced away. ‘Just someone I knew. From a long time ago.’ The sentence hung in the air and Florrie and Christie shared a look.

  ‘You’re a bit of a wild one, I can see that,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘She sings as well,’ said Florrie. ‘Ask her to sing.’

  ‘Any requests?’ Babby asked.

  ‘“A Sweet Old-Fashioned Girl”,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘Get on with you, cheeky beggar,’ replied Babby.

  He offered her a cigarette and she took it. She wanted to seem brave, as though she had met his type before, show that she wasn’t going to be impressed by his bulk, nor by his wide grin and twinkling eyes.

  ‘You know “The Rose of Tralee”? Come here, sit on me knee and sing it.’

  ‘Get away with you,’ she said, and he laughed. ‘I’ll sing it later – maybe!’

  When Florrie said it was time for Babby to sing, Christie, sitting on a bar stool, sucking on a cigarette, with one foot resting on his knee, allowed another broad grin to spread across his face. Let’s see what the little girl can do, he thought.

  ‘Go on love, show us how it’s done!’ he cried, as Babby took her place and slipped her arms through the straps. Two customers, staring with love into their pale ales, raised their heads. It had been decided by Florrie it would be a good idea for Babby to stand on a crate of beer so her head could be seen above the punters. She planted her feet firmly apart on the small, three-foot square crate – not that anyone wouldn’t have noticed her mass of curls shivering over the top of cloth caps, head scarves and coiffured hairdos. ‘Give us a tune, Queen. One of the old ones. “Liverpool Lullaby” or “Maggie May”.’

  ‘Aye, lovely, we need a bit of sunshine in our lives,’ said another.

  She pulled out the bellows and the accordion hissed a long sigh. It was heavier than she was used to, more difficult to negotiate, with more keys, and differently textured buttons. But as she closed her eyes, like a blind man, she felt her way around the instrument which was more responsive with each new touch of her nimble fingers. She began to sing and she had barely reached the end of the first chorus when someone began to hum, others shuffled up their seats, another hugged his partner towards him, and women sighed and swayed in time to the music. At the end, as she bowed her head, there was applause, and voices calling out requests, saying how much they loved this tune, or that. And happy that she was home, if home was her accordion, despite the maelstrom of her worries whirling around her, she felt something close to calm. Meanwhile, Christie raised his glass, sat through every one of her songs, cheered for more, and told the pub to be quiet every time someone so much as muttered. ‘Hush thy mouths!’ he yelled. He really had never heard anything like it, he told Florrie.

  ‘Me too an’ all,’ said Florrie. ‘But you keep your hands off her, Christie. I feel responsible for this girl. I don’t know why, something to do with poor Jack, probably. And that’s an end to it.’

  When he appeared the following night like a force of nature, barrelling into the pub and bringing in leaves and a blast of cold air, Christie smiled at Babby, and she smiled back at him.

  ‘Come here, sit on me knee and sing wi’ me,’ he said.

  ‘Stuff that for a game of soldiers,’ she said, and he laughed.

  That evening he took his boot off, banged it on the bar when she began singing, and once again yelled, ‘Hush thy mouths!’ When it was over and people began to drift out, back to their homes, back to their wives and children who no doubt would be complaining that they had drunk away their week’s wages and left the food to go cold, he called her to him.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going, Babby?’ he asked her.

  ‘To do the bottle washing,’ she replied. He laughed and grabbed her roughly, pulled her to him. She sat down on his knee, arms folded over her stomach to hide the tiny bump, fearful of her secret, and felt his thigh move up between her legs. It was hard as granite, as though he wasn’t made of flesh, but carved out of rock.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I’ll tame yer.’ He smelled warm and sweet, the cigarettes and beer all mixed up and in his hair and seeping out of the pores of his skin. And she liked it, the feel of another person’s touch, if only to remind her that she wasn’t completely alone. No, she didn’t mind it. Not at all. Of course she wished it was Callum, not Christie, but Christie would do for now.

  Two weeks passed and Babby was thoroughly surprised that Violet hadn’t tracked her down yet. She knew it was only a matter of time, but she was taking each day as it came, and she had earned ten shillings in tips and nearly fourteen pounds in wages, which was grand. How was she to know that Violet still thought she was safely under the care of the nuns? Babby had no idea when her lie would be found out and so each day was a bonus. And each day she had grown closer to Christie. Christie was a laugh. A right laugh. He would produce pennies from behind her ear and teach the parrot to say ‘Babby’s nicking shillings’. And he knew what he wanted. He thought he’d break her in time, Babby knew that, but she also knew that he didn’t reckon on her spirit. He’d sit back and watch as the customers jeered and clapped and urged her to get up on the tables and sing some more. He liked pop songs but also the old ones. She would start with a few Elvis and Perry Como numbers – but she always ended with ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and people started coming for the singing.

  She would have a drink with Christie after hours and sing for him in the lock-ins, with the windows steaming up and the curtains drawn shut. She even let him take her to the Luxe picture house to see Let’s Make Love and he fancied himself as Yves Montand and she was prepared to flatter him as he swung around a lamp post and mimicked a French accent whilst telling her ‘Time ees money, and I don’t like to waste either, Babby.’

  But all the time the baby in her belly was
growing – and she hadn’t the faintest clue what she was going to do about it. Christie still had no idea, but then he didn’t know the skinny, lithe Babby of four months ago. He thought her curves had always been a part of her.

  ‘Whatever your wicked plan is, good girls like me stay virgins until we are married …’ she said, when he pressed up against her, and she felt his ribcage almost crushing her chest. ‘I love Our Lady with a deep, deep, passion, and that’s why you never can have me,’ she lied, wriggling away from him.

  It was the only way she could think of and it worked for a time; he stopped going after her. Then one day she was singing, ‘Oh, Mary this London’s a wonderful sight,’ when Christie appeared and spoke into her ear. ‘I’m falling for you something rotten,’ he said. ‘Why won’t you let me near you?’

  She shrugged him off, but he followed her out of the pub, stood with his arm blocking her way in the corridor outside. ‘Where are you off to, Babby?’ he asked.

  ‘I have to do the slops.’ she said. ‘And wash the bottles.’

  ‘Florrie expects more than she’s a right to,’ he said.

  ‘Not really,’ answered Babby. ‘She’s been good to me.’