A Liverpool Girl

by Elizabeth Morton

  Hannah went, closing her bedroom door behind her. ‘Please stop shouting,’ she called from behind it.

  ‘How could you, Babby?’ said Violet, banging a fist on the table again, as if to emphasise the strength of her feelings. ‘You’ve always been trouble! But this? I never imagined this would happen! How could you?!’

  ‘Steady on, Mother,’ said Pat to Violet. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘How could I what, Ma?’ shouted Babby.

  ‘How could you even think to have a child with that boy Callum Lynch?’

  Pat was ashen. He looked to his mother, then back to his sister, gawping in shock as he listened to this frantic exchange of words.

  ‘Callum Lynch? Lynch? Danny Lynch’s son?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. The Mouse,’ Violet replied, flatly. ‘The one who killed your father.’

  Babby paled. Her legs buckled and she sank into a chair in shock. Dry-mouthed, Babby looked at her mother with horror. ‘Callum’s father killed Dad? Wait … are you sure?’ asked Babby.

  ‘As good as,’ said Violet.

  Babby could barely understand what her mother was accusing Callum’s father of. The room was heavy with an oppressive quiet. Her heart felt like it might explode and a sickness rose to her throat as her legs wobbled underneath her.

  ‘Daniel Lynch took your father’s life over a pittance and his hurt pride. So think on. Whilst he’s living a life of Reilly, your father is in his grave. Whilst Callum still has a father, someone to take care of him, to share life’s troubles and celebrate the good times, you and our Pat and Hannah have no father at all, not for any of that. So how does that feel?’

  ‘Is it really true?’ She felt her legs wobbling and buckling again. She didn’t know what to say if it was true. But even if it weren’t, Violet thought it was, and that explained everything. It explained why Violet hated Callum so much, why even the mere mention of his name sent her into the blackest of moods. And why she didn’t want her to marry him, even though he could have brought her respectability which would have saved her from the sorry mess she found herself in now. Wasn’t marrying the father of one’s child the conclusion that everyone in her situation would want? But no, Violet wanted her to be as far away from this boy as she could. So far away she would have had her give away her child to the nuns to send to Australia, if it had been her decision.

  ‘Mam, answer me,’ she said, her eyes glassy and wet with tears.

  ‘Yes, of course it’s bloody true!’ said Violet.

  She was even angrier now, grabbed both of Babby’s arms in a ferocious grip, pinching her flesh with her fingers. There were white moon crescents where her nails dug in and she came nose to nose with her and spat through her teeth. ‘It’s true! And that boy knew it from the day he first set eyes on you!’

  And then seizing a plate from the dresser, she threw it against the wall, with a scream of frustration. It smashed into tiny pieces. But as she looked at the shattered china, she realised that the act had had the opposite, not the desired effect. It only made her feel worse – so what else was there to do but collapse and cry unselfconsciously in an outpouring of self-loathing, clutching at Babby, begging her never to see the boy again, insisting that the pain of losing Jack would be nothing to the pain of having to look into the eyes of his killer’s son every day.

  She gulped down breath and trembled with shock.

  Babby stared at her, wanting to fling the bottle on the table – the bottle that she held responsible for all this – across the room, and scream and collapse to the floor and remain there in a crumpled ball of despair. But what would be the point? Instead, she brushed away a tear that had spilled over her eye and was rolling down her cheek, and said nothing.

  Violet, meanwhile, with a renewed burst of energy, placed a fist on her hip and slammed her palm flat on to the table.

  ‘You choose, Babby. It’s Callum Lynch – or me. But if you decide to marry him, understand this: you will never be part of this family again.’

  Chapter Thirty-six

  ‘Is it true?’ asked Babby. ‘Your dad is the Mouse?’

  Callum was sitting outside the King’s Arms on a low wall, clasping a bottle of beer tightly with both hands. He raised it to his lips. With his face reflected in the glass of the window, the lights of the Luxe picture palace opposite shimmied over his forehead. He bowed his head and got off the wall, and shuffled from one foot to another silently. He shrugged sadly, spoke in a whisper.

  ‘Yes.’

  Her blood went cold. This was too much to take in. Why would he not have told her? She could see no reason. Apart from the one Violet had told her.

  He faltered, thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. ‘That’s why I had to leave when I found out. I was never going to come back, Babby. I really was going to go to Italy. But I couldn’t stay away, I missed you … Oh Babby, despite what my father did to your dad, I couldn’t just leave you. I suppose Violet is furious?’

  ‘She doesn’t want us to have anything to do with each other. Says looking into my eyes would be like looking into the eyes of her husband’s killer – or some such tommyrot.’

  ‘None of us know what happened that night,’ said Callum, ‘Not even the police. No one was arrested. I only know this: your dad, he was a docker. And a proud one at that. He used to handle the cargo and he was a devil with the guy ropes and well liked. He’d go down to the pen, wait with the others. My da, he was the foreman, used to pick them that would work each day. And it was a hard job. But he tried to be fair.’

  ‘Why did they call him the Mouse?’ she asked.

  ‘Because he spoke so soft, like. But he was still stern. He tried to keep work spread even between the men. He knew those with a family to feed, those fellas whose wives were living off food parcels from the nuns or kind friends. He would decide who was going to get work each and every day. And your dad. He was poor, Babby, he didn’t have much money. But he was reliable, a wizard with the ropes, wouldn’t balk at whatever cargo came in. Whether it was filthy carbon, or the bags of rubber for Dunlop tyres, he would get stuck in. But when he started working at the Boot Inn, he was making a few extra bob. What was me dad to do, Babby? He couldn’t pick your dad over the other wretches who had nothing at all. If he was picked, they would argue that they needed the work more. He lost favour with some of the men and so gradually they turned their backs on him. That was when my father stopped choosing him …’

  ‘My mam always hated anything to do with the Boot Inn. But what about that night. What happened?’

  ‘Well again, I weren’t there and it’s mostly gossip. But your dad was in his cups and my dad and a few of the fellas walked in and one of them started singing one of your dad’s songs, mocking, like. And that was it. Like a cork popping. It kicked off and they started fighting. I remember looking out our window and someone had lit a bonfire on the waste ground by Grafton Street and the sky was lit up like it was the devil’s hell. Blood red. Anyway, your dad hit his head on the corner of the table when he got punched and fell. Everyone knew that. And I remember me dad coming home, the Rozzers on his heels. He was bloodied, all right. They say he threw the punch, but they were brawling. Oh, the Mouse roared, that’s for sure. All the years of choosing one fella over another, saying who should work or should not – it takes its toll. It wasn’t just your dad who resented him, there were others. Many of them. The Rozzers took him away. But, by then, your pa was dying in the hospital. There’s some say it was madness for my da to go to the Boot Inn, knowing as how your dad might be feeling. He was struggling because the wages there were nothing compared to what he’d been getting at the docks. Any road, my da … well, he paid the price, all right …’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘My dad. It’s not like he’s living the life of Reilly, like your mam says. He suffered too, Babby.’

  ‘I thought he was living abroad. In Italy, Mam said. That’s where you were supposed to have gone. To be with him.’

&
nbsp; Callum shook his head.

  ‘Well, she’s got that wrong. I need to put her straight on that one. But never mind me dad. It’s you I need to fix things with first. Because there’s one more thing that I can tell you is true and there’s no argument on this one. This is one truth, Babby, it wasn’t me. It was me dad. He was there that night. And your dad – and they were all in it together. It was a fight and I have no details as to who threw the punch that took your dad down. But I know, me and me dad, we’re two different people. And it wasn’t the first time my father and yours had got into a brawl, friends though they’d once been. Men like that were born scrapping.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me, though? About your father?’

  ‘It was only after that night at the hollas, when you mentioned the Boot Inn, that I put two and two together. That I realised you were Jack Delaney’s daughter. And then I had to be sure. Mrs Reilly confirmed it.’

  ‘The sisters tried to stop me seeing you. They wrote to my mother.’

  ‘Well, they’re a rum lot.’

  ‘That’s a nice way of putting it.’

  ‘Any road, one thing this sorry affair did for me, though, if it’s any consolation to you, Babby, is that I never want to be part of that world. And I never will, Babby. But you have to believe me: when I met you I had no idea Jack Delaney was your father. And when I found out I knew I had to leave Liverpool right away, I knew I would have to find out the whole story. And when I did, how could I tell you?’

  ‘You could have tried.’

  ‘I did. And I’ll say it again. It’s not my father you’re looking at, it’s me, me …’ As he said the words, he jabbed himself in the chest. ‘Me, Babby, someone who raced across the field with a bucket of cowpats, the one who kissed you on the farm gate, the one who stood knee-deep in pigsswill and didn’t care because he was with you. The one who loves you Babby. Please, please, please – you’re not your mother and I’m not my father. This is our chance to start again and shouldn’t we take it?’

  She dropped her eyes, fiddled with her cuffs, for want of something to do. ‘Say something,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong with you? Are you crying? Please don’t cry.’

  Babby bowed her head. Tears were pricking her eyes in hot silent stabs and one of them fell with a plop on to her lap. She screwed one hand into the other and dug her nails hard into her palm, hoping that the pain might shock away her tears.

  There was silence, now, apart from the sound of Babby’s sniffling. Callum began scrabbling in his pocket and brought out a hanky. He was going to offer it to her, but instead he slumped forward, began crying silently into the crook of his arm. He gathered himself, blew his nose, put it back in his pocket.

  Seeing him like that, she slid an arm around his waist from behind and rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said to her, raising his head, relieved at her touch. ‘Do you love me still?’

  She did love him, despite these dreadful revelations. She loved him, not only for the fact that he loved her, but for the fact that he didn’t care what the world thought – it was what Babby thought that mattered to him.

  ‘Of course, Cal. You didn’t stop loving me when I fell pregnant, so why would it make any difference to me about what happened with our fathers?’

  He twisted to her, put her head under his chin and spoke into her hair. ‘How about me going to see your mother? Your Pat? I can explain.’

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘That would do no good. My mother will never come around to this … this situation.’

  ‘You sure?’

  She rested her head against his shoulder, then lifted her face to look at his. ‘They hate me for loving you. And there’s nothing you can do about that.’

  They went inside the pub, bloodied but not broken, and Florrie was there to meet them. She had prepared hot coffee with a dash of whiskey and when Babby started to make an apology for missing her shift, Florrie told her to shush.

  ‘See the thing is,’ said Callum. ‘Babby … Babby and me, well we are … we are …’ It was as if he couldn’t get the words out.

  ‘Say it,’ whispered Babby.

  But Florrie, placing a hand on his arm, finished the sentence for him. ‘You’re having a baby,’ she said. He dropped his eyes to the floor.

  Babby sat with her chin resting on her knees which were drawn up to her chest. With a blanket around her shoulders, provided by Florrie, she sank deep into the chair. Tears welled in her eyes.

  ‘Come on, love. There’s no reason to cry,’ said Florrie. She took a finger and gently tilted her chin up so that Babby was looking directly into her face. A single tear rolled down the girl’s cheek. ‘Why don’t you tell Florrie what’s the matter? Let’s see if we can sort things out for you …’

  ‘Things?’ said Babby, startled. ‘No, no, I could never ever. And please don’t tell me to go back to Saint Jude’s – I could never do that, either. Callum is going to look after me. We’re going to be married.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to hear you say,’ Florrie said, clapping her hands together and smiling. ‘So, if you’ve made this decision, what’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s my mother,’ said Babby. ‘Callum and I are closer than you would ever imagine, not just two people in love. We’re bound together in another way, the very worst. There was a fight. At the Boot Inn. My dad and his.’

  ‘Took me a bit of time to realise who Callum was at first. But don’t you think everyone knows what happened? said Florrie. It’s been the talk of Liverpool since it happened. Men fighting over a job. For a pittance. There were backhanders. Favours. Trouble was always brewing at the pens. And your dad, Callum, he always got the brunt of it. But it was never supposed to have ended the way it did. Your poor father dead, Babby, and Callum’s dad in hospital to this day, not able to put two words together, and your mum devastated with the whole sorry business and drinking.’

  Babby stopped. ‘What do you mean, Callum’s dad in hospital?’

  Florrie faltered. ‘Well, when I say hospital, it’s not really a hospital is it, Callum? Saint Peter’s Home for the Feeble-Minded. Sorry, Callum, love, have I spoken out of turn?’

  Callum shook his head.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ asked Babby.

  ‘It’s one of the best kept secrets in Liverpool. But some nuns have a habit of talking. I know Sister Mary Joesph who runs the place. She could never have taken the vow of silence, that one. It would have killed her. She told me all about your da.’

  ‘Your dad is in Saint Peter’s? The asylum?’ asked Babby.

  Callum murmured a yes. His face emanated sadness. She could measure the desperation of his thoughts by the way he moved across the room to the window.

  She sighed.

  ‘So that’s why you let everyone think he was in Italy?’

  He shrugged sadly.

  ‘I were ashamed. He got sick, really sick. Takes its toll when you live a hard life …’

  ‘And was it … is it anything to do with me da …?’

  ‘Please don’t, Babby …’

  No, this wasn’t the time for him to explain. She would wait, say nothing more, ask no more questions. And they would speak about it when he was ready.

  Later that night, the tears wouldn’t stop flowing. But they were tears, not of sadness or joy, just a spilling out of everything Babby had been holding in for months and months. Babby supposed it was love that was making her do this. Whatever it was, it was overwhelming, so intense it hurt just to breathe. Florrie told her this was what happened when you were having a baby, you felt everything much more keenly. She had allowed them to stay in Babby’s room – not a word to anyone, mind.

  Babby talked to Callum into the early hours of the morning. How are we going to live? Callum? How are we going to bring a baby into the world? We don’t know anything.

  ‘There’s only one thing we need to know, Babby. That we love each other,’ he said. ‘And the rest we can learn.’

  He gave he
r a kiss that tasted sweet and good and kind. And lying in bed with him that night, with the blanket tucked around her body, beginning to doze, skin against skin, each one of his breaths, like gossamer on her cheek, she felt safer than she had ever felt in her life. And the strange thing was, despite everything, she just wished Violet was here to be part of it.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Callum stood up and the hinged seat of the tramcar slammed up behind him. When he stepped off and came out on to the pavement, he felt a rush of cold air. The lights in the city were coming on, dashes of colour against the smog of traffic fumes and coal fires. A few cars were parked on Netherfield Road, their roofs glowing a sickly yellow under the gas lights. Scrabbling in his pocket, he calmed himself down with a cigarette and then, placing his feet with great care to avoid cracks in the pavement, he set off towards Joseph Street. His eyes quickly adjusted to the smog as he made his way with the throngs of people coming back from the city to the tenement blocks and terraces.

  Violet had fallen asleep in a chair, dead to the world. When she heard knocking at the door it was like a dim and distant dream. She struggled to her feet and went to answer the knocking. At first, she was confused when she opened the door and he reminded her who he was. Then, as he’d expected, she went to shut it in his face. He blocked it with his foot and begged her for just five minutes of her time. She replied saying that five minutes was too long after he had ruined her daughter, but he pleaded with her to let him come in. If it hadn’t been for eagle-eyed Peggy, who was clearly enjoying the scene from her vantage point of the cab shelter, she would have sent him packing. She told him brusquely that he could come in and give his speech and then leave, but nothing would make her change her mind about him and Babby.

  Stepping inside, Callum knew it would be pointless to cajole or entreat her. She padded aimlessly across the scuff-marked kitchen linoleum, worn smooth in the centre, the pattern visible only in the corners, the soles of her bare feet making squelching noises. There was a roll-top desk and she searched inside it, found what she was looking for – a bottle of gin, wrapped in an old nylon petticoat, and poured herself a glass. She sat down in the armchair, leaving Callum standing, his face half in shadow under the light of a wooden standard lamp.