‘Right as rain,’ Mary answered with a smile. ‘Catholic’s Honour. Cross my heart and hope to die,’ she said making a small gesture – a glancing stroke with her forefinger, one, two, across her chest. And they kissed and said goodbye and swore that they would meet again, though they both knew that might never happen.
‘Keep in touch.’
‘I will. I’d best be off,’ she said, nodding towards the small group of men, chanting the slogans on their banners. ‘One Ireland! One Cause!’
Babby nodded and turned to go. But then she remembered she might have moved to Bootle by the end of the month. She should give Mary her new address. She turned back to find her. And felt her heart somersault.
There was Ted, still standing on the pavement, losing himself in a stupid game as he balanced on one foot and tossed a halfpenny in the air. And there was Mary, standing frozen to the spot, staring at Ted’s perfectly formed face, as he watched the coin flip into the sun. It was the combination of Mary’s expression, so sad and contemplative, and the tiny rise and fall of Ted’s shoulders, that made Babby immediately look away. It was too much to bear. And as she hurried off, hoping that Ted would be bobbing through the crowds after her, she realised she hadn’t believed a single word of what Mary had said.
‘Let’s go and tell Nan and Hannah about the elephants,’ said Ted when he caught up and squirrelled under her arm. The three of them fell into a steady rhythm. And the elephants continued on, swaying gracefully in the sun, until the excitement, the cheering, and laughter, gradually diminished to a rhythmic throb and petered to a nothing.
When they got home, the baby was waking from her afternoon nap. Violet had left and Hannah had arrived home from the early shift at the Meccano factory and was taking off her coat.
‘I’ll see to her, Hannah,’ said Babby. ‘You put the kettle on.’
What she would do without Hannah? She would find room for her at the new house, to keep the promise she had made all those years ago.
Slipping off her shoes, she went upstairs, taking care not to tread on the loose, rotting board. This house had been threatening to swallow them up for years now. The baby was in her cot, struggling to stand on her chubby legs. She had a fist stuck in her mouth and was smiling.
‘My little lamb,’ said Babby.
She went over and lifted her out. The child twisted her face into her breasts and Babby kissed the top of her creamy head. She paused, remembering her father hugging her close and tight like this the last time she saw him. How far she had come and how precious these moments were.
She was overtaken by an irresistible impulse and, putting her baby back in the cot, she padded across the room and opened the lid of the wooden chest, knelt down and removed blankets, the old astrakhan coat.
The smell hit her first. That musky, familiar scent that hit the back of her throat and filled her nostrils. She sat on the chair, hauled the accordion on to her knee. As always, pulling open the bellows, it felt as if her father had noiselessly stepped into the room with her.
Time to bring music back into all of their lives. It was long overdue. Would she even have remembered how to play? She had been so busy with the children these past seven years she hadn’t had time for much of anything. She began.
It was as easy as shelling peas.
And the strains of the music grew louder, sweeter, more joyful as the baby gurgled and chirrupped and clapped her hands with delight.
This was happiness – and Babby was ready to grab at it.
Acknowledgements
Thanks so much to my editor Gillian Greene at Ebury Press. Thank you also to my agent, Judith Murdoch, for her encouragement and advice, and to Trisha Ashley who told me my short story was in fact a novel, and who has supported me every step of this journey. Thank you to my husband Peter, for everything, and especially for talking to me at length about his job as a porter at Brookwood Asylum. Thank you to the life force in our home that is Louis and Joel, for putting up with their mother’s dereliction of duty. Thanks to the indomitable Pat Scanlon who first shared her heart-stopping story over many cups of tea with me. And to my mum and dad for their constant and unending love. Without whom I would never have learned to play the piano accordion or have written this book.
THE BEGINNING
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Copyright © Elizabeth Morton, 2019
Cover photographs: figures by Head Design; background © Mary Evans
Cover: www.headdesign.co.uk
Elizabeth Morton has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
First published by Ebury Press in 2019
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781473565982
A Liverpool Girl Page 29