“Are you awake, Charlie?”
Jane knew that he would be because he was such a light sleeper and would have heard her moving about.
“Just a bit of dripping on some bread this morning. I forgot to check if we had any eggs, before I went to the allotment.”
Charlie groaned as he heard her; he loved a fried egg on a piece of toast at the weekend.
“I’ll go up to the allotment then.” He leapt out of bed, splashed some water on his face from the china ewer that was kept in a bowl on an old battered dressing table, dried his face then dragged on his trousers and shirt over the vest and long johns he wore to bed. His socks, lovingly knitted by Jane, stayed on whatever. He only took them off for his weekly scrub in the old tin bath, when he had a change of socks and underclothing.
“You can’t be that hungry,” his mother said, when Charlie passed her by wearing his best tweed overcoat, his hand outstretched for the bowl of scraps that his mother had ready for the hens. “You ate best part of that scouse last night and I was going to make a pie crust for it. Ah, well, I’ll put that bit of beef into the oven. While you’re there, get whatever is left on them sprout stalks.”
Charlie saluted, smiling to himself as he left the cottage, knowing that all her moaning was tinged with love.
It was still a little off dawn, as he plodded along the quiet street towards the land where his mother had her allotment. Above the roofs of the rows of cottages, terrace houses and the occasional shop or cafe, the lighting of the sky heralded a fine day. It gave him hope that he would be able to take up his usual position by the landing stage later, to look with interest at the busy river as vessels took anchorage from around the world and crews were ferried back and forth. With it being Sunday, he could see the difference in the level of the docks and warehouse activity.
The hens clucked a wearisome response as he gently opened the coop door, hoping the birds wouldn’t set off all of a clutter when they saw the scraps he had brought them. It was a day of rest for most godly people around and they wouldn’t be pleased to be woken by their clucking.
“How do?” said a voice a few feet behind him, causing Charlie to nearly drop the eggs he was clutching in his hand.
“Mr Hewitt!” he said, turning quickly to see his father’s old sea-going mate, standing across from Jane’s cabbages that were nearing maturity. “You didn’t half give me a fright, what are you doing about so early?”
“Don’t seem to be able to sleep nowadays.” The grey-haired, slender-looking man in his early fifties looked glum as he glanced over. “Never should have given up the sea like I did, had no trouble sleepin’ then. No, I saw yer ahead when I was on me way up to the cemetery. I thought ter meself I’ll find out how Janey’s doin’, I’ve not see ‘er fer a while.”
“In a couple of hours she’ll be sitting outside the cemetery with her barrow if you want to see her. She was here cutting her flowers only a little while ago.” Charlie quite liked this man, who had always tried to befriend his mother after his father had died.
“No, I’ve other fish ter fry today. I’m just goin’ to ‘ave a look at me mam’s grave, make sure she’s all right, then I’m off ter see the nippers over at Bootle. Me sister’s got seven of the little blighters, wore out with the lot of them she is, so I likes ter go over on a Sunday and ‘ave a look at ‘em.”
“Well, my mother’s doing fine. A bit of a struggle making ends meet while I was an apprentice, but Lairds have told me they’re putting me in their development department and I’ll be on a man’s wage then.” Charlie couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice as he spoke, though he didn’t want to appear boastful.
“You always were a clever chap,” said Alf. “I bet Janey’s proud of yer. Well, tell ‘er I asked about ‘er and she knows where I live should she need any ‘elp or anythin’.” He looked a little sheepish and had trouble meeting Charlie’s eyes as he was talking, but Charlie put it down to embarrassment after his mother had given him the bum’s rush, friendship wise. Or had it been more? Had Mr Hewitt tried it on with his mother and being a newly bereaved widow she had told him where to go? He’d never know unless he asked her and that was something he would never do.
Charlie looked across at the few pink and white dahlia heads, left on the clumps of plants that his mother had supported with wooden stakes, situated in front of a small reed fence that she had got him to erect in an effort to give them shelter. She had cut the best and they were sitting in her pails on the barrow, ready to be put into bunches and sold outside the cemetery. The bronze and white chrysanthemums a row or two behind them would be next.
Poor Mother, what a life, Charlie thought sadly. If it hadn’t been for the ferry going down in the Mersey, she could have her feet up now. It was hard to remember his father from all those years ago, though he remembered there was a lot of shouting when he was back home on his shore leaves and Charlie had wept a lot of tears when he’d heard this. Still, he wasn’t going to dwell on what might have been; he’d get back and eat his breakfast, go to chapel, then take up his favourite position down near the landing stage.
“I saw Alf Hewitt when I was up on the allotment,” Charlie said to his mother, more for conversation than gossip, after he had finished mopping up his egg with his bread.
“Oh aye, what did he want?” Jane said from the scullery, where she was rinsing her plate and soaking the frying pan in the stone sink, before bringing the big kettle with boiling water in.
“Wanted to know how you were doing.” Charlie brought his plate through. “He was on his way to the cemetery to see his mother. I said you’d be there in an hour or two.”
“Not in my grave like his mother, I hope.” Jane made an attempt to joke. “He knows where I live if he’s that worried about my welfare, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him for a long time.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t feel welcome here.” Charlie didn’t want to pry, but now he’d got this far he may as well continue.
“Or perhaps it was something to do with shooting the messenger.” His mother sounded bitter as she passed her son by on her way to the kitchen. “Anyway, I’ve said enough on the subject, let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Oh.” Charlie felt intrigued, but he knew his mother would only clam up if he started ferreting and his father had gone for all these years, so what was the point?
“Right then, if we get a move on we’ll get a front seat. I’ve heard tell the minister’s attempting a bit of healing this Sunday.” His mother wiped her hands on a piece of toweling, which she kept on a nail at the back of the scullery door. “I’ll just get my best coat on and we’ll be off.”
It had begun to drizzle as the congregation – renewed, refreshed and ready for whatever the new week had to throw at them – shook the hand of the minister at the door of the chapel and sped off to their homes. As usual Mr Bryson hadn’t held back as he brought each of the Ten Commandments to their attention, especially the one about working on the Sabbath day, knowing that he would probably see Jane Wilson sitting at the side of her barrow as he passed the cemetery gates later. Of course, the commandment could also apply to him, as Sunday was his busiest working day, but he was sure he had divine absolution. He was working on behalf of Him upstairs, so that would make it right.
Poor Mrs Wilson; she was a hardworking soul with three jobs to make ends meet. Charles, her son, was a polite young man who must make his mother proud and he was seemingly quite sweet on Mary Casson, who had sat with them in the chapel that day.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t attempt that healing stuff too often,” Jane said, as she stood under her umbrella in the churchyard with Charlie and Mary. “I felt really embarrassed for him, there’s no way Bessie Johnson will ever throw away that walking stick.”
“At least he tried and something must have given him cause to think he was channeling the good Lord’s healing powers.” Charlie had felt quite intrigued when he was watching the minister using all his concentration to channel healing through his
hands, in an effort to bring relief to the elderly woman’s painful knee. It was something he hadn’t seen the minister attempt before.
“Anyway, I’ll leave you two young ones whilst I nip off home and get changed into my working clothes,” Jane said, hoping that pushing the pair together might result in a courtship. “I don’t think the rain will set in all day, there’s enough blue in the sky to make Molly Mac a pair of bloomers. See you on Tuesday, Mary love; it hasn’t half come around quick.”
“Another “do” for an honourable?” Charlie began to walk in step with Mary, who intended to cut across the park to her home. “Would you like me to walk along with you? I’m in no hurry.”
“Yeah, that ‘ud be nice, Charlie. No, me and ‘er ‘ave been asked to wait on at Mrs Phillips’ ‘ouse on Temple Road. She’s ‘avin’ one of them sworrys. Yer know, we’ll wander around with bits of things on a salver and make sure ‘er guests ‘ave their glasses full.”
“Oh, yes, I read about her husband being made a stipendiary magistrate, it’ll probably be some sort of celebration for him.”
“I don’t know about that, Charlie.” Mary looked a bit flummoxed at his answer, as she didn’t know anything about a stipendiary magistrate, unless it was the fellow that threatened to put one of her brothers away in Walton Jail for setting a haystack alight. “I go where yer mam gets me a job, me and ‘er are great muckers.”
Charlie sighed inwardly, as he continued to walk along with the comely Mary. Now, Lily would have known exactly what he had been talking about; she probably even knew the Phillips family. Her father, although a coal agent, could often be seen rubbing shoulders at charity events with the great and the good. Poor Mary was the eldest of ten, lived in a rundown dwelling near the river and her education had been non-existent, given that she was needed to help with the Casson babies that kept appearing each year. He had wondered aloud once to his mother why Mary hadn’t married, given that she must be good with children what with having so many back at home. Jane had said that was probably why she hadn’t married, as there was enough of them in the family without adding more.
“So, ‘ave yer got a sweetheart, Charlie?” Mary’s question was direct, given that she had no social graces to fall back on. “Only yer mam was sayin’ that you liked a girl from up on Rosemount Terrace. I said she must be kiddin’ – Rosemount folk are not fer you!”
“Can’t see why not, we’re all God’s creatures.” Charlie suddenly felt irritated with his mother for egging Mary on. Mary was pretty, but in a blowsy kind of way. With her round face, plumpish body and light brown hair she would surely go the same way as her mother, and she was a hefty lump. He felt disinclined to ask for a courtship, as until Lily Griffiths got her wealthy man he was still in with a chance.
“We could go fer a ride on the ferry boat, if yer like Charlie? Like yer mam says, it won’t be rainin’ all day.”
“I’ll leave you here, if you don’t mind, Mary.” Charlie stopped short of the park gate and arranged his face into sorrowful one. “I’ve just remembered, I promised my mam that I’d help her with the buckets. I’ll have to hurry to catch her up.”
The cottage was quiet but for the occasional click of a piece of slack as it settled amongst the other embers in the bottom of the grate. Charlie lifted the latch on the front door and decided to have some time alone, before heading out to sit on the riverbank. His mother had been happy to see him when he had caught her up and offered his help in pushing the handcart, though she was puzzled as to why he had left Mary to walk home alone.
“She’s a lovely girl, son. Hardworking, loyal and would make a good mother for my grandchildren. You’ll have to marry one day and it may as well be her. You’re setting your sights too high with that Lily Griffiths. Her sort’s not for you, son.”
Her well-meaning words rankled Charlie. He was as good as any man who walked the Earth and he’d show his beloved Lily that some day. In the meantime, was it fair to let Mary think that she was in with a chance with him? And what if Lily came to hear that he was stepping out with Mary – that would blow his chances. Ah well, what would be, would be; Charlie was a great believer in his destiny.
He climbed the narrow stairs of the cottage, intent on finding his father’s oilskin, which he liked to wear if he thought it might rain. There was something comforting about donning the smelly old garment that had been worn by his father whilst sailing the seven seas. He sat upon the sea chest trying to imagine the scene. A clipper ship, white sails billowing, tossed on the waves of the Atlantic, steered by a capable captain to the shores of America. The crewmen, sailors drawn from the teeming streets of Liverpool, fleet footed, venturesome, intrepid, married to whichever vessel they happened to be serving on at the time. They’d have tales of dusky maidens, exotic palm tree covered islands, faraway places with names that no one had heard of. He could see it all in every detail, his imagination bright with mind’s eye pictures. It was strange how he could see those visions flickering when he sat upon the battered sea trunk, but he could never conjure up his father’s watery grave. He shivered, pulled himself together and carefully trod the steps down the stairs.
The chains holding up the landing stage clunked loudly, as the ferocious wind that blew along the river caught in the securely bound wooden platform, causing it to rock alarmingly. People who waited for the two smoke stacked ferry looked across nervously as the vessel neared its destination, its captain fighting with the swelling currents to moor alongside. A crashing wave nearby, held back by the strength of the esplanade wall, sprayed its spume across the footpath, sending people running for shelter – including Charlie, who had been anxiously watching the scene.
It isn’t a day for observing the current movements of the shipping, he thought, looking across the river where vessels lay at anchor. The smaller ones jerked with the turbulence, the larger ones rode out the roughening waves. Across the river and along the docksides of Brunswick and Coburg, sailing ships and steamers waited to discharge their cargo, whilst increased trade at the busy port had shaped the city skyline, with newly built structures everywhere.
Charlie retraced his steps along the footpaths, heading for the cemetery where he knew his mother would be. If he felt chilly and he was wearing the heavy oilskin over his Sunday clothes, how must she be feeling? He would try to persuade her to go back home. She was sat on a raised paving slab just outside the iron gates of the cemetery, with only her shawl covering her bodice-clad shoulders. Her black bonnet, which she had placed a piece of newspaper over, caught the rain drips from an overhanging tree and her sodden black skirt was tucked around her legs and boots. She looked miserable, forlorn and very lonely; Charlie’s heart felt heavy to see that his mother had to earn her living in such a way. It was half past three; dusk was fast arriving and no one was going to visit the dead at that time of the day.
“Got that wrong, didn’t you Mother?” he said, as cheerfully as he could manage, noticing that she had one last bunch of dahlias in the old tin bucket. “Enough blue in the sky to make Molly Mac a pair of bloomers, you said, and it’s been raining on and off since then.”
“Aye, Charlie, got that wrong didn’t I? Not many folk been out and about neither, but the flowers are nearly gone. One more bunch and I’ll be away.”
Charlie felt in his trouser pocket for a few small coins. “Thruppence did you say, missus? Cheap at the price; a nice bunch of flowers for my dearly beloved.” He dropped the money into her lap.
“Oh Charlie, you haven’t got a dearly beloved. No, take the money back, you’ll be wanting a pint between now and your wages.” Jane tried to rise, but sitting as she had on the stone cold pavement had stiffened her muscles and she fell back in agony. “Help me up, there’s a love,” she gasped. Her face filled with pain and her head was full of worrying thoughts about how they would live if she couldn’t manage to get about to earn some money. “I’ll have to make a cushion, something to put my bottom on now there’s wintry days.”
“You say that
every time you come up here, Mother,” Charlie said, shaking a finger at her as if she was a child, before using all the strength in his small body to lift her. “Anyway, I have got a beloved and I’ll see she gets these flowers before the end of the day.”
Chapter Five
“Who was that at the door, Ellen?” asked Grand-mama, after summoning any one of her grandchildren that were in the vicinity by ringing the small brass bell she had on a table nearby.
“A man with a bunch of flowers for Lily,” the young woman answered, as she put her head around her grand-mama’s door. Her voice was filled with admiration for her pretty sister, who could get a man to bring her nice things.
“I wonder who that was?” Grand-mama’s face wore a serious expression. “Was it a bouquet delivered from a florist shop, or just a bunch of flowers picked from somebody’s garden? No, it wouldn’t be a delivery, the shops are shut today.”
“It was a bunch of pink and white dahlias wrapped in newspaper. I have seen the man who brought them before.”
“Oh, does he have a name, this man whom you have seen before?”
“I don’t know it, but he used to walk Lily back home from school.”
“Did he now? Then tell Lily that I wish to see her. She may be sleeping and I know that she must have had rather a shock earlier, but lying in bed moping doesn’t do anyone any good.”
“Yes, Grand-mama, would you like me to bring the flowers so that you can show them to her?”
“Of course, Ellen and ask your parents to come along too. Then I can find out exactly who this young man is.”
Her Heart's Desire Page 5