The Leaving of Liverpool

by Lyn Andrews

  The scullery door opened and Emily smiled at her.

  ‘We’re going down the bag-wash, Mam.’

  ‘And we might go into town for an hour,’ Phoebe-Ann added, ignoring the look her sister shot at her.

  ‘Get my purse, Em, it’s on the mantel.’ Lily felt too tired to even get up and her head had begun to ache.

  Emily took down the battered old purse and handed it to her mother. ‘You look worn out.’

  ‘No more than usual. Here, take this and get yourselves something. Have a bit of a treat to celebrate.’ She handed out two silver shillings.

  Emily shook her head. ‘No, Mam, you might need it and I’ve got a few bob left from my wages.’

  Lily felt annoyed. Was this Emily’s way of showing her disapproval? ‘Take it, girl. I’ve never been able to hand out coppers for treats since . . . well, not for a long time anyway.’

  Emily took the coin. She’d buy Mam something. She looked so drawn and tired. Phoebe-Ann would spend hers on bits of finery; she thought of little else but her appearance. Mam never had anything for herself. She looked closely at her mother and then looked away for there were tears on Lily’s lashes.

  Lily followed them into the lobby, kissed them both and then went into the parlour to watch them from the window. They were good girls, she thought. The room smelled musty. The grate hadn’t seen a fire in it for years. She shivered and the pain behind her eyes increased in severity. She sighed deeply. Albert Davies was a good man but who’d have thought that when he’d gone down with the influenza and she’d gone in to make up his fire, clean up a bit and get some food down him that it would lead to this? When he’d recovered she’d gone in a couple of times a week to clean, ignoring the avid curiosity and barbed remarks of her neighbours and she’d got to know him better. He was a quiet, reserved man, simple in his tastes and she’d come to like and respect him.

  She’d realized in a short time that he was lonely. He had no close family, just a cousin who still lived in the pit village in a green, Welsh valley, as he’d described it when she’d asked. Gradually, he had told her more about himself and she’d divulged her background. She had found it easy to talk to him, to confide in him, to make him laugh at the antics and escapades of her family and her daily life. And then a week ago he’d said, ‘It’s not been much of a life, Lil, has it – for us both?’

  She’d just smiled thinking how comforting it was to have someone who listened, someone who cared.

  ‘I know this will come as a shock, it’s shocked me, the realization that . . . Well, would you consider marrying me, Lily? You’d have no more worries. No need for you to work yourself to death and we do . . . get on well, like?’

  She’d been too stunned to utter a word.

  ‘No need to rush. Take your time, like I said “consider”.’ He’d looked bashful and suddenly very vulnerable and tears had sprung to her eyes.

  ‘I’ll take good care of you, Lil! I promise!’

  ‘I’ll . . . I’ll consider it, Albert,’ she’d managed to stammer.

  In the days and nights that had followed she’d thought of it to the exclusion of everything else. She’d been distant and preoccupied when people spoke to her. She’d weighed all the ‘pros’ and ‘cons’. She was fond of him but would it be enough? Could she give herself to a man after all these years? Would he be happy with her and her family? And what about the family? In the end she’d become so confused that she felt she couldn’t go on in such a state. They had discussed a few things and then she’d given him her answer. Yes. When she’d said it she felt so relieved. The fog of confusion had lifted. She’d felt almost elated.

  She turned from the window and reached out for the framed photo of Joe that stood on the mantel. Her hand hovered hesitantly for a second before she picked it up. ‘I don’t want to have to slave for ever, Joe. I’m middle-aged and the kids are grown up.’

  The smiling features of the young man stared silently back.

  ‘I’m worn out. You understand, Joe, don’t you? I’m fond of him. I don’t love him the way I loved you, but he’s offering me peace of mind, company, and I don’t want to be left on my own. The kids have got their own lives to lead. You do understand, don’t you, Joe?’

  She raised the photograph to her lips and kissed the image, then she replaced it. An army of small men with hammers was pounding away inside her head. She’d go and lie down for an hour to see if it would lift. The lines in her forehead eased and she smiled ruefully. Never in her entire life had she taken to her bed with a headache, no matter how bad it had been. That was what marrying Albert Davies meant. She could take the time. Time for herself.

  It was Emily who broached the subject at tea time. Jack and Jimmy Parkinson had had their own discussion about Lily’s news on their way to work that morning. Indeed they’d discussed it all the way down Upper Parliament Street, on the tram to the Pierhead, and on the overhead railway to the Bramley Moor Dock. Back and forth it had been tossed. Opinions had been expressed, arguments for and against presented and finally they had decided that if it was what Lily wanted they wouldn’t put up any objections.

  As Emily placed the teapot with its knitted cosy on the circle of cork, she looked around at the assembled family. She wondered what her brothers were thinking and hoped that what she was about to say wouldn’t start off an almighty row. She’d bought a big bunch of flowers from the flower ladies in Clayton Square and they reposed in two jam jars on the dresser, their colours brightening up the dingy room. Phoebe-Ann had refused to be drawn on the subject. In fact she seemed to have forgotten her outburst and had spent hours at the counters in Woolworth’s in Church Street. But Emily was suspicious of her sister and hoped she wasn’t going to start acting up again. ‘Mam . . .’ she began.

  Lily looked at her apprehensively. ‘Well, spit it out, Emily?’

  ‘Where will we . . . ? I mean he . . . Mr Davies. Where will . . . ?’

  Lily put her out of her misery. ‘Where will he sleep?’

  Emily nodded.

  Phoebe-Ann fidgeted with a spoon. She didn’t want to think about this at all.

  Jack and Jimmy looked down at their hands.

  ‘I had thought I would move in with him. On my own.’

  ‘Oh, Mam, you can’t do that!’ Phoebe-Ann cried, dropping the spoon which fell into her cup and splashed tea on the table.

  Lily was contrite. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease.’

  Emily and Jack exchanged glances of relief.

  ‘I discussed it all with Albert, before I gave him my answer. I wanted it sorted out I told him, just in case I did accept.’

  Jimmy stirred his tea slowly. He’d agreed with Jack in the end that Mam deserved something better out of life, but he didn’t really approve.

  ‘He has a much bigger house than this one,’ Lily went on.

  ‘Nearly everyone has a bigger house than this one,’ Phoebe-Ann muttered to herself.

  Lily ignored her. ‘There are three bedrooms, a parlour, a kitchen, a back kitchen and a scullery. There’s more room in the yard and a wash-house, so it makes sense all round for us all to move in there.’ She stopped and held her breath, wondering how this decision would be received.

  ‘Makes no difference to us, Mam. Does it Jim? One house is much like another.’

  Jimmy nodded slowly and Lily let out her breath in a sigh of relief. The girls she could manage but she’d wondered about the lads.

  Emily smiled, then glanced at Phoebe-Ann.

  Phoebe-Ann could see she was outnumbered but she didn’t care. She’d made a decision of her own. ‘Well, I’m not going to live with him even if there are three bedrooms! I’m not going to have everyone pointing and nudging each other and jangling!’

  ‘That’ll do you!’ Jack’s voice was dangerously quiet for he feared a desertion of unity from Jimmy.

  Emily saw that her mother was tightly twisting the hem of her apron. She could kill Phoebe-Ann. ‘And just what are you going to do?’

&
nbsp; ‘I’m going to live in at the Mercers’. If I have to go back into service I might as well go the whole hog and live in as well!’ She sprang up from the table and turned and ran quickly up the stairs.

  Lily made to rise and go after her but Emily laid a restraining hand on her arm.

  ‘Leave her, Mam! She’ll come round and if she doesn’t . . . well, it might be better her living in instead of moving under protest and throwing tantrums if anyone looks sideways at her.’ She smiled at her mother but she was wondering how it would work out. She knew fingers would be pointed, tongues would wag but it would also be a five minute wonder. But would they all get on? They were all noisy. She and Phoebe-Ann were always bickering. Jack and Jimmy often argued, especially about football, and Mr Davies was such a quiet man. She realized Lily was speaking.

  ‘Of course it will be a quiet affair. I know it’s usual for it to be in church, but I wanted it to be unusual, something different to what your Da and I had. So, it’s to be at the Registry Office and no expensive “do” afterwards.’ She looked a little embarrassed. ‘After all, neither of us are spring chickens.’

  ‘When?’ Emily asked.

  ‘Next Friday afternoon. The stuff I decide to take with me can go on Thursday night. Then after the ceremony we all go back . . . there.’

  Emily raised her teacup. ‘Here’s to you and Mr Davies.’

  Lily smiled at her. ‘Albert. You’ll have to learn to call him Albert.’

  ‘To you and . . . Albert and a new life.’ It wasn’t exactly what she had wanted to say but the right words just wouldn’t come, so it would have to do.

  Chapter Two

  ‘I MEAN IT! I REALLY mean it, so don’t try and talk me out of it!’ Phoebe-Ann cried when Emily pushed open the bedroom door.

  ‘I know you do,’ Emily said laconically, as she lit the gas jet and the room became bathed in its soft light, the warm glow muting the shabbiness of the furniture, hiding the faded colours of the patchwork quilt on the bed and the curtain on the window. It softened the harshness of the bare floorboards and picked out the colours of the peg rug by the side of the bed.

  The quilt was creased and the bolster rumpled where Phoebe-Ann had tossed and turned. Emily sat at the foot of the bed.

  ‘You can change your mind, if you wanted to.’

  Phoebe-Ann shot upright. ‘No! You might not care that everyone will be talking about us, but I do! We’ll be the laughing stock of Toxteth! It was bad enough when Mam started going in a couple of times a week after he was ill. Her next door said “See your Mam’s gettin’ ’er feet under the table, like!” I was so mortified I could have died!’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Fee! You don’t mean to tell me you take any notice of her? She’s all mouth! She can eat a banana sideways that one!’

  Phoebe-Ann walked over to the window and stared out at the bulk of St Nathaniel’s church, outlined against the indigo sky of the midsummer’s night.

  Seeing she was getting nowhere, Emily decided to change the subject. ‘What was the other important event you were harping on about before all . . . this?’

  ‘Going back into service, although now I’m glad I am!’

  Emily sighed. She just couldn’t win. Phoebe-Ann seemed determined to be contrary. ‘I thought you said you would hate working for the Mercers again?’

  ‘What else can I do now the munitions have closed down and Mam won’t hear of me working in any other factory, and now . . . this mess?’

  Emily did not share her sister’s enthusiasm for factory work. From the day they’d patriotically joined the thousands of girls and women in munitions she’d hated it. It was boring, dirty work and often dangerous. She tried not to think of Annie Moran’s face, or what had been left of it, when a detonator had exploded. Phoebe-Ann had enjoyed the companionship of the other girls. The lighter atmosphere. The less autocratic supervision, but most of all she liked the money in her pocket. Far more than she was paid as a lady’s maid.

  She herself would be glad to go back to the large house in Upper Huskisson Street owned by Richard Mercer, a director of the Cunard Shipping Company. She liked the usually tranquil atmosphere, the well-ordered routine, the expensive furniture, fine carpets and beautiful furnishings.

  Phoebe-Ann was rubbing away her tears with the back of her hand. ‘At least Miss Olivia will be glad to have me back. I’ll have my self-respect and be able to hold my head up when I come home to see Mam and . . . him!’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re so dead set against Mr Davies. Albert,’ she corrected herself and studiously ignored the look Phoebe-Ann shot at her. ‘You don’t know him so how can you judge him?’

  ‘That’s just it! We don’t know him, and I don’t want to!’

  Emily was getting tired of the whole matter. ‘Oh, suit yourself but don’t come moaning to me when Cook gets on to you or Miss Olivia is in one of those moods when even the Angel Gabriel himself couldn’t please her.’ She took out the pins that held up her thick, straight hair and began to brush it.

  ‘I’ve always got on well with Miss Olivia,’ Phoebe-Ann said defensively.

  ‘That’s because you’re both scatty and spoiled. She having no mam and you being the youngest.’

  ‘I’m not spoiled!’

  ‘You’re certainly giving a good impression of it at the moment!’

  Phoebe-Ann pulled a face. Now that a solution was in sight, although not the one she would readily admit was perfect, she felt better. If she lived in she’d have that small room at the top of the house to which she could escape at night, should she want to, with a bed of her own. No sharing. And she did get on well with Olivia Mercer who was indeed spoiled.

  Olivia was the same age as herself and could be a Tartar when she chose to be. At other times she treated her just like a friend or a sister and they had often giggled together for hours until Madge Webster, the housekeeper, had admonished her and delivered long lectures on ‘knowing your place’. ‘So, when is it to be then?’

  Emily put down the hairbrush. ‘Next Friday afternoon and don’t think you are going to get out of going! It’s only going to be a quiet “do” at Brougham Terrace and you’ll go if I have to drag you every foot of the way!’

  Phoebe-Ann pouted and then tried to look nonchalant. ‘That won’t be necessary!’

  ‘Good!’ Emily slipped her clean but darned nightdress over her head. Her clothes were folded neatly on top of the tiny chest.

  Phoebe-Ann started to get undressed. ‘Em, do you think we could get something new, to wear? Do you think if Mam asked . . .’

  ‘You’ve got a flamin’ nerve, Phoebe-Ann Parkinson! Don’t be two-faced! And don’t be mithering Mam about new clothes. If you want something, you pay for it!’

  Next morning, as had become her habit, Lily slipped quietly in through the back door of the house on the corner. She smiled to herself as she looked around the kitchen. The furniture was plain but of good quality. The range glimmered from recent black-leading and the kettle sang on the hob.

  For months now she’d made his Sunday dinner. He was an early riser, even on Sunday. He usually checked on the horses then went for a long walk, bought a newspaper and returned home, mid-morning. She looked at the clock on the mantel. He must have cut short his morning constitutional she surmised. He wouldn’t leave the kettle to boil dry.

  She busied herself with the piece of brisket, thinking it would be the last time she would cook him a solitary meal and that from now on there would always be meat for Sunday lunch. Something that was a rarity in her house.

  She didn’t hear him come down the stairs or open the door. Nor did she see him standing watching her. He was a stocky man of no great height. His face was weather-beaten from the years spent working in the open. His hair had once been black but now it was grizzled. His dark eyes beneath thick, straight eyebrows were kind.

  She turned around. ‘Oh! Good grief! You gave me a turn!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Lil, I didn’t mean to.’ His quiet tones still re
tained the sing-song lilt of the small Welsh village he’d left so many years ago. ‘How did it go, then? Come and sit down and tell me.’

  She smiled, wiping her hands on her apron and sitting in the wooden rocker opposite him. ‘They were surprised to say the least.’

  ‘Did they kick up?’

  ‘No. Not really.’

  Albert Davies looked at her and for the hundredth time wondered how he had ever managed to pluck up the courage to ask her to marry him. She was an attractive woman and a kind one, too. He’d experienced many instances of her thoughtfulness and generosity. Not that she’d had much to give in the way of material things. It was the little things that had touched him. The mugs of homemade soup she’d brought him when he’d been ill; the kettle holders and oven mitts that Emily or Phoebe-Ann had made that suddenly ‘appeared’ in the kitchen. Things like that. And her time and patience given so gladly and without thought of payment. She’d brought a warmth to his home and a brightness into a life that had been increasingly lonely. She, too, had confessed to loneliness, despite the fact that she was always surrounded by people. There were times when she felt a great emptiness in her life, she’d told him. That was something he understood only too well.

  ‘And did you decide about the . . . arrangements?’

  ‘Yes. We’ll come and live here, if that’s still all right?’