Flowers on the Mersey

by June Francis

  Her aunt seemed lost for words for a moment but not for long. ‘He wants to appear in a good light to thee.’

  Rebekah took a firm hold on her patience. ‘He only told me about the orphanage because I asked about the collection box on the ship.’

  Her aunt sighed. ‘It wasn’t right thy father leaving him – almost a stranger – in charge of thy affairs.’

  ‘I suspect Papa had an ulterior motive.’ Rebekah rose and went over to the window.

  ‘He did it to annoy me,’ said Esther.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ murmured Rebekah, remembering a conversation with her father on the ship. ‘There’ll be insurance as well, Aunt Esther. I could be a rich woman one day, so I think Papa thought it best to have a man in charge of my affairs.’

  ‘Fortune hunters!’ exclaimed her aunt. ‘And if they knew about my money—’

  ‘I told thee, Miss Esther,’ grunted Hannah, ‘just like wasps round a jam pot the fellas will be. We’ll have no peace.’

  ‘There’ll be no fellas – fellows, I mean – coming here,’ said Esther. ‘Does thou hear that, Rebekah?’ Her expression was severe.

  ‘I heard.’

  Her aunt’s face softened. ‘My poor dear, thou can find satisfaction in other things. Perhaps it would help if thou involved thyself in the peace movement? I have a book written in the last century, called Wanderings in War Time. The author visited the Franco-Prussian battlefields. It’ll make edifying reading for thee when thou goes to bed.’ Rebekah murmured a thank you.

  That night she found it difficult to sleep as she had on board ship. The mattress was as lumpy as ever, and the room was decorated with heavy floral wallpaper that looked as if it had been there since Queen Victoria’s Jubilee. Her mother had said that the furniture had come from the rooms above the shop. She decided that as soon as possible she would buy a new bed.

  Her gaze washed over the ceiling and she was wishing that time could be switched back … that she was with Daniel gazing over Dublin Bay. Had he thought of her or never seeing Ireland, when he had been swamped by the freezing waters of the Atlantic? Oh God! Her sorrow seldom ended in tears now. It was as if frost had blighted her capacity to cry. She picked up the edifying book on battlefields, began to read, was depressed even further, and threw it across the room.

  Despite her aunt’s coaxing words, Rebekah did not go to the meeting house the next day. She had no desire to be welcomed back into the fold of the Quakers in the manner of a prodigal daughter. She doubted her ability to cope with people’s sympathy and well-meant suggestions. It was difficult enough dealing with her aunt’s overwhelming desire to have her as one of them. Nor did she attend the sewing circle. Instead she went walking in the park.

  Her aunt was annoyed with her. ‘Ellen wanted to meet thee. She suggests that thou joins the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom.’

  ‘Not now,’ said Rebekah in a lifeless voice. ‘I just want to be left alone. Can’t you understand that, Aunt Esther?’

  ‘No. I can’t,’ retorted her aunt, pursing her mouth. ‘I would have thought it easier to forget in the company of others.’

  ‘I don’t want to forget,’ said Rebekah, hugging her broken arm to her chest. ‘However much it hurts, I want to go on remembering.’ She walked out of the room, wishing she had Brigid to talk to, knowing that she would understand.

  Yet over the next weeks Rebekah did not get in touch with her friend, believing that she might not want her company now she was back with her family. The fact that Brigid did not write or visit only seemed to confirm that belief. Neither was there word from Joshua Green, which surprised her.

  Rebekah’s arm was freed from plaster and to her relief she was able to use it without much difficulty. She helped with the housework, which did not please Hannah.

  ‘Always under me feet thee are,’ muttered the maid, giving her a look that was positively poisonous. ‘Why don’t thee get yerself a proper job or go and see that man? No doubt he’d enjoy looking at thee legs. Short skirts! Sinful, I call them. But some girls would go to any lengths to get a man.’

  ‘I don’t want a man,’ said Rebekah, outwardly calm as she polished the walnut sideboard.

  Hannah’s look was disbelieving and she sniffed in a way that expressed exactly what she was thinking.

  Rebekah was determined not to let the maid drive her out of the house but even so she began to scan the columns of the local paper in search of a job.

  ‘Housekeeper wanted.’ Pity she couldn’t send Hannah after that. ‘Situations required by ex-officers and other ranks.’ Poor soldiers! At least she was not desperate for work because she had a family dependent on her. She read on. Charlie Chaplin was getting divorced from Miss Mildred Harris, who was not to use his name in her profession. What happened to a marriage to make the scandal of divorce more preferable?

  A couple more weeks passed and Rebekah continued to look in the Echo. Joiners throughout the country went on strike. The papers said that it was a bad look out for Christmas. She was terribly lonely and despaired of ever feeling normal or even mildly cheerful again. The days stretched ahead of her like a dark tunnel with only night at the end.

  December came in and she read that there was talk of an Irish truce … that there could be peace. She considered how she and Daniel had spoken of such an event and could have wept. In the same paper there was an article about the funeral of a Sinn Fein victim. A young man had been shot dead in Liverpool when the Sinn Feiners had set fire to buildings. Hundreds had attended the requiem mass despite the gales that had swept Merseyside. Rebekah remembered the day in Dublin when Shaun had shot the Black and Tans and she experienced a heaviness that seemed to weigh her down. Even in Liverpool people were not completely safe. She was filled with a sense of restlessness and a need to talk about Daniel. Her aunt was no use. She would surely disapprove. Brigid! She had to talk to her. Before the doubts started crowding in again, she wrote to her.

  Brigid replied by return of post. ‘Of course I want to see you, you dafty! I thought you’d found some posh friends and didn’t want me.’ She gave arrangements for a meeting, and for the first time in a long time Rebekah looked forward to the days ahead.

  At breakfast three days later, and two months to the day since the Samson had set off to America, Esther voiced her plans for the day. ‘We’ll go shopping, just for a few essentials. Then after a quiet time and dinner, we’ll walk in the park. Exercise is essential for a healthy body.’

  Rebekah had heard similar sentiments every day for the last few weeks. ‘No thank you,’ she murmured. ‘I’m meeting a friend.’

  ‘A friend?’ Esther stared at her.

  Hannah paused in doling out the porridge. ‘It’s a fella.’

  ‘It’s half a dozen,’ said Rebekah mildly. ‘We’re going to dance ragtime in Woolworth’s threepence and sixpence store.’

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said her aunt, obviously startled.

  ‘I do,’ said the maid in a satisfied voice, slamming a dollop of sticky porridge on to Rebekah’s plate.

  Rebekah’s smile was genuine for the first time in weeks.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘Where next?’ Rebekah put her arm through Brigid’s and smiled at her. They had done some of Brigid’s Christmas shopping and then had coffee and cakes in Cooper’s café before strolling round the Bon Marché where Rebekah had paid twenty-one shillings for a jade crêpe-de-Chine blouse – all due to Brigid’s persuasive tongue, and the fact that she had spent little of the money Joshua Green had given to her. ‘Yer looking real drab,’ her friend had said, and Rebekah, who had stopped feeling drab from the moment her letter had arrived, agreed and bought the blouse. Now she was wondering why they had stopped in front of the flower girls outside Central Station.

  ‘D’yer realise it’s two months to the day since we sailed for America?’ said Brigid.

  ‘Yes.’ The smile faded from Rebekah’s face.

  ‘I want to buy some flowers. I’m
going to throw them on the Mersey.’

  Rebekah stared at her. ‘It’s a lovely thought, but won’t the tide wash them back?’

  Brigid shrugged. ‘I know it’s daft but I want to do something.’

  A sharp laugh escaped Rebekah. ‘But I thought you’d lit candles in church and had masses said?’

  ‘I have.’ Brigid’s voice was fierce. ‘But it’s not enough! I feel so frustrated, Becky. So angry with God.’ She fumbled inside her handbag. ‘He could have allowed me at least a grave to tend! But then, I suppose I’m no worse off than the thousands of women who lost their men in the Great War. Although they do have the new cenotaph.’

  ‘We’ll have a whole armful!’ Rebekah found her own purse. ‘I think lovely big yellow chrysanths are best.’ She pointed out the flowers to the woman wrapped in a thick black knitted shawl. ‘Yellow’s for remembrance, you know, Brigid.’ Her tongue was almost tripping her because she felt like crying. ‘Not that I’ve forgotten Daniel or Mama or Papa – or your Keith.’ She handed a pound note to the woman.

  Brigid took some of the flowers and dropped a halfcrown in Rebekah’s pocket. ‘Yer don’t have to pay my share.’

  She shook her head but it was no use saying anything to Brigid. She was proud, and as she had a job as an all-purpose maid for a doctor with an invalid daughter, Rebekah presumed she must have some money.

  They dodged a horse drawn wagon and a delivery bicycle as they crossed the road, laden down with parcels and flowers.

  They walked in silence, deep in memories. ‘I see in the paper the troubles in Ireland might be over,’ said Brigid at last.

  Rebekah nodded. ‘I wonder if Shaun’s back in Ireland or whether he stayed in America?’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything. D’you want me to find out?’

  ‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘I never did care for him and I don’t know why I’m bothering my head thinking about him now. Let’s get a tram to the Pierhead. I don’t know about you but my feet are killing me.’

  As the Birkenhead ferry discharged people at the landing stage, throwing flowers into the Mersey did not seem such a good idea.

  ‘People’ll think we’re mad, won’t they?’ said Brigid.

  Rebekah looked at her, pinched with the cold, miserable of face, and was angry. ‘Who cares?’ She began to run and Brigid followed her.

  Rebekah stopped on the spot where she had stood with Daniel a little longer than two months ago. Was it crazy to feel so lonely for someone she had known so briefly? She looked up at the sky, searching for she did not know what. God could not be pleased with her. She had broken his rules. He was supposed to be a forgiving God, but was she sorry for what she had done with Daniel? Did she have any regrets about defying her parents? She bit her trembling lips. She and Daniel had become part of each other and she could not be sorry about that, though she did regret hurting her parents. For a moment longer she searched the clouds, needing reassurance, but there was no sign from the heavens. Stupid of her. God’s spirit was within you. It was an inner voice that she needed to listen to, but how did one know what were just one’s own thoughts and which God’s? She sighed, then put down her parcels and cast the chrysanthemums one by one on to the water.

  It was the first of many outings with Brigid and when Rebekah mentioned that it was her birthday the week before Christmas, her friend said, as she paid twopence for The Penny Magazine in the newsagent’s: ‘You can’t just let your birthday go by.’

  ‘What’s there to celebrate?’

  ‘Yer aunt not doing anything special?’

  ‘She hasn’t mentioned it, but that could be because she’s cross with me. She thinks I’ve got a fella.’

  Brigid’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Why does she think that?’

  ‘Because I pretend I have – just to get Hannah going. She was actually croaking around the house yesterday. You couldn’t call it singing. Besides, Quakers don’t sing. Nothing would please her more than to see me married off – preferably to someone not of the Quaker persuasion. You’re tall, dark and handsome, and after my fortune.’

  Brigid grinned. ‘Yer joking!’

  ‘She believes it because she wants to, of course. Aunt Esther doesn’t know what to believe. I’ve denied that you’re a man but she’s not sure because Hannah’s gone on at her about my flirting with boys in Dublin. I’d ask you to visit, only she’d bombard you with questions. Wanting to know about your family and all that. Religion, you know.’ She smiled. ‘I think on my birthday I’ll tell them that we’re going to the theatre.’

  ‘Are we dollying ourselves up?’

  ‘Of course! We’ve got to put a good face on things.’ Rebekah held her head on one side. ‘Where shall we go?’

  Brigid hesitated. ‘If yer like – instead of doing that – yer could have a birthday tea in our house. Mam would like to meet yer and she’d be pleased to do it.’

  Rebekah stared at her. ‘What does she feel about my not being a Catholic?’

  ‘As long as yer not Orange, that’s all she cares. If yer were a fella, of course, it’d be different.’

  ‘That’s reassuring,’ murmured Rebekah.

  ‘Our Pat’ll be home.’

  ‘It’ll be nice to see him again,’ said Rebekah politely. She had little recollection of what Brigid’s brother looked like, despite having met him aboard ship.

  Brigid put her hand through her arm. ‘He’ll cheer us up. Even if he has yer crying at the same time. He left the money for our Kath’s kids to go the grotto last time he was home so I’m taking them next week. Would yer like to come? I’ve got a half day off.’

  ‘If I haven’t found a job by then,’ said Rebekah, not having much hope of doing so.

  ‘Right! It’ll soon be Christmas.’ Brigid sounded cheerful but Rebekah knew exactly how she was feeling. She watched her open her magazine and start reading as she walked. ‘What’s so fascinating?’

  ‘It’s the new Ethel M. Dell romance.’

  ‘Will there be any kissing?’

  Brigid gave her a mock disapproving look. ‘If you want lots of kissing you should read The Sheik. Although they do more than kissing in that! Mam sez it’s immoral. She’s read it because she sez it’s her duty to know what kind of rubbish us girls read.’

  Rebekah smiled. ‘Ethel M. Dell’s not immoral?’

  Brigid returned her smile. ‘They pray and struggle with their consciences. Yer should read Elin Glyn’s Three Weeks if yer want immoral. Not that there’s anything real descriptive. She’s a princess and older. He’s young and handsome. They’re not married and they make love on a couch of roses. Have yer ever heard the like?’

  Rebekah thought of a sandy beach and the hard wood of the lifeboat. ‘It’s not realistic’

  Brigid’s glance met Rebekah’s and her voice quivered when she said, ‘Who wants realism?’

  Rebekah squeezed her arm and wondered if the pain would ever go.

  The days passed less slowly. Rebekah went with Brigid and her niece and nephew to the grotto to see Father Christmas. Afterwards she took them to the cocoa house on the corner of the Haymarket and Manchester Street. They had hot drinks and Wet Nellies, a sort of stale bunloaf, which dripped treacle. In their company she momentarily forgot her grief. On the way home, Brigid told Rebekah that she had met Daniel’s cousin and mentioned Shaun to them. ‘They hadn’t heard nothing from him! The news about Daniel came as a terrible shock!’

  That night, Rebekah could not get to sleep at all and in frustration picked up Florence Barclay’s The Rosary which Brigid had lent her. It was said to have been read and wept over by every housemaid in the British Isles. Even Hannah had read it and told Rebekah that it would do her soul good – which had not particularly recommended it to her. Rebekah wondered if there was something wrong with her because she was already bored with the lovers and their blindness to each other. When it came to the end, with the hero on his knees in front of the heroine, Becky wanted her to pull him up and have him demanding her all!


  She put the book down, remembering the passion there had been between Daniel and herself. It seemed evil that it should have been suppressed so soon. Evil because that passion still existed. The yearning to give herself – to be taken. She turned off the gaslight and remembered that first meeting with Daniel. Had she fallen in love with him then? She recalled all their meetings. Her eyelids dropped and she dreamt that he was alive again, that they were making love on a bed of roses. Stupid! Roses had thorns. Even in dreams she could not escape reality. She woke up and wondered if the day would ever come when being alive did not hurt.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It was one of those glorious winter days, crisp but sunny, that catches at the throat, and is all the more welcome because one knows that the bad weather will soon be back. In a few days it would be Rebekah’s birthday and she felt older than her twenty years. She almost wished herself as young as the girls, who could not be more than ten years old, importantly wheeling baby sisters or brothers in high prams. Several boys, on the way to the park not a couple of hundred yards away, kicked a ball up the middle of the road. A horse waited patiently between the shafts of a coal wagon as the coalman heaved a hundredweight sack of coal on his back and carried it up the long path to a house. Steps were being sandstoned and brass knockers polished as Rebekah walked past gardens where a few chrysanthemums still bloomed. A middle-aged man tying up flowers called, ‘Good morning.’ He had given her a friendly wave in the past but her aunt had always hurried her past.

  Rebekah stopped. ‘It’s a nice day.’

  He grinned. ‘It is that. I’m Mr McIntyre. You’re Irish? Never knew there were Quakers in Ireland until I heard about you.’

  Rebekah returned his smile. ‘There’s a few but I’m not really one of them, although Mama used to be. It’s nice to meet you, Mr McIntyre.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Rebekah Rhoades.’