by Lyn Andrews
‘Well, aren’t the Irish famous for navvying? Didn’t they build all the railways over here!’ she flung back at him.
‘An’ where are yer goin’ ter live when yer get there? ’As yer Pa’s friend found yer all an ’ouse as well?’
By his tone she knew he was goading her again. ‘Well now, just for your information he has that! Almost.’
‘Believe tharran’ yer’ll believe anything. ’As he or ’asn’t he?’
‘We’ve got the address of a relation of Pa’s friend and he’s got a house. A proper house, not just a room like we had in Dublin!’
Joe looked down at her animated face. God help her! God help them all! Every trip he made he saw them, hundreds of them, just like her. Their heads filled with tales of work, decent houses, money in their pockets. And he’d also seen what happened to most of them. They usually finished up living in the same squalor and poverty they had left behind. They lived in the cramped, narrow streets along the Dock Road or those between Vauxhall Road and Scotland Road that comprised the Catholic-Irish ghetto and were often worse off than when they had sailed from Ireland.
‘How many of yer are there?’ He tried to sound interested.
‘Me, Ma and Pa, our Shelagh – she’s older than me – and me brother Eamon.’
‘Eamon?’ he repeated.
‘Didn’t me Pa name him after the President!’ she shot back. Why was it this Joe Calligan had the knack of increasing her irritation with every word he uttered? Then a fleeting smile crossed her face as she thought of her young brother. Didn’t he have her poor mother banjaxed with his antics and any similarity between him and Eamon de Valera ended with the name. Young Eamon Cleary hardly ever went to school so there was little chance he’d end up as president of anything!
‘An’ what grand plans ’ave yer got fer yer new life?’
‘I’m sixteen! I can get a job! I can read and write and add up in me head!’
He laughed. She was a pert one. She’d already forgotten her narrow escape from drowning. All his questions had been intended to divert her mind and the ploy had worked.
She rounded on him. ‘Aren’t you the quick one to be poking fun and laughing at the likes of me! I’ll get a job, you wait and see and so will Pa and our Shelagh!’
‘Yer name suits yer alright! Proper little cat, aren’t yer! All sharp claws an’ spittin’ temper! Come on, I’ll take yer up to the bow, yer might as well gerra look at the place yer all goin’ ter get so rich in!’
He was treating her like a six-year-old child and she was about to tell him she didn’t want him to show her anything. Then her instinctive curiosity got the better of her. Besides, he was smiling without mockery now and had taken her arm and placed it protectively in his and no one had ever done that before. In fact no one had ever shown anything but a cursory interest in her. She was sixteen and had never had a boy to ‘walk out’ with.
The deck of the Leinster was crowded with people, mainly emigrants like herself, huddled in family groups. But here and there were groups of well-dressed people. She caught sight of her sister leaning against the rail, simpering up at an uncouth-looking man in the shabby clothes of a labourer. Cat grinned to herself as she saw Shelagh’s eyes widen and her mouth gape as she caught sight of her younger sister, arm in arm with a ‘company employee’ and a young, handsome one at that! Cat looked up at Joe and, for the first time since her ordeal, smiled. He was handsome and, despite her initial belligerence, she realised that she quite liked him.
The crowd parted as the young seaman shouldered his way through. He cleared a space for her at the bow end and with the breeze bringing a blush of colour to her cheeks, the sun picking out the coppery tints in her hair and her eyes sparkling, he felt a stirring of affection towards her. They had long since passed the bar light, where they had taken on the bowler-hatted pilot, who would guide them through the treacherous shoals that were forever shifting, and into the deep water of the Crosby Channel, between the line of restless buoys. On the starboard bow he pointed out a low sandbar that ran four miles parallel with the Wirral coastline.
‘That’s Mockbeggar Wharf an’ the seabirds come from miles to rest up an’ feed on the spits. In the owld days ships were wrecked there by men who purrout the light on Perch Rock. There’s an owld sayin’:
‘Wallasey for wreckers
Poulton for leaves
Leasowe for honest folk
Seacombe for thieves.’
He turned and pointed over the port bow. ‘That’s Crosby, yer can just see the big, owld ’ouses. An’ just down there is the new dock, the Gladstone Dock. The docks start there an’ run for miles along the coast to Dingle an’ there’s a railway that runs overhead all the way.’
She was not sure if he was joking. ‘Go on! Is it a fool you take me for, Joe Calligan?’
‘It’s the truth, it’s the longest in the world!’
‘Will you take me for a ride on it, then?’ she teased, still not fully believing him.
‘I might, one day.’
She shaded her eyes from the strong sunlight as the outline of the buildings in the hazy distance became clearer. It was a grand sight to be sure. Surely in such a fine city there would be plenty of work for everyone? She tried to count the docks but lost count after eight, her attention drawn to the number of ships that were either in dock or standing out in the river. She watched, mesmerised, as with alarming accuracy the dredgers, barges and the ferry boats criss-crossed between cargo ships at anchor and the towering double-and triple-funnelled liners.
‘I’ve never seen so many bo— ships! Where do they all come from and don’t they ever bump into the little ones?’
He laughed at her childlike questions. ‘The little ones don’t run on clockwork, they ’ave captains as well! They’re the ferries, takin’ people an’ cargo backwards an’ forwards to Seacombe, Wallasey, Birkenhead an’ New Brighton. The big ones, the liners . . .’
Cat waited for him to continue but he just stared ahead of him, lost in some private dream. She tugged at his sleeve. ‘Where do they come from?’
‘All over the world. America. Australia, China, an’ one day I’m goin’ to gerra job on one! That’s a “real” job. A safe job fer life an’ yer get paid for seein’ all the places yer’ve only dreamed of. Yer ’ave a proper uniform, norra second-’and jersey!’
She looked at him with renewed interest. ‘How are you going to get a job like that?’
His dark eyes clouded and he shrugged. ‘Yer gerra job like that if yer lucky or if yer ’ave the right qualifications an’ know the “right” people!’
‘What are quali . . . quali . . .?’
‘Qualifications. Yer take examinations, a lorra writin’ an’ things like that, then yer get qualifications.’
She thought she understood. She had once met a boy who had gone to a proper school and worked at his books day and night and had passed what he had called an examination and was going on to be a priest. She supposed it was something like that. ‘Well, how do you know who the “right” people are?’
‘Yer’ve gorra lot t’ learn, Cat Cleary, especially when it comes ter people!’
‘You’re laughing at me again!’
‘No, I’m not! I bet yer already know a lorrabout people. Girl like you must be used ter livin’ off yer wits an’ that’s what I mean about “knowing” people! If yer nothin’ else, Cat, yer streetwise!’
She completely misunderstood him. A scarlet flush arose from the base of her throat as anger swept over her and raising her arm she struck him hard across the cheek. ‘Don’t you be calling me names like that! I’m no street girl! I’d starve before . . . I’d do anything like that, so I would!’ She stood facing him, her thin body shaking with indignation, her eyes flashing green fire.
‘If yer wasn’t a girl I’d belt yer for that! I didn’t mean anythin’ like that, what d’ yer take me for? I only meant that yer can probably look after yerself!’ He rubbed his cheek ruefully. ‘Bloody little wildcat
! Good job yer norra lad!’
Vituperative words sprang to her tongue but he silenced her by grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her to face port. ‘Now there’s a sight yer’ll never ’ave seen before an’ probably won’t see again!’
As quickly as it had risen her anger died. ‘What?’
‘There, tied up at the landing stage!’
‘I can only see those big buildings with those birds on top. Are they real birds, won’t they fly away?’
He became exasperated. ‘Don’t yer know nothin’ Cat Cleary? Those are the Liver Birds! ’Aven’t yer ’eard of them, even?’
Her eyes narrowed. Of course she’d heard of them. Everyone had. They were not real birds, she’d heard them called ‘mythical’ but what that meant only the good Lord knew, she didn’t. But she wasn’t about to let him know that. ‘Sure, I have! They’re my— mythical.’
‘Sailors all over the world know the Liver Birds, an’ Liverpool is the biggest port in the world!’
She cast him a sceptical glance. He was certainly prone to boasting. First he had boasted that he was going to get a job on a liner, now he obviously thought his native city was the biggest port in the world. And that she knew to be untrue. Hadn’t her mother’s brother gone to New York and hadn’t he written that that was the biggest port in the world?
‘My Uncle Pat says New York is the biggest port in the world!’
‘Aye, I ’ear it’s big, but I’ll see it fer meself when I gerra job on the Mauretania or the Aquitania. They ’ave ballrooms an’ swimmin’ pools an’ restaurants an’ whole suites of rooms fer first class. You see, I’ll gerroff these “cattle boats” someday!’
She scowled. She resented being referred to as ‘cattle’. ‘They’d need hundreds of people to work on them if they’re all that big!’ The note of disbelief was obvious.
‘They do ’ave ’undreds, from the captain down ter the deck ’ands. ’An they are that big, an’ yer ’ave ter ’ave ’undreds of pounds to go luxury class!’
An idea took hold of her. If he could boast, then so could she. ‘One day I’m going to be rich! Very rich!’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Yer’ll never be rich enough fer that! It’s only the likes of millionaires an’ royalty that are that rich! Yer might get ter be a stewardess, though,’ he joked as an afterthought.
‘What’s a stewardess?’
‘A girl who looks after the women passengers.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Usually makin’ beds, cleanin’ cabins an’ bathrooms an’ generally ’elpin out.’
‘Is that all?’
‘That’s what most of them do. Only the chief stewardess an’ the first-class stewardesses look after the “real” ladies, an’ yer don’t stand a cat in ’ell’s chance of ever doin’ that!’
‘Not even if I get “qualifications” and get to know the “right” people?’
His demeanour changed. All the laughter had gone from his eyes for he had been quick to perceive the ray of hope that lit up her face. Talk like this could only hurt her. ‘Look, Cat, forget I ever said anythin’ about stewardesses. It’s not fer the likes of you! Bloody ’ell, I’m sorry I even mentioned it, it was a joke!’
‘Why?’ she demanded, stubbornly. If all you had to do was clean cabins, she could surely manage that.
‘Just look at yerself! Yer an Irish emigrant, norra penny ter yer name. Yer can’t speak properly. The only life yer’ve known is the slums. Yer’ve no education, an’ I don’t mean just bein’ able ter read an’ write an’ add up in yer ’ead! Yer’ve gorra ’ave real education, know ’ow ter dress, talk proper, deal with people. Oh, forgerrit! Gerra job in a factory, the pays good, yer’ll be ’appier there, amongst . . .’
‘Amongst me own kind, is that it? I can’t help how I dress and speak but I’m no fool, Joe Calligan! I can learn and I can learn quickly!’
‘Cat, forgerrit! Everythin’s against yer! Yer’ll soon find out ’ow ’ard life is without fillin’ yer ’ead with dreams that can’t ever come true!’
‘I can’t see that it would be so hard if all they do is make beds and clean? You don’t need an “education” for that!’
He began to lose patience with her and guilt stirred in him. ‘I said forgerrit! It’s not fer the likes of you!’
‘But you think its alright for you? Just what makes you so different from me? You don’t speak “properly”, you haven’t got any better education than I have or else you wouldn’t be working on this “cattle boat”! You’d be working on one of those fancy liners now, not just dreaming about it! You’re no better than me and if you can dream, then so can I!’
He drew away from her and stood scowling at her. She had touched his Achilles heel. She had made him face the reality. His, too, was a dream. A dream nurtured by hours of watching the stately liners, fully laden with passengers and crew, pull away from the Princes Landing Stage, nudged and guided by their accompanying tugs. To sail majestically down the Mersey to the Bar, the Irish Sea and the Atlantic beyond. Hours of watching and listening to the captain and mate on the Dublin to Liverpool ferry and dreaming that one day he would rise to the dizzy heights of captain of a liner such as the Aquitania. Now this sharp-featured, sharp-tongued, little Irish slummy had forced him to see that it was just a dream and he was furious. Furious with her and for allowing himself to become so vulnerable.
‘We’ll be dockin’ soon. I’d berra get ter me station! Yer’d berra go an’ find yer family. It’s everyone fer ’imself down the gangway!’
She brushed back a tendril of hair. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll see you again?’
He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Reckon not.’
She turned away, feeling strangely lonely and slighted. ‘Oh, thanks for pulling me up!’ she called over her shoulder.
He watched her push her way through the crowd that was gathering on the port side and shrugged his broad shoulders. Soon she’d disappear into the warren of slums and he probably wouldn’t see her again. But she wasn’t a girl who would easily be forgotten, he mused darkly.
Chapter Two
SHELAGH CLEARY WAS STRUGGLING with a battered suitcase, made of thick cardboard, tied up with string, and a bundle of assorted clothes, tied in an old blanket. Both items contained all her worldly goods and entire wardrobe. She resembled Cat closely except that her hair was less curly and had been cut short and she was possessed of a more ample figure, of which she was extremely proud.
‘Where’ve you been and who was he?’ she snapped.
‘Mind your own business! Here, Ma, give me that sack and that big bundle, they’re too heavy for you!’ She took the objects that were weighing down Ellen Cleary’s thin, rounded shoulders. Cat forgot Joe Calligan and her sister as she watched her mother wrap the old black shawl around her gaunt body. She was shivering even though the sun was warm. Her face was ashen. ‘Aren’t you feeling well, Ma?’
‘I’m fine, Cat, ’tis only this boat swayin’ under me.’
‘Where’s Pa and our Eamon?’
Ellen Cleary shrugged helplessly, biting her lower lip from habit.
‘I’ll give you two guesses!’ Shelagh fulminated.
Cat’s heart sank. ‘But the bar’s shut and anyway Pa’s got no money for drink!’
‘And when has that ever stopped him?’ Shelagh retorted. ‘He could wheedle a drink from a temperance society, that he could!’
‘Don’t talk like that about your Pa, he tries . . .’ Ellen Cleary half-heartedly defended her husband but her tone lacked any conviction. Years watching the strong young lad she had married turn into a desperate, drink-sodden man had drained the colour from her cheeks, the laughter from her eyes and the hope from her heart.
‘Well, where’s Eamon? We’ll be docking soon?’
‘God knows! Probably trying to pick a pocket or beg a copper or two, little sod!’
‘Shelagh, that’s enough!’
Shelagh ignored her mother’s warning. ‘He
’ll turn out a right bad one!’
‘You’re no angel yourself!’
Shelagh glared at her sister. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Before Cat could reply a grubby, ten-year-old lad tugged at her skirt. He had a shock of unruly brown hair and was clad in a pair of cut-down trousers and an old shirt. On his feet were a pair of patched boots, a size too big for him.
‘Where’ve you been? I hope you’ve not had your hand in anyone’s pocket or Pa will take his belt to you!’ Shelagh scolded.
He stuck out his tongue then dodged behind Cat to avoid the swipe his elder sister aimed at his head.
‘Have you seen Pa?’ Cat questioned him.
‘Sure, he’s sittin’ over there, drunk as a fiddler’s bitch!’
This time it was Cat’s hand that shot out and boxed his ears. Anger, disappointment and disillusionment adding strength to her action. He’d promised! He’d sworn on everything he held sacred that he was finished with the drink for good! Oh, he’d promised them all a better life and it had been such a rosy future he’d enthralled them all with! He’d get a job and stick at it. He’d bring his wages home and they’d have good food on the table, decent clothes and a real home with a fire in the hearth all winter long! Oh, she should have known! How could she have been such a fool to have trusted him, believed him . . . But they all had because they desperately wanted to. And now the reality had been forced on her. She was stuck on this crowded ship with a sick mother, a petulant, selfish sister, a young tearaway and a drunken father. And he had probably spent every last halfpenny they had all struggled to hoard to start this wonderful new life! Tears of anger pricked her eyes and her mouth felt dry. Dropping the things she held, she snatched the suitcase and bundle from the hands of her startled sister and thrust them at the lad.
‘Here, you’ll have to carry these!’ She turned to Shelagh. ‘And you’ll have to go and get Pa and you’ll have to manage him as best you can! Ma can’t and you’ve always been his favourite!’