The White Empress

by Lyn Andrews

  Shelagh uttered a yell. ‘Give me back me things! He’ll lose them and they’re all me clothes!’

  Cat ignored her protests and gave her a sharp push. ‘Shut up and go and get him! I’ll watch your things! Go on or we’ll never get off!’

  Disconsolately she watched her sister push her way through the throng. How they were going to manage she didn’t know. She only hoped Pa hadn’t lost the scrap of paper with the precious address on it, if he had . . . she couldn’t think of that now. They had to get off the ferry first.

  She was too preoccupied with their dilemma to take much notice of what was going on around her until there was a thump and the ship shuddered, causing people to lose their balance. They had docked alongside the half-mile long Princes Landing Stage that floated on the River Mersey itself. Already figures on the dockside below were dragging the heavy hausers cast down from the Leinster and were winding them around the bollards to hold the ship fast. Then there was the grating rattle of the chains that held the gangway, accumulating in a clanking crash as the gangway hit the cobbles of the landing stage.

  Immediately the crowd surged forward. Cat tried to turn to see if there was any sign of her sister and father, but movement was impossible as she was caught up in the press of bodies.

  ‘Try to hang on to my skirt but if you can’t then just wait at the bottom for me!’ she yelled to Eamon who had been behind her before the crowd closed in. She herself kept her eyes fixed on her mother’s black-clad form, surrounded and crushed by the solid, moving mass. There was no way on earth that she could get to her and she prayed she wouldn’t stumble and fall.

  At the top of the gangway the jostling crowd was halted by three burly deck hands who had linked arms and were forceably holding the passengers back while an officer in shirt sleeves was shouting ‘Only a dozen at a time, if you please! Then no one will get hurt! You’ll all get off if you’ll just be patient!’

  She felt herself being dragged to one side and out of the crowd. Looking up she saw, with a flood of relief, the figure of Joe Calligan towering above the heads of the crowd.

  ‘Where’s the rest of them? Your Ma and Pa?’ he yelled.

  ‘Ma’s just over there, is our Eamon behind me?’

  ‘If you mean the little lad with the bundle and the case, I’ve got him! It’s always the same every trip, like a bloody stampede! No wonder they’re called the “cattle” boats! Where’s your Pa?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t much care! Shelagh went to find him, he’s drunk!’

  ‘So are half the men aboard, its nothing new!’

  ‘But he promised! He promised . . .’

  ‘He probably meant it at the time, they all do, until they have the next drink!’

  ‘But we all believed him! And now . . .’

  He could see she was near to tears and he remembered their conversation not an hour since. Poor little sod. For her the dream had ended abruptly. It hadn’t slowly disintegrated, it had been instantly shattered. ‘Cheer up. It’ll all come out in the wash, as our Mam says! Here, lad, give me those things and get hold of your sister’s skirt, I’ll get you off safe and sound.’

  She felt Eamon’s hand grasp her skirt tightly as Joe hoisted both the case and the bundle on to one shoulder and with the other arm gripped her securely round the waist. Some of her trepidation fell away as she was pressed against his broad shoulder and she began to relax within the circle of his arm. Then he was guiding them towards the steep, wooden gangway that rose and fell gently as the waters of the Mersey ebbed against the landing stage, buoying it up on the tide. He shouted cheerfully back to his mates who yelled ribald comments and then they were ashore.

  The crowd still milled around but was thinning rapidly as people moved off in groups, some towards the Riverside Station but most trudging towards the floating roadway that led to the city itself. Cat gazed around her, her eyes wide, her fear and anxiety forgotten temporarily. There were people everywhere and carts drawn by huge horses. There were some cars and vans and she could just glimpse, at the top of the floating roadway, the outline of the green and cream tramcars. Joe’s arm was still around her and he was guiding her towards the northern end of the stage.

  ‘Wait! Where’s Ma?’

  He stopped and released her and twisting round she caught sight of her mother’s forlorn figure, the expression on her face vague and confused.

  ‘She’s there! Oh, Joe, she is terrified, please go and get her!’

  She watched as he tapped her mother gently on the shoulder, spoke a few words to her and pointed in their direction. Relief replaced confusion in her mother’s eyes.

  ‘It’s alright, Ma! We’re safe! Eamon’s with me. This is Joe. Joe Calligan, he helped us get off.’

  Mrs Cleary nodded her thanks to the tall young lad. ‘Have you seen your Pa, Cat?’

  ‘No and I don’t want to! I hope he falls in the dock and takes our Shelagh with him!’

  ‘That’s a bit hard, ain’t it! He is your Pa,’ Joe admonished. ‘Do you want me to see if I can find them, Mrs Cleary?’

  Ellen Cleary nodded wearily. She had already realised that life was not going to be much different but she was too tired and too ill to care very deeply about it. If this pleasant lad could just get them all together it would be a small blessing.

  With strict instructions to them all to ‘stay put’ he was off and before long was back, grinning widely as he supported her staggering father and followed by a glowering Shelagh.

  ‘Here he is, safe and sound and at least he’s not paralytic drunk!’

  ‘He’s not far off it! I’ve had the divil’s own job with him, that I have! Trust you, Cat, to go dashing off and leaving me with him!’ Shelagh was perspiring and her thin dress was sticking to her body. Cat noticed that Joe’s eyes strayed to the thrusting breasts, outlined by the damp cotton, and she felt embarrassed and annoyed. He was her friend and he had no right to look at her sister like that!

  ‘Well, now what are we going to do? Have you still got that address Paddy O’Dwyer gave you, Pa?’

  ‘It’s no use asking him, you’ll get no sense out of him! I’ll look in his pockets.’ Shelagh made a thorough search of the pockets of the greasy old jacket. They revealed nothing but a torn rag that sufficed as a handkerchief. And a few pennies. At the sight of the coins Cat’s heart sank further. Obviously this was all that was left of the money he had had when they sailed.

  ‘Nothing there, you hold him still while I try his trouser pockets,’ Shelagh instructed Joe.

  Apart from a few obscure articles, the first pocket revealed no piece of paper, but with a small cry of triumph Shelagh drew out of the second pocket a creased, dirty scrap of paper on which handwriting was just visible. She scrutinised it closely then shoved it towards Cat in disgust.

  ‘I can’t read it, the paper’s too creased and dirty. You try!’

  Cat took it from her. Her sister’s protest was just an excuse. Shelagh couldn’t read. She screwed up her eyes for the writing was very small and almost obliterated by greasy fingermarks.

  ‘Here, give it to me! At least I know the names of the streets round here!’ Unceremoniously Joe dumped the sagging figure of Mick Cleary down on the cobbles. He studied the scrap of paper. ‘It looks like Eldon Street.’

  ‘Where’s that? How far is it?’ Cat questioned.

  ‘Just off Vauxhall Road, but it’s a fair walk up Chapel Street, Tithebarn Street and past Exchange Station. It’s almost opposite Tate and Lyle’s Sugar Refinery.’

  Her gaze rested on the sprawling figure of her father. Joe read her thoughts.

  ‘You won’t get far with him in that state, the scuffers will chuck him in the battle-taxi – drunk and incapable!’

  The look she returned him was confused and he laughed. ‘It’s “scouse” for the police and the prison van. You’ll have to get the tram, if they’ll let him on!’

  ‘And what are we going to use for tram fare?’

  ‘Its only tuppence, how m
uch did he have in his pockets?’ The question was directed at Shelagh.

  She looked at the coins in her hand. ‘Fourpence ha’penny.’

  ‘That will pay for Ma and Pa.’ Cat said resolutely.

  ‘How’s Ma going to manage him? If he starts yelling they’ll both get thrown off.’ Shelagh retorted hotly.

  Cat glared at her, she knew her sister of old. She would never walk anywhere if she could help it. ‘Well, Ma’s not walking, she’s not well enough!’

  ‘Hell! This is turning into Fred Carno’s circus! Here, take this!’ Joe held out a silver shilling. ‘You’ll have enough left over to get your Ma a cup of tea, she looks as though she could do with one! Go on, take it!’

  Before Cat had a chance to tell him that she wanted none of his charity, Shelagh had grabbed the shilling. Cat could cheerfully have slapped her face.

  ‘Now go up the floating roadway, there’s a tea stall up there, get your Ma a cup and take meladdo here with you, I can’t keep my eye on you all!’ He pushed young Eamon gently in Shelagh’s direction, then turned to Mrs Cleary. ‘You sit yourself down here, Ma, on this box, and rest. He’ll be alright.’ He nodded in the direction of her husband who was now snoring loudly through flaccid lips, his back against a lamppost. ‘There’s something I want to show Cat.’

  Cat dragged her eyes from the disappearing backs of her sister and brother. It had been her intention to take him to task over his familiarity with her mother, not knowing it was the usual and polite address given by Liverpudlians to any woman over the age of forty, but curiosity again got the better of her and she let him take her arm.

  ‘Where are we going now?’

  ‘You’ll see. Didn’t I tell you on board I’d show you a grand sight?’

  ‘I’ve seen the Liver Birds!’

  ‘I didn’t mean them.’

  They walked along the landing stage to where crowds were gathering. Amongst them scarlet-capped porters could be seen struggling from the Riverside Station with piles of baggage. She caught sight of dark-green uniforms frogged with gold braid and the sounds of music drifted to her ears. Two burly policemen or ‘scuffers’ as Joe had called them, were supervising the crowds. Their faces beneath the conical helmets, that bore a silver-crested Liver Bird, were red from the sun and the heat of their high-buttoned tunics, but both were smiling broadly. The music played by the City Band grew louder and the atmosphere reminded her of the St Patrick’s Day parade down O’Connell Street in Dublin.

  She tugged at Joe’s sleeve. ‘What’s going on? Is it a parade?’

  ‘Something like that! Look, I promised you a sight and there she is!’

  Cat stopped dead in her tracks, her eyes widened and she gasped. In her entire life she had never seen anything to compare with the vision that now confronted her. Tied up at the landing stage was the biggest, most majestic ship she had ever seen. Bright sunlight reflected off the towering, white-painted hull and to Cat it looked like a snow-covered mountain, rising up and up, reaching almost to the sky. She craned her neck and saw the three, dark yellow funnels, each bearing the emblem of a red-and-white-chequered flag. Flags and pennants of all colours fluttered from the rigging and wisps of pale-grey smoke spiralled upwards from the funnels into the clear blue heavens.

  All around her people were laughing, shouting and cheering, while those high above on deck were shouting back and throwing down brightly coloured paper streamers. She felt a bubble of excitement rise in her. A bubble that grew and grew until it reached her throat and she found she was cheering too, caught up in the waves of emotion and ebullience that had engulfed everyone.

  ‘Oh, Joe! Joe! Isn’t it grand! Isn’t it wonderful, isn’t it . . . huge! It’s like . . . a huge white mountain!’

  He squeezed her arm. ‘It’s not an “it”, it’s a “she”, ships are always called “she”.’

  ‘Oh, what’s she called?’

  ‘Look up there, it’s painted on her bow!’

  Her excited gaze followed the line of his outstretched hand. The bold black letters sprang out at her, contrasting sharply against the white hull. She read them aloud. ‘Empress of Japan’.

  ‘An Empress is even grander than a Queen. She’s the flagship of the Canadian Pacific Line. The White Empress and this is her maiden voyage!’ There was pride in his voice and his face was so animated that she hardly recognised him. She noticed, too, that the corded muscles in his throat were working, but she understood how he felt for she felt it too. Pride, longing, a core of exhilaration that made her whole body tremble. The White Empress evoked all these emotions in both of them.

  ‘Oh, Joe, I wish I was sailing with her!’

  Again he squeezed her hand and laughed. ‘There’s an even bigger one being built at the John Brown yard on the Clyde.’

  She gasped. ‘Bigger! Bigger than her?’

  ‘She’s 26,000 tons, but the Empress of Britain will be 42,000 tons!’

  The figures meant nothing to her but she could not envisage anything bigger than this magnificent white liner. With a surge of emotion she wished with all her heart that she could change places with one of those elegantly dressed women high above her, laughing and shouting, about to take the trip of a lifetime.

  ‘Where’s she going, Joe?’

  ‘To Quebec in Canada.’

  Even the very name ‘Quebec’ sounded exotic.

  ‘And after that she’ll sail the Pacific Ocean, to Japan and China, Australia and New Zealand and all the islands.’

  Her estimation of him rose higher as he reeled off the names of places she had never heard of. ‘Oh, Joe! I’d give anything, anything to sail on her!’

  ‘You’ll not see her in Liverpool again. After this voyage her home port will be Southampton.’

  Her face fell. ‘Never?’

  ‘Cheer up, Cat, there will be other Empresses.’

  ‘But not like this one. Never like this one!’ Now she understood his hopes and dreams, for sights like this were the stuff that dreams are made of. She remembered their conversation and one word rang in her head with the clarity of a bell. ‘Stewardess’. The tide of excitement surged again. ‘Joe, they carry stewardesses, don’t they?’

  ‘Of course they do, who do you think looks after all those rich women and . . .’ He broke off, suddenly remembering that it was he who had planted that word in her innocent mind. ‘I told you, Cat, forget it! It’s not for the likes of you, nor me either if it comes to that! It’s a dream, nothing more! I wouldn’t have brought you to see her if I’d have realised that—’

  ‘It’s not a dream, Joe! It’s not! I won’t let it be just a dream!’

  He took her by the shoulders and shook her hard. ‘Stop it! Stop it! It’s a dream beyond your reach! Settle for what you have!’

  She had learnt early in life that tears seldom solved anything so none stung her eyes, but they scalded her heart for he had forced her to face the truth. ‘What have I got, Joe? I’ve got nothing! My Pa’s a drunk, Ma’s ill, we’ve got no money, no home, nothing! You can’t settle for nothing, Joe Calligan! I won’t! I won’t let it be just a dream, I’ll make it happen! I’ll find a way! One day I’m going to sail on a White Empress and not just as a stewardess, I’m going to be a chief stewardess!’

  He cursed himself aloud. This was all his fault. He’d filled her head with dreams, dreams of a life she would never know. Places she would never see. A position in life that was totally unattainable for a poor, ignorant Irish slummy. He looked steadily into the green eyes fringed with dark lashes. A hard light shone in them. A light he recognised with a deadly clarity. It was raw, unquenchable, inexorable ambition and determination. Her face was implacable, her features as though carved from granite, and he shivered. The light in her eyes frightened him. He’d seen it in the eyes of ruthless men. Hard, embittered men who pitted their existence daily against the elements. But he had never seen it in the eyes of a woman, let alone this slip of a girl who barely came up to his shoulder. He shivered again. Her name suite
d her. It was very apt, she reminded him of a cat. Those feral eyes, the feline grace with which she moved, the thick mane of tangled curls.

  ‘Then God help you, Cat Cleary, and I mean that!’

  Chapter Three

  ELDON STREET RESEMBLED THE streets that ran off O’Connell Street in Dublin. Rows of small, narrow houses the back yards of which contained the privy and the midden, only separated from the back yards of the houses that backed on to them by a narrow alley. An alley filled with decaying rubbish through which mangy dogs and cats rooted for anything edible.

  When they had been built they had been of red brick but a thick, continuous rain of soot, emitted from the three tall chimneys of the Clarence Dock Power Station – known as the Ugly Sisters – had long since turned them black. The belching smoke, like filthy tresses of hair blowing in the wind, showered deposits of soot on every windowsill, doorstep, roof and chimney for miles around. The lines of washing that were hung out every Monday morning in the back yards were permanently grey with it, despite the valiant efforts of the women in the public washhouse or in small, dark sculleries where the wash boilers steamed.

  The whole area was depressing: factories, their small, grimy windows staring like dull eyes over the river, lined the south side of Vauxhall Road. Along Great Howard Street and Waterloo Road – commonly known as the Dock Road – bonded warehouses towered above houses, and pubs crowded in their shadows. All day long and late into the night, too, the carts, wagons, vans and trams rumbled over the cobbles.

  Cat had stood and watched the dockers. Watched them waiting, often fighting, just to be taken on for a day’s work to provide a few shillings to feed their families and keep a roof over their heads. She had watched the teams of carthorses that were kept in reserve to help pull the heavily laden carts up the floating roadway. When the tide was at the ebb, the road was an almost vertical slope up which the horses sweated and strained, their owners cursing, swearing and sweating, too. She had soon become accustomed to the quick, cutting, humorous Liverpool wit and the ‘scouse’ dialect, full of colloquialisms and malapropisms. It was a city where everyone was addressed as ‘luv’. Where every female from the age of five to forty was addressed as ‘girl’, the older women being afforded the more respectful ‘Ma’. Where boys and men were called ‘lad’ or its diminutive ‘la’. A city that boasted great architectural beauty and wealth, beside poverty and squalid slums. A city in which one man in four was out of work. Where children ran barefoot in the streets and old women, clad in the voluminous black skirts and shawls and known as ‘shawlies’, stood gossiping on their doorsteps or in small corner shops. Where men congregated on street corners and alleys, playing an illegal game known as Pitch and Toss. The object of this was to guess which side two pennies or halfpennies would land after being tossed in the air. It was a place where on almost every street corner there was a public house. A city that boasted a fine library and museum, yet was so desperate to find work for its populace that the project of the tunnel under the Mersey had been conceived in part to ease this situation. No, Liverpool had not proved to be the Promised Land. Not for Cat Cleary. It was not much better than Dublin.