The White Empress

by Lyn Andrews

  They got the train going in the opposite direction and got off at the Bramley Moor Dock, walked up Blackstone Street and caught the tram up Boundary Street to the junction of the Rotunda Lyric Music Hall and Kirkdale Road. Then they changed trams and got halfway up the steep decline called Everton Valley before they got off. Big three-storeyed houses, all soot-grimed but with small, neat, walled gardens, clean paintwork, whitened steps and lace curtains flanked both sides of the road and the pavement was flagged. At its junction with Saint Domingo Road was the obligatory public house, aptly named ‘The Valley’ and beyond, on the left-hand side loomed the soot-stained bulk of the Methodist Church. On the right-hand side a four-storeyed, square edifice jutted obliquely forward, narrowing the roadway.

  ‘What’s that, it looks like a workhouse?’ she asked, twisting her head to take in all the sights of this new district of Liverpool, for it was the furthest she’d ventured beyond Scotland Road.

  ‘A convent and there’s a private school for girls there as well. Notre Dame, it’s called. Some of the girls board there but most of them go home each day. I often see them at four o’clock. They wear straw hats in the summer and black ones, shaped like po’s in the winter. They don’t half look daft!’

  Cat lost interest in the convent and the description of its pupils as they stopped outside a large house with a brown-painted front door, which boasted a highly-polished, brass letterbox and knocker. It looked daunting and some of her ebullience faded. ‘Is this it?’

  He nodded and pushed her up the three steps, rapping sharply on the brass knocker. Cat stood fiddling with the top button of her blouse until, after what seemed like hours, slow, shuffling footsteps were heard beyond the door.

  ‘It’s me, Mrs Travis! Joe! Joe Calligan and I’ve brought the girl I was telling you about.’

  The door opened and a small woman with white hair, pulled tightly back from her face into a bun, stood peering at them through a lorgnette. She wore an ankle-length black dress with a high collar and leg-o’-mutton sleeves.

  ‘Bring her in then, don’t stand cluttering up the doorstep!’

  Cat noticed that her voice bore only the faintest trace of the Liverpool accent. She followed Joe and Mrs Travis down a wide hallway, painted in brown and cream, the walls covered with prints of old sailing ships. The floor was of highly polished wood and a runner of brown and cream carpet ran along the middle of it. Mrs Travis had disappeared through a door on the left and Joe stepped aside, motioning her to follow.

  She’d never seen a room quite like it. It reminded her of the parlour in the priest’s house, but it was much bigger. It was also very dark for beside the lace curtains that covered the windows, heavy maroon-coloured drapes were half drawn. The furniture was old-fashioned and large but highly polished, in fact the whole room held a faint fragrance of beeswax. There were tables and lamps that had obviously come from foreign parts. Strange pictures of even stranger looking places covered the walls, and stuffed animals and birds, queer little ornaments and jugs covered the mahogany sideboard, the cane tables and corner cabinets, one of which held a collection of vividly coloured butterflies of all sizes. A piano, draped with a dark red chenille cloth stood in one corner of the room and on the top of this, too, was a collection of exotic bric-a-brac. Mrs Travis had seated herself in a button-backed chair and motioned Cat towards the shiny hide sofa with its array of brightly coloured cushions.

  She sat cautiously on the edge, finding it hard and slippery. Joe stood behind her, his cap deferentially in his hand.

  ‘So, you’re looking for work? Have you been in service before?’

  ‘No, but I’ve kept house for as long as I can remember and I can cook too. Simple things, M’am,’ she added.

  ‘By your accent I assume you are Irish.’

  ‘That I am, from Dublin.’

  ‘I have always found that the Irish can be divided into two categories. Those who are honest, hardworking, devout and make excellent servants, and those who are lazy, sluttish, with a fondness for liquor that usually leads them to theft, and who don’t make good workers of any kind! Which are you?’

  ‘I’ve never taken a drink in my life! I work hard and I’ve never touched anything that doesn’t belong to me and I go to Mass every Sunday and sometimes in the week as well!’ It all came out in one long sentence which left her short of breath and wondering if her predecessor had been guilty of any of the crimes mentioned.

  ‘What’s your name, girl?’

  ‘Cat. Cat Cleary.’

  The sharp, birdlike eyes flitted over her then were raised to the ceiling in impatience. ‘I mean your real name! No one is ever christened with a name like that!’

  ‘Catherine.’

  ‘Well, Catherine Cleary, I will give you the chance to prove that you are all you say you are. I’ll give you a month, starting tomorrow. You will live in, there are plenty of rooms in this house, most of them shut off since my husband, God rest him, was taken by the sea. You’ll clean, wash and iron, cook and do the shopping. You will have Sundays off and Wednesday afternoons and I’ll pay you five shillings a week and I’ll feed you. I can’t say fairer than that!’

  From that day on Cat’s world changed radically. She quickly found that Mrs Travis had a sharp tongue but a kind heart and generous nature. She also suspected that the old lady was lonely for there did not appear to be any relatives or friends and the only callers to the house were tradesman. She worked hard but she found it far less like drudgery because, for one thing, there was no hoard of children and adults to be constantly undoing everything she had just done. She polished and dusted the curiosities with loving care, trying to imagine where they had come from, trying to picture in her mind the exotic, foreign places where they had been made. It was with real pleasure that she ironed the crisp, white linen, most of it embroidered or edged with lace.

  She had her own room at the top of the house with a single, narrow bed with a brass bedstead, clean sheets and warm blankets, these in themselves luxuries never before experienced. There was a small wardrobe for her few clothes, a washstand with a marble top and a jug and bowl of real china, decorated with huge pink roses. She took her meals in the kitchen with Joe most of the time, but on Saturdays – pay day – both she and Joe sat with their employer at the table in the parlour when any outstanding jobs were discussed and the menus and shopping for the next week were all worked out.

  She frequently found excuses not to go home on Wednesday afternoons, although on Sundays she returned to Eldon Street to give her mother three of her five shillings wages. But she was always glad when it was time to leave the cramped, cluttered house which now appeared so small and dirty. She would sit up in her bed on these nights, her knees drawn up under her chin and indulge herself in daydreams. When she got that job on ‘her’ White Empress, she would find a small house in a nice area, just for herself and her Ma. It would have a scullery with shelves covered in clean, chequered oilcloth. A food press and a meat safe. A white earthenware sink and a proper wooden draining board, scrubbed white. A small, cheerful kitchen with a range for cooking. Rag rugs on the floor, a comfortable rocker with a patchwork cushion for her Ma. A big table and a dresser with fancy dishes. There would be a parlour where Ma could entertain Maisey and her other friends from the Union of Catholic Mothers. A bedroom each and good fires in all the rooms in winter. And she’d bring all kinds of treasures like Captain Travis had, for the house – when she was a stewardess.

  She had no definite plans, for life had taught her to take one day at a time, and that the hold on material possessions was perilous. But she could dream. ‘Dreams cost nothing’ she’d always said to herself, but her dream was becoming consolidated. It was becoming, even if she didn’t fully realise it, the foundation of what she expected from the future; what she would, in time, demand of life – demand and expect realisation.

  Between herself and Joe there had developed a close friendship. He had never tried to kiss her again, but she often caught him wat
ching her with a strange look in his dark eyes and sometimes she wondered if he did consider her to be more than just a friend. She had filled out and even in the plain, dark working dresses Mrs Travis had given her, she knew she had a good figure. Her waist was small, as were her hips, and her legs beneath the calf-length skirt, were slender and well-formed. Her breasts had developed and were firm. Her cheeks had filled out and gone was the pinched, half-starved little waif with the mane of unruly hair. She had followed Shelagh’s example and had had it cut to just below her ears. She had no need to waste money on a Marcel Wave for it curled naturally.

  After completing her second month, Mrs Travis had two dresses ‘made over’ for her by a local dressmaker. One was of cornflower-blue linen. The hemline had been shortened, the full skirt had been tapered in, with two inverted pleats set into the front and back. The collar was cut into reveres and edged with white piping, as were the sleeves that had been shortened to just above the elbow. The other dress was of a heavy, navy blue crêpe, embossed with a fretwork pattern. The skirt of this had been left full but recut in a semicircle. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder but narrowed into a cuff, again at elbow length. The stiff, high collar was fashioned into a soft, round one and a belt – made from the cut-off material – was tied in a sash around the waist. A row of shiny navy buttons added detail to the front.

  She was ecstatic as she tried on the completed garments, twisting and turning in front of the long peer-glass that Mrs Travis had had Joe bring downstairs. The words tumbled from her lips as she gabbled her thanks at such generosity. At last she had some ‘new’ things of her own. There was her brush and comb set, the little china trinket box, bought at Great Homer Street Market and as yet empty of trinkets. They were all hers, and now these two beautiful dresses. Although the material wasn’t new they had been especially made for her. No one else. And she had never known anyone who had their clothes made for them.

  ‘Now you need a hat and a decent pair of shoes,’ the dressmaker remarked, well pleased with her handiwork for which she had been amply rewarded.

  ‘And a pair of gloves,’ Mrs Travis added.

  ‘Gloves? Sure, whatever will I need gloves for, it’s not winter?’

  ‘All respectable girls wear gloves and a hat!’ came the tart reply. ‘That is what makes them instantly recognisable as respectable and ladylike. I know you turn up most of your wages to your mother, to use a colloquialism. So I have put something extra in your wages this week.’ The old lady nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think we’ll suit each other very well, Catherine Cleary. You work hard, you don’t chatter idly all day long and you seem to appreciate all the things my Dear Departed collected over the years and that’s something I’m impressed with. Take yourself off into town and get a hat and a pair of gloves and then tomorrow you can go home and look down your nose at that slut of a sister of yours!’

  Cat knew that Joe had told her mistress all about Shelagh, for she had heard the old lady quizzing him one day when they thought she was still out. Impulsively she bent down and kissed the withered cheek.

  ‘God bless you! No one has ever been this good to me!’

  ‘Oh, get off with you, girl! I can’t stand being fussed and kissed, not at my age! You’d better keep one of the dresses on or they’ll not let you in any of the shops!’

  The hat, which she bought in Lewis’s department store on the corner of Ranleigh Street and Renshaw Street, was a small white pillbox that had cost her 2s 6d. She kept it on, but accepted the cardboard hatbox the sales assistant had offered to pack it in. At the glove counter she tried on at least half a dozen pairs of gloves in assorted colours and fabrics, luxuriating in smoothing the soft cottons over her work-worn hands, then holding them out to admire the effect, as if she bought gloves every day of her life. She settled for a pair of short white cotton ones, the backs of which were decorated with a cut-out design in the shape of a daisy. She glanced fleetingly at the leather and kid gloves, knowing they were far too expensive for her rapidly dwindling hoard of coins. She had managed to save a small amount and with the extra Mrs Travis had given her, she felt like a millionairess. She kept the gloves on, too.

  As she walked past Central Station and the Lyceum Club on the corner of Bold Street, she felt as though she were walking on air. That every head was turning in her direction with glances of admiration. Once in Church Street she stopped and gazed into the windows of the Bon Marché at the expensive, well-cut clothes and displays of perfumes and cosmetics. In George Henry Lee’s, just around the corner, similar displays of clothes, hats, jackets and bright scarves held her interest. She wandered into Woolworths – and after much deliberating she purchased some Evening in Paris perfume, its dark-blue glass bottle and silver-coloured top quite the most elegant things she had ever seen. Next she went into Timpson’s shoe shop. As white seemed the obvious colour to suit both her new dresses, she picked a pair of white, low-heeled leather pumps with a single strap across the instep, but not before she had indulged herself in trying on black, navy, cream, brown and other assorted coloured shoes. When she had paid the 2s 6d for them she had just enough left for her tram fares and the three shillings still untouched for her mother.

  She was loathe to leave this newly found treasure trove and so she started at the end of Church Street, wandering into Coopers where the aroma of dozens of different types of fresh coffee beans was heady and strong. Every edible commodity could be purchased here with produce from all over the world and she stood, mouth watering, gazing at the pyramid-displays of exotic fruit and vegetables. Then she meandered through the departments of C & A Modes which sold cheap but cheerful clothes for men, ladies and children. Across the congested roadway she stopped outside Henderson’s, but one look at the liveried doorman changed her mind about entering its exclusive portals. She did venture into Marks & Spencer where sales girls methodically tidied their counters on which were set out a range of mass-produced garments.

  She caused something of a sensation as she walked up Eldon Street early on Sunday morning. Children scattered before her, diving into houses only to dart out again, followed by avidly curious adults.

  ‘Cor! If it ain’t little Cat Cleary!’ Maggie Abbot exclaimed, leaning against the open door of their house with her hair still screwed up in curling papers. ‘Eh, our Mam! Bessie! Cum an’ look at ’er! Dead posh she is an’ all! Gorrup like a dog’s dinner!’

  Faces crowded behind her as she pushed open the front door of number eight, to be greeted by a wide-eyed Eamon. Shelagh’s face was a picture as she took in the hat, gloves and dress.

  ‘Have you been paradin’ up and down Lime Street then? You didn’t get those from Paddy’s Market!’ she questioned venemously.

  Cat ignored her. Lime Street was the haunt of prostitutes.

  ‘Cat, is it really you? Where did you get those grand things?’

  ‘It’s really me, Ma! Mrs Travis had the dress made over and I’ve got another one, too, and she gave me an extra week’s pay to buy the hat and shoes and gloves!’ She stretched out a small, white-gloved hand.

  Her mother touched it with reverence.

  ‘But don’t worry, I’ve not touched a penny of what I give you. Here!’ She pressed the coins into her mother’s hand.

  ‘God bless you, you’re a fine girl, Cat, and you deserve to be treated well, that you do!’

  ‘Not like some as what we could mention!’ Maisey jibed, casting a contemptuous look at Shelagh. ‘Stoppin’ out ’alf the night, wastin’ money an gerrin’ to bed at all hours an’ gerrin’ up to God knows what!’

  ‘What I do is me own affair, Maisey, and I work for it don’t I?’ came the quarrelsome reply.

  ‘An’ so does she!’

  Cat drew off her gloves. Nothing ever changes here, she thought.

  ‘We’ll be dead proud of yer this mornin’ at Mass, won’t we, Ellen? Will yer be stoppin’ for tea? It’s not what yer used to but . . .’

  ‘Just because I’ve got a few new things doesn’t me
an I’m a snob, Maisey. I’m still a working girl. But I’m sorry I won’t be here for tea. Joe is taking me to New Brighton on the ferry and we’re going to have tea over there.’

  This statement caused Shelagh to snatch up a gaudy print dress from over the back of the chair and slam out of the room.

  ‘Take no notice of ’er, Cat. She’s as jealous as ’ell cos yer’ve got some sense an’ are goin’ up in the world an’ she’s not!’ Maisey advised.

  ‘I’ve never taken any notice of our Shelagh and I don’t intend to start now,’ she replied laconically.

  ‘She’ll cum to a bad end will that one, sure as I’ve gor eyes in me ’ead!’ Maisey muttered ominously, amidst the fevered preparations to get herself and her brood ready for Mass on time.

  The Royal Daffodil ploughed its way into the Mersey under a clear azure sky, while a fresh breeze blew the smoke from her single funnel back towards the Liverpool waterfront. Joe had helped Cat climb up onto the top deck and they stood with the other day-trippers watching the two-mile-wide strip of murky grey water and the distant verdigris-green dome of the church of Saints Peter and Paul set high on its hilltop looking down on the seaside resort of New Brighton.

  Joe placed his arm around her slender waist and she smiled up at him. The day promised to be a wonderful one, with a trip to the seaside, a tour around the fairground and maybe one up the tower and a fish supper before their return trip home. The wind tugged at her hat and she wished she had anchored it more firmly; instead she held on to it with one hand.