The White Empress

by Lyn Andrews

  ‘No, I have to get the tram to Walton.’ She brightened. ‘Walk down Royal Street with me, there’s a park at the bottom – Lester Gardens – we can talk!’

  ‘It’s freezing!’ Cat protested.

  ‘It’s not that bad!’

  Cat warmed to her. She had experienced little company of girls of her own age, although this one looked a bit younger. Cat surmised that if your parents could afford to pay for you to go to an expensive school, then you obviously stayed there a lot longer than if you went to an ordinary school. She nodded and so hanging on to each other for support they made their way precariously across the road, presenting an incongruous and rather comical sight.

  Her new-found friend chattered on while Cat listened, mesmerised, of tales of life at a convent school as seen through the eyes of Marie Hazel Gorry. When she could get a word in edgewise, she asked her about her rather unusual name.

  ‘Well, our Mam – only I’m not supposed to call her that, I have to say “Mother” or “Mummy”,’ she grimaced, ‘wanted to call me something different, a bit unusual and she’d read this novel where the heroine’s name was Hazel. But when they took me to be baptised they had to have a good Catholic name as well, so I got both.’ She jerked her head back in the direction of the convent and the hat slipped down again. She pushed it up. ‘They call me Marie, ’cos when I started there – when I was six – Mother Exterior said Hazel was the name of a nut and that there was nothing remotely saintly about a nut, so everyone must call me just Marie. Everyone at home calls me Marie, too, except our Mam.’

  ‘Have you been at the convent since you were six? How old are you now?’

  ‘Nearly sixteen. I’m leaving soon, once I’ve matriculated.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Passed my exams.’ She indicated the satchel slung over one shoulder.

  ‘What will you do then?’

  ‘Oh, they’ve already sorted that out – not that I had much say in the matter! I’m going to Machin & Harper’s Commercial College in Colquitt Street, off Bold Street. To learn shorthand and typing and “Office Procedures”. I’m to be a secretary when they get finished with me.’ Again she jerked her head in the direction of the convent. ‘They wanted me to go on and be a teacher, but I’ve had enough of kids and schools to last a lifetime!’

  They had reached the bottom of Royal Street and crossed the road, trudging through the grey slush churned up by the trams, carts and lorries, for Walton Road was a main road and always busy with traffic. As they entered Lester Gardens a group of urchins who had been pelting each other with snowballs, stopped and stared at them. Then one lad, bolder than the rest chanted mockingly:

  ‘Catty, catty go to Mass

  Riding on the Devil’s ass!’

  Marie Hazel glared at him.

  ‘Proddy, proddy on the wall

  A penny bun to feed yez all!’

  she yelled back.

  It was obvious she was well used to dealing with the insults frequently hurled at known Catholics in this mainly Protestant area. The religious divisions were deep and cut across all sections of society, but among the poorer classes were more virulent. Cat herself had been the object of this kind of abuse on more than one occasion. On St Patrick’s Day and Orangeman’s Day there were always fights between the rival factions which had been known to degenerate into full-scale riots.

  The lad came closer, thinking he was dealing with one of the quieter, more refined girls from the convent. ‘Eh, girl, lend us yer ’at, we’re ’avin’ soup!’ he mocked and the others doubled up with laughter.

  Marie Hazel was nonplussed. ‘You should be on the stage, lad! The landing stage, feedin’ bread to gummy pigeons!’

  This time the laugh was on him and he bent down and picked up a handful of snow. Marie Hazel was too quick for him. With a well-aimed swipe she caught him across the head with her satchel. He roared with pain and the others fled.

  ‘You wait, girl! I’ll get me Da onter youse, ’e’ll sort yer out! Bleedin’ Papist!’ he bawled.

  ‘Oh, aye, him and whose army? I’ll get my Da and my six brothers to sort you lot out! Now sod off!’

  Cat fell on to the park bench, convulsed with laughter. She’d never met anyone quite like this girl.

  Marie Hazel had snatched off the offending headgear and sat down beside her. ‘Our Mam doesn’t know what I have to put up with from this lot round here! It’s the same every day!’

  ‘Have you really got six brothers?’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’

  ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘Me, my elder sisters Doreen and Marlene, my eldest brother Tom, but he’s married, and Mam and Dad, of course.’

  It was still a big family, Cat thought, and they couldn’t be short of money either. ‘What does your Dad do?’

  ‘He’s in business. Coal. We’ve got four lorries. He owns some houses, too, and rents them out.’

  She had deduced correctly.

  ‘He inherited the business from my grandfather. He started with one horse and cart. A right rum old thing he was, too. Married my grandmother when he was sixty and she was only in her twenties. She came from Ireland. You’re Irish, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, from Dublin.’

  ‘She came from Tipperary. We went there on holiday once. It rained every day!’

  Cat digested all this. It had never occurred to her that an Irish immigrant could end up a wealthy man, owning a thriving business to pass on to his son. If he could do it, so could she and she remembered her conversation with Mrs Travis. At the thought of her mistress she also remembered her promise. She stood up. ‘I’ll have to go now. I was supposed to bank up the fires and do some mending before I collected her at five. What time is it, do you know?’

  Marie Hazel had a watch and she pushed up the sleeve of her coat. ‘Nearly quarter to five. I’d better go myself or our Mam will have the police out looking for me!’ She seemed reluctant to go, even though it was dark and they were both shivering.

  Cat guessed that with no sisters at home close to her own age, and because quite obviously she wasn’t the usual type of pupil at the convent, she was looking for a kindred spirit. ‘Well, it’s been grand talking to you. I’ll have to run back now.’

  ‘You won’t get into trouble will you for not doing the chores?’

  Cat smiled, she seemed genuinely concerned. ‘No, she’s as good as gold to me and it really is my afternoon off.’

  ‘Do you get other days off?’

  ‘Sundays, but I usually go to see my Ma, she lives in Eldon Street.’

  ‘Oh.’ There was a note of disappointment in her voice.

  ‘But I don’t stay all day, not every week,’ she replied, thinking of Joe.

  ‘Come to tea on Sunday afternoon then?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that!’

  ‘Why not? We’re not snobs, everyone’s welcome in our house! I’ll tell them you’re coming, they’re always asking me why I don’t bring friends home like the others do!’

  Cat was perturbed. She liked Marie Hazel Gorry but she doubted that Mrs Gorry would be very impressed with her daughter’s choice of friend. Probably the friends of her other children came from the same background they did and that was still very different from hers.

  ‘Come at three o’clock. It’s number eighteen Yew Tree Road, it’s at the top of Rice Lane, past Walton Hospital! Get the number twenty-two or thirty tram – it stops on the corner. Tell you what, I’ll meet you! Oh, here’s my tram! See you on Sunday!’

  Cat watched her running along the pavement, slipping in her haste. She caught the tram and stood on the platform, waving her school hat. ‘I haven’t got much choice!’ she said aloud. She’d just have to go and endure it. She shrugged. She’d usually had enough of her family and the O’Dwyers by lunchtime anyway and with Joe away . . . Oh, why not, she thought, it would be an experience. Even if she was politely shown the door after one quick cup of tea. At least she could go and see for herself th
e proof that an Irish immigrant could become rich and respected.

  She alighted from the number twenty-two tram on the corner of Yew Tree Road at 2.55 to find Marie waiting for her. She was dressed in a bright red coat with black velvet collar and cuffs, her long, strawberry blonde hair covered by a red Tam-o’-Shanter edged with black velvet. Cat’s apprehension deepened as she pulled her bottle-green, plain, tweed coat closer to her. A small green beret was pinned to her hair and she felt plain and dowdy.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d come. You didn’t sound very enthusiastic.’

  ‘You didn’t give me much choice. What did your mother say when you told her?’

  ‘She said, “Good, it’s about time you had a friend of your own age.”’

  ‘Didn’t you tell her that I don’t go to your school, that I’m in service?’

  ‘Of course I did! I told you she’s not a snob!’

  Cat looked around at the houses as they walked up the quiet street. They were large and well built but not grandiose. The road was wide and tree-lined and quietly affluent. Some of the houses even had cars parked outside. Even Mrs Travis didn’t own a car.

  Marie pushed open the wrought iron gate that led into a well-kept garden and Cat followed, slowing her steps as her new friend opened the front door. The hallway was wide and a staircase swept up one side of it. On her right was a door with stained-glass windows which proved to be a cloakroom.

  ‘She’s here!’ Marie called. ‘Give me your coat and hat!’

  Cat complied and the garments were duly hung up while she smoothed down her dark-grey skirt and pulled down the grey jumper to which she had added a small lace collar. Both had been bought from Marks & Spencer for the occasion. Marie wore a paisley-patterned wool dress that was obviously expensive.

  ‘Come on in and meet everyone, they won’t bite!’

  With mounting apprehension Cat slowly followed her into a large room furnished with good, solid furniture. Heavy curtains reached from the ceiling to the floor and flanked french windows that opened out on to the walled back garden. A roaring fire burned in the modern fireplace.

  ‘Come on in and warm yourself, you look half-starved!’

  Encouraged by the unexpectedly friendly greeting she ventured further into the room. Mrs Gorry was a buxom woman with fair hair and blue eyes that crinkled when she smiled. Mr Gorry was a tall, thin man with greying hair and a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his nose. He smiled and she began to relax. Of the two older Gorry girls there was no sign.

  ‘I said to you, Bernard, didn’t I, that it was about time our Hazel had a nice friend. Come and sit down here, it’s warmer. Hazel, go and see if those two have finished doing the tea, will you?’

  Mr Gorry lowered his newspaper. ‘Don’t fuss, Leila.’

  Mrs Gorry tutted. ‘It’s Polly’s day off, so our Doreen and Marlene are making the tea. It will probably be stone cold, the cake will be burnt and the sandwiches curled up at the edges!’

  Cat was taken aback afresh. They had a servant, too, yet they seemed so . . . ordinary. There were no airs and graces about them.

  ‘Do what your mother tells you, Marie, or we’ll get no peace!’

  It seemed strange to Cat that only Mrs Gorry called her daughter Hazel.

  ‘So you work for Mrs Travis, Cat?’ Mrs Gorry continued. There was no questioning about her name, but before she could answer Mrs Gorry carried on. ‘Some of my relations are called Travis, but I don’t think she’s one of us.’

  Feeling obliged to make conversation Cat said, ‘Marie . . . I mean Hazel, tells me that you have a coal business and that your parents came from Ireland.’

  Mr Gorry nodded. But it was his wife who answered. ‘His mother came from Ireland. The old man was Manx. Came from the Isle of Man originally. Oh, but she was a lovely woman was Mary O’Donnell. A saint. Went to Mass every day of her life, even when she was dying of consumption. But he was a cantankerous old so-and-so! I never met him, he died before I met Mr Gorry. Eighty he was when he died!’

  Before she could embark on the family history any further the door opened and two older replicas of Marie appeared. Smartly dressed and laden with trays of sandwiches, cakes and a china tea service.

  ‘You must be Cat, Marie’s friend. I’m Doreen and this is Marlene.’

  Cat liked them both instantly. All her fears vanished and she basked in the warmth of the fire and the friendship extended to her by this rather unique family, who although they were obviously well off, did not look down their noses at her or patronise her, but who seemed to accept her as an old and valued friend.

  Mrs Gorry ushered them all to the table and began to fuss over the milk that Marlene had slopped from the jug.

  ‘She’s always like this, she’s a real scatterbrain at times,’ Marie whispered, handing Cat a delicate bone-china cup.

  After tea Cat insisted on helping to wash up, despite protests from Mrs Gorry that she was a guest and that either ‘the girls’ could do the dishes later, or Polly would do them in the morning. After that Marie took her on a tour of the house while her sisters got ready to go out dancing. It was a far more modern and well-designed house than Mrs Travis’s. There were no small pokey rooms or narrow passages. It was tastefully decorated and furnished and had an upstairs bathroom and toilet. It also had a narrow staircase that led from the kitchen to the upstairs landing and was obviously meant for Polly’s use, for a servant would be expected to use the back stairs. But it appeared that everyone else used it as well.

  In the parlour with its fine furniture and ornaments and rich Persian carpet stood Marie’s particular pride and joy. A pianola. An instrument that looked like a piano and sounded like a piano but produced the music from rolls of paper, perforated with holes, which were fitted over a metal cylinder. It was worked by pressing up and down on two pedals at the base. Cat was mesmerised at the way the keys moved by themselves.

  ‘You can use it as a proper piano as well, but Dad bought it because he got so fed up with listening to us all practice. We all learned to play but none of us is any good at it. Go on, have a go!’

  For the next half hour the sounds of Strauss, Schubert and Gershwin filled the room while Cat and Marie took it in turns, with great flourishes and peals of laughter, to pretend that they were both actually pressing the keys and playing the music.

  All too soon it was six o’clock. Cat was reluctant to leave but she was always back with Mrs Travis by seven on Sunday nights. Marie wanted to walk with her to the tram but Mrs Gorry insisted that her husband drive Cat back, telling Marie that she could go too. It was the first time Cat had ever been in a car and, she found the journey quiet, luxurious and warm. She was loath to step out of the car when it stopped for it was like stepping out of a dream. She felt she had found a new world and Mrs Travis’s words came back to her again. She did have more choice, there were better things in life and success was not unattainable. The Gorrys had proved all that. She thanked Mr Gorry profusely, wishing she had some small gift to give him, wishing she had a father like him.

  Marie poked her head out of the window. ‘Will you come again next week, Cat?’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘You’re welcome any time, Cat,’ Mr Gorry said, patting her hand.

  ‘See you next week!’ Marie called as the car pulled away.

  Cat hugged herself. At last she’d found a friend, a real friend and how she envied Marie. Not for the material things she possessed, but for the warmth, affection and security of a closely knit, loving family. A family into which she had been welcomed. She hoped it would last, this new friendship, but instinct warned her that nothing lasted forever. That people change and circumstances change. But as she watched the car disappear little did she know that she had just forged the links of a friendship that was to last for the whole of her life.

  Chapter Seven

  THE MARGUERITA DOCKED IN Liverpool on 22 December and Joe was signed off. There was to be no second trip, so with his pay in his pocket and t
he gifts he had bought for Cat and Mrs Travis, he made his way, with mixed feelings, back towards the home of his old employer. Although he had missed Cat, he had felt the blood pound in his veins as the deck had rolled under his feet, the salt spray had stung his face and the cold North wind had cut through his duffle coat. Not that he had spent much time up on deck. The engine room, cramped, smelly and ankle deep in bilgewater had been his domain. One of the crew had failed to turn up and he had been promoted to Stoker and for this he had been paid the princely sum of £1 12s.

  Cat was up to her elbows in flour, making (under supervision) the mince pies, when the knocker echoed through the house. ‘Oh drat!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘You stay and finish that pastry, I’ll go!’ Mrs Travis instructed.

  Joe’s expression changed when he saw the frail figure that opened the door to him. He had been expecting Cat.

  ‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea! Come in, Joe!’

  ‘Thanks. May I see Cat?’

  Mrs Travis nodded as she ushered him down the hallway and into the kitchen.

  Cat gave a little cry of surprise, dropped the rolling pin and wiping her hands on her apron, rushed to him.

  He held her at arm’s length, laughing. ‘You’ve got flour on your nose but you look wonderful!’

  ‘When did you get in?’

  ‘This morning.’

  Cat looked uncertainly at her mistress but the old lady gestured her to sit down.

  ‘The pies will wait. I think a little drop of Madeira is called for.’ She opened the cupboard and took out three glasses and poured a small amount into each glass. She handed one to Joe who held it as though it would snap between his fingers.

  ‘To your safe return and to the festive season!’

  Cat took the glass from her, having washed her hands, and sipped the sweet wine. There was a tenseness in the air and she knew Joe felt it, too, as he slowly twisted his empty glass between his fingers.

  ‘Did you have a good trip?’ she asked, to break the silence.