The White Empress

by Lyn Andrews

  On the following Saturday she followed Marie and Mrs Gorry through the lofty portals of George Henry Lee & Company in Basnett Street. If the doorman had any doubts about her inferior attire they were not noticeable as he held the door open for Mrs Gorry, bedecked in a camel-hair coat and large-brimmed hat, a fox fur draped around her shoulders. After her forays into C & A Modes, Frost’s on County Road, where Miss Kay superintended the ‘rigging out’ of those customers who had paid into a savings scheme called a ‘cheque’, and the slightly more competitive Marks & Spencer, this emporium reminded Cat of a church.

  It sold furniture and toys, dress materials and household linens, but it was to the model dress department that Mrs Gorry steered them first. Here Cat selected – helped by a very deferential sales assistant – one wool day dress. In the outerwear department she bought a smart herringbone tweed coat with a shawl collar, fastened down the front with large red buttons. In the shoe department she bought good quality leather court shoes in black and a matching handbag and kid gloves that were as soft as satin. She also bought three pair of silk stockings. They spent nearly an hour in the millinery department as, despite Marie’s protests, she insisted that she could only afford one good hat which would have to match everything. She settled in the end for a stiffened, black velvet picture hat, decorated with a single red feather that curled around the base of the crown, forming a bandeau. To her horror she realised that she had spent twelve pounds of her precious fifty and was determined to spend no more.

  ‘I feel so guilty and extravagant!’

  ‘Don’t be daft! You’ll have to be smartly turned out for interviews!’ Marie advised.

  ‘But I haven’t got an interview yet, I’ve not even started evening classes!’

  ‘Stop worrying, Cat, it won’t be hard.’ She turned to her mother. ‘Can Cat leave these things in our house, our—’ she stopped herself. ‘Mother?’

  Mrs Gorry nodded, pouring herself another cup of tea for they had gone to the Kardomah tea rooms to await the arrival of Mr Gorry with the car to transport them home.

  Cat said nothing to anyone in Eldon Street about her new wardrobe, elocution lessons – which she found very frustrating at times – or her intended disappearance on three evenings a week. The excuse she had ready for any unusual absence was that she was visiting the Gorrys.

  ‘We’re not good enough for her now! Miss High and Mighty, now she is! Used to better things!’ Shelagh sneered.

  Cat ignored her.

  ‘And what I want to know is, when is she going to get another job? How long is she going to hang around the house while others have to go out and work?’ Shelagh was still employed by the British and American Tobacco Company and had quietened down a little. At least on the surface.

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m looking for something else and I help Mrs Rooney out in the corner shop over the busy times and while I’m still paying for my keep, I don’t see that it’s got anything to do with you, so shut up and mind your own business!’

  ‘Oh, just listen to her! She even talks like them now. “Looking for something else!”’ Shelagh mimicked, emphasising the ‘g’ on the end of the words.

  ‘Shut up!’ Cat snapped, gathering up the books she had bought from Phillips, Son & Nephew in Whitechapel and the pen and pencil she had purchased in Woolworths.

  Warbreck Moor Secondary School was situated at the bottom of the incline of the same name. It was a red-brick building and quite modern and therefore bright and spacious. The school and the adjoining yards were segregated. Half for boys and half for girls, but in the evenings it was mixed classes. Cat, after some initial enquiries, found the large classroom. Other girls and young men were chatting to each other and taking their seats in the rather small desks and benches. She stared around her in some confusion.

  ‘Are you Miss Cleary?’

  She turned and looked at a young man whom she judged to be in his late twenties. He had fair hair and moustache and looked sympathetic.

  ‘Yes, it’s the first time I’ve been, where do I sit?’

  ‘There.’ He pointed to an empty place almost directly in front of the dais on which stood a large desk and chair, behind which was a blackboard. ‘I’m Stephen Hartley, your teacher.’

  She eyed the proximity of the empty desk to the dais and her heart sank. She would have preferred to have sat further back where her struggles wouldn’t be so obvious to him or the rest of the students. Instead she nodded and sat down. After exchanging a few words with two young men, he came over to her.

  ‘Don’t be afraid to ask questions, Miss Cleary. No one will think any the worse of you, they are all here because they want to learn and haven’t had the time or inclination before and my job is to help you.’ He studied the list he carried attached to a clipboard. ‘I see you’re here for English grammar, arithmetic and geography?’

  ‘Yes.’

  His blue eyes looked amused and instantly she felt defensive.

  ‘Geography is rather an unusual choice of subject?’

  ‘I intend to make a career at sea.’

  He nodded and then called his class to order.

  She hated every minute of it. She had struggled to keep up with everyone else, but she felt so foolish, so slow and so utterly confused by all the verbs, adverbs and nouns! She had managed the arithmetic quite well as she had a natural aptitude for figures, and she even found the geography quite interesting, but it was with a sigh of relief and a thudding headache, that she left the building and started walking towards the tram stop. Her head bent against a wind that was still cold, although it was the middle of March.

  ‘Miss Cleary! I walk home this way, I’ll walk with you, that’s if you don’t object?’

  She smiled shyly at Stephen Hartley. ‘Of course not. I didn’t do too well, did I? To be honest, I don’t think I’ll ever grasp the difference between nouns and verbs, let alone pronouns, adjectives and conjunctions!’

  He smiled. ‘It’s not that hard. Don’t forget you are only just starting out.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know whether this is going to work!’

  ‘Why not? You have an agile mind and a natural intelligence.’

  ‘You’re flattering me, do they pay you on the number of pupils you teach?’

  He laughed and brushed back a strand of blonde hair. ‘You’re very direct!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be, it was meant to be a joke!’

  ‘I know and I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. But, yes, I’m paid that way so I hope you’ll stick at it, if only for my sake!’ he joked.

  Cat found herself liking him more and more. He was easy to talk to, once she was away from the rest of her fellow students. ‘Do you really think I’ll ever be able to pass any kind of examination? I know just how ignorant I am!’

  They had reached the tram stop.

  ‘Yes, I do think you’ll pass, Miss Cleary. Especially if you work hard, as most of my students do, having become mature enough to realise that education will open many doors for them and they work harder to make up for lost time. The only ignorance I abhor is wilful, culpable ignorance!’

  She made a mental note to look up the word ‘culpable’ in her new dictionary.

  ‘If you like, I will help you in any way I can?’

  ‘That’s very good of you.’

  He was about to speak when the tramcar rumbled up and clanked to a halt.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow evening, Miss Cleary.’

  ‘That you will! Good night, Mr Hartley!’

  A friendship soon sprang up between them for he seemed genuinely concerned and impressed by her efforts to catch up on the years of schooling she had missed. Often she would stay behind for half an hour or so while he patiently went over the intricacies of English grammar, fractions and decimal points and the climates and rainfall of the various European countries she was studying.

  At times she would become so despairing she would throw down the pen, her fingers stained with ink, her c
heeks flushed, her head throbbing. Declaring she would never, never understand it all. He would pick up the pen and put it back in her hand and they would begin again. Each night he walked her to the tram and only then would the proprieties be dropped. During lessons she was ‘Miss Cleary’ and he ‘Mr Hartley’, beyond the doors it was Cat and Stephen.

  In him she confided her ambition and determination, fuelled by regular Saturday afternoon strolls along the landing stage, regardless of the weather, to watch the arrival and departure of the liners. Hoping against hope that one Saturday she would see, far out in the river, that gleaming white hull above which the three yellow funnels towered. But each week when her eyes scanned the river, she was disappointed. The White Empress’s home port was Southampton and she had to make do with the black hulls and red funnels of the Cunarders which, by comparison, were dull and ordinary.

  It was Mr O’Dwyer, who like herself was an avid reader of anything he could get his hands on, who read out from the Journal of Commerce that the Cunard’s Scythia was due to sail from Liverpool to New York the following day.

  ‘Isn’t that the one that Joe Calligan ’as gorra job on?’ Maisey asked innocently, while eyeing Cat sideways. She sensed there was a serious rift between them and he hadn’t been round to the house since just after Mrs Travis had died.

  ‘Aye, I don’t know how many palms ’e greased ter gerrit, but it must ’ave been quite a few! Yer don’t gerra job in the engine room on one of them without givin’ out a few back ’anders, these days. Especially if yer’ve only done a few trips as deck ’and with B & I an’ a few trips on an owld tub!’

  Cat kept her eyes on the page of the book she was reading, but the words became a jumbled mass. So Joe had finally made it. At least he had a foot on the ladder. It must have cost him something, too.

  ‘What time does she sail, then?’ Maisey asked.

  ‘On the four o’clock tide, termorrer.’

  ‘Are yer goin’ ter see ’im off, Cat?’

  She finally looked up. ‘Why?’

  ‘Ter wish ’im luck, like.’

  ‘I might.’

  Maisey and her mother exchanged glances.

  ‘Do you not think you should, Cat? He was good to you.’ Her mother chided.

  She closed the book. ‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I should. I owe him that much.’

  She didn’t see Maisey mouth the words ‘Lovers’ tiff’ behind her back as she watched her mother’s head move in agreement.

  The Scythia was not a very large ship, but she looked well enough Cat thought as she walked down the floating roadway to the landing stage the following afternoon. There was the usual hustle and bustle that accompanied a departing ship. A young man in uniform stood at the bottom of the gangway and she pushed her way towards him.

  ‘Is Joe Calligan aboard?’

  He scanned the list he carried. ‘Sorry, miss, no one by that name here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s not a passenger, he’s crew. Engine room, I think. This is his first trip with you.’

  He grinned, then glanced at his watch. ‘In that case you’ll probably find him in the Stile House being inaugurated. Just make sure he arrives before we sail and can walk up the gangway on his own!’ he called after her as she turned away.

  She crossed the cobbled expanse known as Mann Island, which indeed it was, separated by a floating roadway from the pierhead itself. The Stile House was the pub frequented by the crews of all the ships docking and leaving the landing stage and it was crowded. There were a few women inside but it was obviously a very male domain.

  ‘Looking for someone, luv?’

  ‘Yes. Joe Calligan, he’s due on board the Scythia.’

  ‘Aren’t we all, luv! Girl here looking for Joe Calligan!’ Her informant bellowed above the din.

  She saw him shouldering his way towards her, through the crowd around the bar, and she smiled. She’d never seen him in uniform before, except the old black jersey on the ferry, and he looked older and even more handsome.

  ‘I came to see you off. Mr O’Dwyer told me you’d got this job.’

  He took her arm and propelled her outside. It was the first time they had seen each other since that day in the park and she felt awkward, unable to look him directly in the face.

  ‘I wondered if you would come, Cat.’

  ‘Did you, Joe? Did you really?’

  He took her hand. ‘Really, I did, and . . . and I’m glad.’

  She looked up at him. ‘You look grand in that uniform.’

  ‘I won’t get to wear it very often. It’ll be a boiler suit and up to my armpits in grease and oil most of the time.’

  ‘Isn’t it what you wanted?’

  ‘Of course! It’s better than being a steward or galley boy!’

  She remembered his bitter words about stewardesses and looked away.

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean, Cat! They’re going to train me, it’s sort of an apprenticeship. I’m a bit older than the others, but . . .’ he shrugged.

  ‘How much did it cost you, Joe?’

  ‘Don’t ask!’

  ‘But it is what you want?’

  He looked closely into her face, then nodded. ‘Next to you, Cat.’

  ‘So we’re still . . . friends?’

  ‘If that’s the way you want it, Cat.’ He replied cautiously, hoping he sounded indifferent. He had vowed he would never speak to her again for she had hurt him. But when he had sat and thought about it he realised that the thing that hurt most was his pride. Seeing her again had made him realise that he still cared about her. But he was wary. He would never give her the opportunity to turn him down flat again.

  ‘I’m glad, Joe. I didn’t want you to go away and us still be . . . enemies!’

  ‘We’ll never be that! Come here!’ He lifted her chin in his hand and bent and kissed her.

  She clasped her arms around his neck and clung to him. She did care about him and now she realised how much she had missed him. It was just like the first time he had gone away and somehow she knew it would always be like this.

  ‘It’s a lonely life for a woman. Waiting, wondering, worrying!’ An echo sounded in her mind. ‘Oh, you dear soul, you were right!’ she whispered into his shoulder.

  He kissed her again as the deafening blast of the Scythia’s siren sounded, warning her crew that she would cast off in ten minutes.

  Men started to push past them, buttoning up jackets, straightening ties and caps.

  He kissed her again and she clung to his lips.

  ‘I’ve got to go now, Cat!’

  ‘Take care, Joe! Take care!’ She hugged him quickly then released him. He quickened his steps to a run to catch up to the others, pulling on his uniform cap.

  ‘Godspeed!’ she called after him. ‘And come home safe,’ she finished quietly to herself.

  Chapter Ten

  SHE STRUGGLED ON AT her evening classes, helped and encouraged by Stephen, but there were nights when she walked from the tram stop back to the house, when hearing the ships on the river, she felt lonely and miserable.

  Early in spring she had started to go to the city library in William Brown Street and once or twice Stephen had accompanied her. It was on one of these visits that he suggested they pay a visit to the Walker Art Gallery with its fluted Corinthian portico and statues of Raphael and Michelangelo which flanked the doors. It was situated next door to the library, facing the Wellington Monument. She stood in awe, gazing up at the full-length portrait of King Henry VIII in the entrance hall and remained silent and attentive as he pointed out such treasures as Stubbs’ Molly Longlegs, Martini’s Finding of Christ in the Temple and de Roberti’s Pietà. She followed him, in rapt silence, through the quiet halls, totally enthralled by such beauty and splendour.

  When they left, he suggested they take a trip to Otterspool promenade and park at the south end of the docks. It was a fine day and, loathe to return to the clamour and clutter at home, she had readily agreed. It was so refreshing to walk close to the
river and feel the breeze in your hair, smell the salt in the air and watch the grey surface undergo a transformation as the sunlight broke through the slowly moving cumulus.

  They sat on the grass in the park while she studied the catalogue they had bought in the art gallery.

  ‘Do you still want to go to sea, Cat?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course! Why do you think I’m working myself to death, slaving over a hot pen and exercise book? Did people really have pictures like this hanging in their houses?’

  ‘Yes, but then they were very wealthy and had big houses.’

  ‘One day I’m going to have a fine house and fill it with objects d’art – is that what you call them? And all the luxuries I can afford!’

  ‘Money doesn’t always bring happiness, Cat.’

  ‘I know that, but it helps to make life sweeter and besides, if used wisely, it can.’

  ‘But why choose the sea? It’s not an easy life and it can be dangerous?’

  ‘I’ve already told you, a hundred times or more!’

  ‘Of course, the White Empress! It’s difficult to fight a ship, Cat.’

  She looked up from the catalogue. ‘What do you mean “fight”?’

  ‘I think most men could cope with a male rival, but a ship—!’

  ‘You’re laughing at me!’

  ‘I’m not!’

  ‘Then . . .?’

  He pulled her gently down on the grass beside him, leaning over her. ‘It’s so hard to fight something inanimate, but I’ll try anyway. I love you!’

  She hadn’t been prepared for any of this and she lay staring up at him.

  He traced the outline of her nose with his index finger until it reached her lips. ‘Don’t speak, Cat, don’t spoil it!’

  Before she realised it, his lips were pressing against hers. Gently at first, then harder and more demanding. One hand slid under her back, the other supported her head. The sky began to grow paler, the sunlight less bright as she responded to him. Her hands locked around his neck and through half-closed eyes, the sun began to spin slowly. Something was stirring in her that she had never felt before. These were not the feelings Joe’s lips had evoked. These were the stirrings of emotions she had never felt before. She felt his hand touch the soft mound of her breast and a longing arose within her. His lips, his gently caressing fingers, were causing tremors to course through her body.