by Lyn Andrews
‘There’s too many round ’ere who think too much about their bloody ale!’ Queenie muttered, thinking about her own Alfie, who was more than partial to a pint of beer - or anything alcoholic, for that matter. Most of his wages ended up in the pockets of Bert Price, the landlord of the Newsham House, the pub on the corner. No wonder Hetty Price had more money than anyone else. But that wasn’t Queenie’s only worry.
‘Iffen yer think yer’ve got problems with Vi, it’s nothin’ ter what I’ve ter purrup with from our Nora!’
‘What’s up with her?’ Nellie asked.
‘She’s set ’er cap at ’im next door, that’s what.’
‘Who? Richie Seddon?’ Maggie asked with interest.
‘The same feller.’
Mary smiled to herself. She didn’t blame Nora Phelps. Richie Seddon was the most eligible bachelor in the street. He was tall, dark and handsome and still a bachelor - which was the problem. At thirty-two he seemed to have no intention of settling down at all. He’d broken any number of hearts, dashed innumerable hopes and dreams and confounded many devious plans. He was a born womaniser, with a smile and a compliment for every woman over the age of seventeen and a few even younger. He flirted with everyone - herself included - but there was no real harm in him. At least she didn’t think so. It was just that young, silly girls constantly threw themselves at him.
‘She’ll get nowhere with him! I don’t think the girl’s been born yet that will walk him up the aisle,’ Nellie said vehemently. Her own daughter Maureen had had hopes of him and she was considered far prettier and cleverer than Nora Phelps. Of course nothing had come of it and Maureen was now walking out with a lad both she and Fred fully approved of.
‘Isn’t that what I told ’er? “Oh, Mam, yer know nothing!” she says. I know this, girl, yer’re not the one who’ll tie that feller down! If she carries on throwin’ ’erself at ’im, I’ll ’ave ter get Alfie ter talk some sense inter ’er. ’E might even ’ave ter knock some sense inter ’er.’
‘Oh, Queenie, Richie’s not that bad. He just likes flirting and thinking every woman is ready to fall at his feet.’
‘I just hope he doesn’t think you will, girl,’ Nellie said seriously.
Mary laughed scornfully. ‘Me? An old, worn-out married woman with three kids!’
‘You’re not old and you’re a good-looking girl.’
‘Oh, Nellie! You’re joking?’
‘What she’s sayin’ is, there’s fellers who like “ferbidden fruit” if yer know what I mean, like,’ Queenie warned. ‘Remember all the fuss there was over that one from Burlington Street? She ’ad four kids.’
‘Oh, stop it! Stop tormenting me or I swear I’ll go home,’ Mary laughed. ‘Now let’s get back to the serious business.’
‘I’ll give you a hand tomorrow to clean and set up. We’ve no washing coming in,’ Maggie offered.
‘And I’ll see to the younger kids. Keep them out from under your feet,’ Mary added.
‘It’s dead good of you all, you’ve more than enough work and shopping of your own to do. I’ll be glad when it’s all over and she’s taken herself off to Athol Street.’
‘She’ll ’ave ’er work cut out with that auld rip of a ma of ’is.’
‘I don’t have any worries about that, Queenie! Our Vi can hold her own. She’s a mouth like a parish oven! Iffen I’ve told her once I’ve told her a hundred times: “Don’t be such a loudmouth! Don’t be so flaming common! You show me up!” Now, who the hell is that?’ Nellie got to her feet with impatience written all over her face, as the sound of the front door knocker echoed down the lobby.
Mary, Queenie and Maggie looked at each other and raised their eyebrows but upon hearing the voice of the parish priest they all got to their feet.
‘Now what does he want at this time of morning?’ Maggie hissed.
‘Mary, it’s Father Heggarty, looking for you,’ Nellie announced deferentially, ushering in the priest and a shamefaced eight-year-old boy whose stiff Eton collar was turned around back to front and whose face was liberally streaked with grime and chalk.
‘Tommy McGann! Just what have you done now?’ Mary demanded angrily, glaring at her young son who was supposed to be in school. The state he was in!
‘Wasn’t I on my way to see Mr Owens at the school when don’t I see meladdo and two other beauties got up like eejits, trick-acting on the pavement for the benefit of passengers on the top deck of the number twenty tram! And men who should know better throwing pennies and halfpennies down to them for their antics!’
Filled with anger and humiliation Mary grabbed her son by the arm and administered a quick box around the ears. ‘Father, he’ll be the death of me! Didn’t I send him out this morning all clean and tidy telling him not to dawdle, and look at the cut of him now! You wait until your da hears of this, meladdo, there’ll be no Christmas treats for you. It’ll be the back of his hand you’ll be feeling! And you can give Father Heggarty the money those fools threw at you. It can go into the poor box!’
‘I’ve already confiscated it, Mary,’ the priest announced.
‘Good! Oh, what am I going to do with you?’
‘Father, now you’re here, will you have a cup of tea and a slice of Sally Lunn?’ Nellie interrupted, feeling sorry for Mary. Hospitality was always offered to the clergy whenever they called, even if it wasn’t exactly at the most convenient time and supplies of tea, milk and sugar were short (which was often).
‘Ah, that’s very good of you, Nellie, but I can see you’re all busy and Mr Owens is expecting me this half-hour past.’ He fixed young Tommy with a piercing and malevolent gaze. ‘And you, me fine bucko, if there’s any more of this morning’s antics, I’ll be calling your name from the pulpit on Christmas morning for the hooligan you’re becoming! Well, I’ll be off now. God bless you all.’
All four women crossed themselves devoutly and Mary nudged her son to do the same.
‘You’ll end up on the gallows, Tommy McGann, I swear you will!’ Mary cried after Nellie had shown the priest out.
‘Yer’ll ’ave yer mam in an early grave!’ Queenie added. She turned to Mary. ‘I bet yer could ’ave done with the few coppers ’e got though. Never mind the poor box. Aren’t we all flaming poor ourselves!’ she added, sotto voce.
‘Mam, I didn’t mean to do it! Honest I didn’t! I were going to school and then Georgie Price said it would be a bit of a laugh if we were to try and look a bit like clowns and we might get some money!’ Tommy cried, regretful now that he had taken notice of his friend. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
‘I was going to school, not I were, and it would be Georgie Price’s idea not yours! Nothing is ever your fault! I mean it, you wait until your da hears!’
‘Ah, Mam! I’m sorry, really sorry, and anyway, our Katie’s as bad!’
Mary rounded on him. ‘What’s she done, for God’s sake?’
Tommy kicked with the toe of his boot at the frayed edge of the oilcloth.
‘Will you give over doing that, isn’t it in a bad enough way already and I can’t afford new!’ Nellie admonished.
‘What’s our Katie done?’ Mary demanded.
‘The rag-and-bone feller’s going around the streets and I saw her and Millie Price sneaking out of the schoolyard. Georgie said his mam said they had loads of stuff for when he next came round, and they’d get all kinds of things in return, maybe even a goldfish in a proper bowl.’
‘What’s that to do with our Katie? I’ve not got anything to give that feller! All the rags I’ve got are on my back!’
‘I heard her telling Millie that she’d find something for when he came next and now he’s here and I bet that’s where she was sneaking off to!’ he finished triumphantly.
‘Them kids of Price’s are a flaming menace! It’s all Hetty’s fault, she’s too easy-going with them,’ Nellie declared.
‘Mary, you’d better get home and see what she’s up to before she strips those tatty sheets off the lin
e and gives them in!’ Maggie sniffed. ‘Mind you, they’re not worth even a goldfish in a jam jar never mind a flaming bowl,’ she finished cuttingly.
Mary glanced at the three women in despair then gave her son a push towards the back door. ‘Maybe you’re right, Maggie. I’d better go before she gives away every half-decent thing I own. Get on back to school, you.’
Mary hastily threw her shawl around her shoulders and left.
Nellie shook her head. ‘There’s never a dull moment around here, is there?’
‘You’d think their Katie would have more sense. She’s supposed to be looking after their Lizzie, the poor little mite.’
‘I know what yer mean, Maggie. ’Asn’t poor Mary enough on ’er plate with Lizzie, what with ’er bein’ deaf an’ dumb an’ him bein’ such a miserable sod,’ Queenie concurred.
‘Well, this isn’t getting anything done,’ Nellie sighed.
‘Weddings and Christmas! I’m wore out with them both. And as for our flaming Violet . . . !’ The complaints continued as she removed the dirty dishes to the stone sink in the tiny scullery. Maggie and Queenie looked at each other, grimaced, then both got to their feet, shaking their heads.
Chapter Two
CLUTCHING HER SHAWL TO her, Mary ran the short distance to her own home and let herself in the back way. The kitchen was empty but she wasn’t happy to see that Maggie hadn’t cleared up. There were buckets of dirty water by the door, a bar of carbolic soap and a scrubbing brush on the draining board and she nearly fell over a large basket on the floor. More for herself to do, she thought irritably. Still, Maggie was sixty. She was getting too old to cope with all the work she had - and she had promised to help Nellie. She must have just run out of time.
Sounds from upstairs came to her ears and with her lips set in a grim line she ran up the stairs and flung open the bedroom door.
‘Just what do you think you’re doing, miss?’ she demanded of her eldest daughter.
Nine-year-old Katie raised scared green eyes to those of her mother. There was a grey flannel blouse rolled up in her hands. ‘Mam! I thought you were—’
‘Out! I know you did. Tommy told me you’d be here.’
‘How did he know?’
‘He saw and heard you and Millie Price talking about the rag-and-bone feller, so don’t try to deny it!’
Katie’s lip trembled. ‘Oh, Mam, I . . . I wanted . . . things. Things like Millie has. She’s got everything. I’ve got . . . nothing!’
‘You’ve got boots on your feet, a coat on your back and food in your belly, Katie McGann. That’s more than a lot of kids round here have. Just you be thankful. You’ve got nothing indeed. I won’t have all this nonsense from you or your brother. Sagging off school, having Father Heggarty shame me, you about to give my only decent blouse to the rag-and-bone man!’
Tears had sprung to Katie’s eyes. She really hadn’t intended to upset her mam but the thought of maybe getting a paper windmill or some coloured chalks for a few old rags had given her courage and blinded her to the consequences.
‘And you’re supposed to be looking out for Lizzie. You know it’s hard for her and sometimes she gets tormented. She’s only six and she’s still not used to school.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mam!’ Katie sniffed, tears falling down her cheeks. She’d forgotten about Lizzie. Poor Lizzie could neither hear nor speak and so life at St Anthony’s School was doubly hard for her.
Mary relented a little. ‘Oh, don’t cry, love. I just wish you’d think a bit more before you do these things.’
‘I really am sorry, Mam. You won’t tell me da, will you?’
‘Come here to me. No, I won’t tell him - this time - but our Tommy might. I’m going to have to tell your da about that little hooligan.’
Katie bit her lip. She was afraid of her da. ‘What was our Tommy doing?’
‘Acting the eejit, as Father Heggarty would say. Him and Georgie Price. Oh, I wish you would stay away from those Price kids, they’re nothing but trouble.’ She felt it keenly that Katie thought she had nothing compared to Millie, but then Millie Price was spoilt and had far too much of everything in her opinion.
‘I will, Mam. I promise.’
Mary smiled. ‘It’s Christmas in three days and you never know what Father Christmas will leave you, if you behave yourself.’
Katie didn’t look convinced. There had been years when there had been nothing in her stocking except an orange. It just didn’t seem fair that Millie always had a stocking bursting with toys and she got more for her birthday.
‘And this year there’s Violet’s wedding as well. You should see the food Nellie’s got. We’ll have a great time. Now, back to school. You can tell them you’ve seen me. Mind you look after your sister - that other little tearaway can look after himself. And next time don’t be giving my stuff away! There’s years more wear in that blouse.’
Wiping away her tears, Katie handed over the blouse. She’d thought it wasn’t fit to be worn.
‘Give me a kiss?’ Mary demanded of her woebegone young daughter, vowing to find something that could be classed as real rags. She hated Katie to think she was deprived.
When Katie had gone she went swiftly back downstairs. There was so much to do. Well, she’d have a quick tidy up down here, go back and give Nellie an hour or two more, then she’d have to go along Scotland Road and get something for tea. Maggie would need help later on to get the laundry packed up ready for collection. They needed that money desperately if they were going to have any kind of a decent dinner on Christmas Day. She would have Frank’s wages this evening. At least she hoped she would have them. There had been times in the past when he’d spent part of her housekeeping money on beer. Oh, he wasn’t as bad as Alfie Phelps, it hadn’t happened very often, but at times like this it worried her. Surely even Frank must realise that at Christmas she would need the full amount and it would have to stretch a very long way indeed. Then after she’d got tonight’s meal over and cleaned up she would have to try to find something decent to wear for this wedding.
She shook her head. There weren’t enough hours in the day. The list of chores for tomorrow didn’t even bear thinking about. In addition to everything else she had promised to look after Nellie’s younger children, she had to get Frank’s suit from the pawnshop, give the house a good clean and at the end of it all there would be the late night trip to the market. It would be well turned midnight before she got to bed. Still, she didn’t really mind. The crowded market was always colourful and entertaining: there was a lot of laughing and joking between the stall-holders and their customers. It was all part of Christmas. And then there would be Violet’s wedding and Christmas Day itself and she was looking forward to that. For months now she had been putting away a halfpenny here and a farthing there and she had the princely sum of one shilling to spend on some cheap toys for the children. Nothing much, penny toys mainly, and a few sweets, but they would be a real treat. Maybe it would stretch to some coloured paper for decorations. That would certainly cheer up the drab-looking kitchen. Oh, Frank would complain about wasting good money on stuff that would end up on the fire, but she didn’t care. She’d gone without things, not him, and the children’s pleasure would be worth it. She was going to try and make this the best Christmas they’d had in a long time.
As she tidied the kitchen she thought about Frank. He was often a difficult man to live with. It hadn’t always been like this. She’d been happy in the early days of her marriage. They’d never had much money, not much of anything really, but they’d had each other. Frank had always been on the serious side, always thrifty and hard-working. He derived a lot of satisfaction from that fact, and a lot of pride. It gave you standing in the community, he said, to be looked up to as a hard-working man in full employment. They were traits she had admired in him at first.
But over the years he’d changed. She realised now that it had been a slow, gradual process. He’d become more engrossed in himself and less interested in wh
at she thought, what she wanted or indeed needed. These days they never sat and talked about what their day had been like, or swapped bits of local gossip, or commented on local politics the way they used to. Now, it was as if he didn’t consider it a worthwhile effort to exchange even a few points of view with her. As if her opinion on anything was of no interest to him. She sighed and wondered, had it been her fault? Where had she gone wrong? Had she gone wrong?
Reluctantly she acknowledged that he was becoming more and more selfish, silent and careful with his money. She would never admit to herself that he was actually mean. He’s not, not with himself, a little voice in her head said bluntly. No, she wasn’t going to think like that! she told herself firmly. They had far more than many families and thankfully he wasn’t like Alfie Phelps. Poor Queenie had to stand at the dock gates and wait for her husband, otherwise he would drink every penny he had earned on the way home. She had never had to suffer humiliation like that. And she really didn’t mind her life. Everyone had to work hard and watch the pennies. No one expected life to be a bed of roses. That was something young Violet Jones would have to accept too, once she was married, but at least she would come home to a warm house and a cooked meal after a day in the bag works. Until she had her first baby that was, and she had to give up work.
Her thoughts were disturbed by the faint but audible cry of the rag-and-bone merchant. Hastily she ran back upstairs and rummaged in their very meagre selection of clothes until she found an old jumper of Frank’s that she had been meaning to try to darn. Holding it up for inspection, she shook her head. There were far too many holes in it. It would just be held together with darning wool. It might be enough to get something for Katie. Something she could share with her little sister. Once again she found herself reflecting on her family. She did try her best with Lizzie in the very limited amount of time she had to spare. Patiently she had taught her to lip-read certain words and phrases but it had been a painfully slow process and her heart went out to her child as she watched her struggle to understand. She hoped that Lizzie was picking up more words from the other children she played with at school. She knew that Lizzie wasn’t really learning much at St Anthony’s School but the child seemed to enjoy going and it helped her to know that Lizzie was at least being supervised and looked after. There never seemed to be enough hours in the day as it was without having to worry about where Lizzie was and what she was doing. Poor Lizzie.