The September Girls (21 page)

While Eleanor’s condition had worsened in monetary terms, Brenna’s had improved. Three years ago, Colm had left Phelan’s builders’ yard to work as an organizer for the Labour Party. He’d learned to drive and travelled the length and breadth of Lancashire and Cheshire in an old battered van, ensuring meetings at the various branches were being properly conducted and internal elections fairly held. His wages were little more than he’d earned before but, as soon as Cara had started school, Brenna had gone to work as a morning waitress in the Park Road Cocoa Rooms; for a woman whose husband held down such an important job it was far more befitting than cleaning.

‘Are you going to the Townswomen’s Guild tomorrow afternoon, Brenna?’ Eleanor asked now. They’d both joined when a new branch had opened not far away in Allerton.

‘No, I’ve got something else on,’ Brenna replied abruptly.

‘It sounds awfully interesting. Some woman called Lizzie Phelan is coming to talk to talk to us about the time she spent in France with the Red Cross during the war. Nancy’s going.’

‘I know, Nancy already told me, but I’ll be busy.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Someone’s off sick in the Cocoa Rooms and I’ve offered to do their shift,’ Brenna lied. She wasn’t prepared to sit in the same room as Lizzie Phelan, worried she might throw a punch at the woman.

‘That’s a pity. You know,’ Eleanor said regretfully, ‘I never did a single thing during the war. I could at least have manned a refreshment stall at the station for the troops. Lots of women I knew did things like that.’

‘If there’s another war you can make up for it then,’ Brenna said.

Eleanor shuddered. ‘Don’t say things like that! There’ll never be another war, not in our lifetime. Anyway, they called the last one “the war to end all wars” so we can’t possibly have another.’

They parted, Eleanor promising to come to the Cocoa Rooms in the morning if it was a nice day and she took Jonathan for a walk.

 

Ernest Fulton was in the kitchen when Eleanor arrived home, staring bleakly at the unlit stove. ‘There’s no tea on the go, Mrs Allardyce,’ he complained the second she entered. He completely ignored Jonathan.

‘That’s because you’re early, Mr Fulton,’ she pointed out.

‘I’m often early on Saturday.’

‘Not all that often, Mr Fulton.’ He was a door-to-door salesman for Browns Miracle Elixir, supposedly a cure for every ailment under the sun. ‘I can’t be expected to hang around all day Saturday just in case you come home early once in a while. It’s hardly six o’clock and I partly boiled the potatoes this morning and partly fried the sausages. All I have to do is make some gravy and everything will be ready by half six, which is the time you usually come in.’ She wasn’t a very good cook, but Mr Fulton seemed more interested in quantity rather than quality.

‘What about pudding?’ he asked rudely.

‘For pudding, you shall have a piece of the fruitcake I made yesterday.’

‘You know I prefer a hot pudding, Mrs Allardyce.’

‘Then I shall put the piece of fruitcake in the oven and make it hot, Mr Fulton. If you like, I’ll make custard and you can pretend it’s spotted dick.’

He left, unsure if she was making fun of him or not. She knew she was using the poor man as a way of getting back at Marcus, saying things to him that she wished she’d said to Marcus during the years she’d been unfortunate to live with him under the same roof.

‘He’s a grumpy old man, isn’t he, darling?’ Jonathan nodded vigorously. ‘Would you like to play in the garden for a little minute before it goes dark? Or shall Mummy make you a nice cup of tea?’

‘Tea, please, Mummy, and can I have some digestive biscuits?’

‘Of course, darling.’ She hugged him, told him he was the most adorable boy in the world and wondered if she was feeding him too much. He was becoming rather chubby. ‘I think it best if you have only a single biscuit.’

‘All right, Mummy,’ he said equably, smiling like the cherub he was although, at five, he was a trifle old to be a cherub. She must go easy on the cakes and sweets in future, but he truly was adorable and she loved pleasing him. By some strange trick of the brain, she always thought of him as the child of Geoffrey, her late fiancé, which was crazy because she and Geoffrey had never made love and he’d died in 1914. Yet somehow, Daniel Vaizey had altogether faded from her mind and been replaced by Geoffrey. It was
him
with whom she’d lain in the rooms in Spellow Lane and he couldn’t be with her now because he was dead. The dates, times and names were all wrong, but Eleanor never questioned them. She even considered that her little boy, with his light-brown curls and bright blue eyes, resembled Geoffrey far more than his real father, whose face she could no longer recall.

These days, she hardly ever thought about Anthony and Sybil. She did her motherly duty by going to see them several times a week, but Jonathan occupied such a large part of her heart that there was very little room left for her other children.

‘What shall we do tonight?’ she asked. ‘After the monster has eaten his tea and disappeared into his lair, shall I read you a story? Or would you prefer to do a jigsaw? What about a game: snakes and ladders?’

‘A jigsaw, Mummy, the one with the train.’ His face broke into a smile of pure happiness that perfectly expressed how Eleanor herself felt. After he’d been put to bed, she’d put on the wireless and listen to a play or some music or read her new library book. Tomorrow was Sunday and they could all sleep in, including Mr Fulton, who wouldn’t mind his breakfast being late.

Oh, life was so
good
. Ernest Fulton aside, it really was quite perfect and she never wanted it to change.

 

‘Tyrone!’ Brenna screamed the minute she opened the front door.

‘He mustn’t have come home,’ Cara said when Tyrone didn’t reply. ‘Are you mad at him for something, Mam?’

‘No. I was just wondering where he was.’ Brenna threw herself into a chair. ‘He didn’t enjoy that party: it was obvious from the look on his face. Mind you, neither did I. It was dead horrible, in fact.’

‘It was all right, Mam.’

‘No, it wasn’t, girl,’ Brenna said sharply. ‘All that Sybil did was belittle you: it was
her
party,
her
cake, Nancy was
her
guest. She seemed to have forgotten it was
your
birthday, too.’

‘Oh, Mam! It doesn’t matter.’ Cara looked at her so reproachfully that Brenna felt as if she were the seven-year-old and Cara thirty-one.

‘You’re right, it doesn’t,’ she said quickly. She’d been hurt for her child but, as Cara appeared entirely unaffected, no harm had been done. ‘Come here a minute, darlin’.’ When Cara came, Brenna kissed her cheek and ruffled her lovely red-gold hair. She looked much prettier in her second-hand, cut-down frock than Sybil had in that ridiculous pink creation that reminded her of a blancmange. She looked into her daughter’s wide blue eyes and hoped nothing would ever happen to change their look of shining innocence. ‘You’re too nice, d’you know that, luv? You’re a bit like your dad. Me, I fly off the handle at the least little thing. Sit on me knee a minute while I give you a cuddle.’

Cara settled contentedly on her knee. ‘I love you, Mam.’

‘And I love you, darlin’. That’s the difference between the Caffreys and the Allardyces: we all love each other, but it’s not something you could say about that family.’

‘Anthony loves
me
, Mam. He told our Fergus to tell me. He said he’s going to marry me when we grow up.’

‘Did he now!’ Brenna would have plenty to say about
that
should the occasion ever arise.

 

‘Well, d’you think I should tell her or not, Colm?’

Colm looked up from the exercise book he’d been staring at intently for at least an hour. ‘Tell who what, luv?’

‘Oh, you!’ Brenna said exasperatedly. ‘You haven’t listened to a word I said.’

‘I’m trying to decipher the notes I made at that meeting I went to last night. I took them down so quickly and now I can’t make head nor tail of what I wrote.’ He laid the book on the table. ‘Tell me again.’

‘It’s Eleanor. She’s cross with Marcus for spoiling Sybil, yet she’s doing exactly the same with Jonathan. He’s five, but she treats him like a wee baby and refuses to let him grow up.
And
she stuffs the poor little lad with food. Fergus said that Anthony thinks he looks like Humpty Dumpty.’ She paused and, much to her irritation, Colm grinned. ‘It’s not funny, Colm. Any road, should I say something to Eleanor or not?’

‘Not.’ He bent over the book again.

‘Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘You asked for me opinion and I just gave it. Brenna, luv,’ he groaned, ‘I really should be getting on with these notes. They’ll be even more difficult to read by tomorrow. Out of interest, would you be pleased if Eleanor passed an opinion about the way we bring up our children?’

‘No, I wouldn’t,’ Brenna said indignantly. ‘Friend or no friend, I’d give her a piece of me mind.’

‘Well, there’s your answer, Bren. If you value the friendship, I suggest you keep your gob shut, otherwise you’ll be in receipt of a piece of Eleanor’s mind.’

He returned to his notes and Brenna didn’t like to disturb him again. She loved having Eleanor as a friend, improbable though it had once seemed, but would have liked to ask how she could possibly criticize the way her children were being brought up. They weren’t perfect, but none had been spoilt. Fergus was still on the quiet side, but being with Anthony had made a big difference, and Tyrone was far too cheeky and full of himself - she’d had to give him a smack earlier for staying out so late, although was sorry afterwards because he looked as if he was coming down with something. All he did was run up and down entries with other lads making a bit too much noise: tonight he’d obviously run himself sick. As for Cara, she’d never given an ounce of trouble.

‘Shall I make us a cup of cocoa?’ she asked.

‘Hmm.’ Colm was bent over the exercise book, concentrating hard. There were threads of grey in his coal-black hair and his forehead was becoming lined. He’d done well for a man who’d only been a farm worker back in Ireland, and she supposed it was Lizzie Phelan she had to thank for that. Brenna’s face was sombre when she fetched a kettle of water and put it on the hob. Fortunately, they’d got over that terrible year, culminating in the death of Rory. She caught her breath: the memory of the night her baby had died in her arms was as fresh as if it had happened only yesterday.

She made the cocoa, then sat and watched Colm as he worked. Unlike Eleanor, Brenna didn’t consider life to be perfect - it would be foolish not to hope that things might get even better one day - but she was relatively happy with her lot. Despite that one little lapse, Colm was the best of husbands and her children were a blessing. She felt rightfully proud of all three, knowing that they would never let her down.

 

Earlier that night, Tyrone Caffrey and his mates had been waiting outside the Chesterfield Arms on the corner of Upper Stanhope Street. ‘Can you spare a copper, mister?’ they enquired nicely of the clientele, predominantly male, as they came out.

About one man in ten, usually the most inebriated, would comply with their polite request and reach in his pocket for a coin, to which the lads would say, ‘Ta, mister,’ and wait for the next man to accost.

It sometimes happened that a man would take out a handful of coins to search for a penny, whereupon one of the lads - there were four altogether and they took turns - would jerk his elbow and the coins would fall to the ground and roll into the gutter. They’d be picked up, silver first if there was any, and by the time their victim realized what had happened, the lads were nowhere in sight.

It happened again that night. ‘You little varmints,’ the unlucky man yelled, waving his fists at the empty air.

As soon as they’d reached a safe distance, they stopped running and gathered in the nearest entry, panting for breath. The coins were counted: they had managed to steal two and ninepence halfpenny, a highly satisfactory result.

‘What’ll we buy?’ Tommy Morgan asked.

‘Booze,’ replied Kevin Plunkett.

‘Ciggies,’ suggested Squinty Murphy.

Tyrone would have preferred sweets, but it sounded girlish. ‘I don’t care,’ he said recklessly.

‘Let’s get both. We’ve got enough. We’ll get the booze from Mickey’s.’ Mickey Gregory sold liquor from the back door of his pub to anyone who asked. He didn’t give a damn if the customers were only eleven years old.

Until now, they’d stuck to ale, but that night, Tyrone drank whiskey for the first time. There was a little period, in between the first mouthful and the second, when he felt on top of the world, convinced there was nothing on earth he couldn’t do - climb the highest mountain, score magnificent goals for Liverpool, sail around the world all on his own - but once this sensation had passed, all he wanted to do was puke.

Dad would kill him if he knew what he was up to and his mam would scream blue murder, but Tyrone wasn’t deterred by the fear of being found out, not even by the bobbies. It all added to the excitement. Nothing he’d done so far in his life could compare with the thrill of picking up the coins and running like blazes, heart in his throat, praying the man wouldn’t chase after them. He wouldn’t catch
him
, he was the fastest of the four, but might well grab Squinty Murphy who was apt to run into walls and couldn’t be trusted not to clat on his mates, resulting in all hell breaking out at home and possibly at school.

Tyrone didn’t care about the money, the booze, or the ciggies: the only thing that mattered was the excitement.

 

While Tyrone tossed and turned in bed, wishing he hadn’t drunk so much whiskey, half a mile away in Parliament Terrace, his brother, Fergus, was also unable to sleep. Something had happened that night, something that he’d always known at the back of his mind was bound to happen one day, but now it had and Fergus had been left reeling from the realization that his time with Anthony had come to an end.