Liverpool Taffy (14 page)

She bit. It was not easy because the weight of his jaw was holding her mouth open, but she managed it. She bit hard, what was more, and viciously. George squawked – lovely sound – and began to pull back. But it might be just a trick to calm her fears, so Biddy brought both knees up into his crotch and had the immense satisfaction of hearing him give an almost feminine screech, at the same moment rolling off her and onto the floor with a heavy thud.

Biddy rolled off the sofa after him, got to her feet and bolted. George was moaning, trying to speak … she had bitten his lip, there was blood on his chin … but she did not wait to listen. She simply flew out of the living-room and into the kitchen, where she dragged open the cutlery drawer, fumbled for a weapon, and waited, a carving knife in one hand and the sharpening steel in the other.

Presently George’s head poked round the door. His mouth had stopped bleeding but it had swollen and gone all puffy and one eye was darkening; it was already little more than a slit.

‘Wharra you wanna do ’at for?’ he enquired thickly. ‘I worren’ goin’ to ’urt ’oo.’

‘Well, I intend to hurt you,’ Biddy said quiveringly. ‘If you come one step further into this room I mean to hurt you very badly. I – I shall beat your head in with this …’ she flourished the steel,’… and cut your heart out with this,’ she added poking the carving knife in his direction.

‘Oh,’ George said doubtfully. ‘You’re a bloody ’ickle vixen, d’you know ’at?’

‘I may be a vixen, but you’re a ravening beast, George Alton, and you shan’t mess me about ever again,’ Biddy said roundly. ‘I mean it; I’ll carve your bleeding face off your neck if you don’t go home and let me go to bed.’

‘I’m goin’, I’m goin’.’ George said sulkily. ‘When she comes back I’m goin’ to tell Ellen o’ you.’

‘You won’t need to, because I shall tell her on you first,’ Biddy said triumphantly. She flourished her weapons. ‘Out, George. Now!’

She followed George as he shambled across the hall and out and down the stairs, waited until she heard the front door slam, then went quickly down to lock up.

The first thing she noticed was that her bicycle was missing.

It was positively the last straw. Biddy shot out of the doorway and into the road and there, trying to pedal defiantly off, was George. Only he wasn’t used to her bike with its big iron carrier, and was making heavy weather of it.

‘Stop, thief!’ Biddy shrieked. ‘Stop that man, he’s stealing my delivery bicycle!’

She did not just shriek, either. She ran, knife in one hand, sharpening steel in the other, and caught him up as he was trying, very inexpertly, to turn left into Park Lane. A number of men, lounging outside the pub on the corner, were just beginning to stir themselves, having obviously heard her shouts without altogether understanding them, when Biddy caught up with the erring George. She grabbed the bike by the back mudguard and pulled with all her strength.

As the bike shot backwards George gave a terrible howl and clutched himself, doubling over, then collapsed sideways into a heap.

‘Eh, chuck, you’ve done ’im a mischief I wouldn’t mind bettin’,’ an elderly man said, giving the writhing figure on the pavement a disparaging kick. ‘Drunk, is ’e?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care. He stole my bicycle,’ Biddy said. She could feel the curls on top of her head standing up like a dog’s hackles with rage and indignation, ‘I’m off back to my bed. Good-night, all.’

There was a chorus of good-nights from the men, some ribald remarks which Biddy completely ignored, and a moan from George. Then Biddy hopped onto her bicycle and cycled home, sore, stiff and aching, but with laughter beginning to bubble to the surface.

By golly, but George had got his comeuppance this evening! One way and another, he’d think twice before treating a young lady like a common prostitute again!

She went into the entrance hall of the flat, carefully locking the door behind her in case a vengeful George tried to burglarise her again for making him look such a fool, and propped her bicycle up in its usual spot. Then she climbed the stairs, let herself into the flat, locked up … and simply fell on the bed, fully dressed, and giggled weakly for a few moments, until she found that she was crying as well. Tears coursed down her face, ran into her mouth, down the sides of her neck … because it had been a really horrible evening and she never wanted to set eyes on George Alton again.

She boiled a kettle so that she could wash in hot water, remembering as she did so that George had sworn on his mother’s life that he would leave her alone. His poor mother – I do hope I haven’t condemned her to death, so to speak, Biddy thought. Oh, wouldn’t it be awful if he got home and found his Mam dead? She suppressed the horrid thought that it would certainly teach him a lesson and began to wonder, instead, what she would say to George the next time she met him, because since she and Ellen shared the flat, she could scarcely hope to avoid him for the rest of her life.

But it was no use worrying; ten to one George’s Mam would remain hale and hearty for another twenty years, and ten to one Ellen would sympathise with her plight and condemn George as no gentleman.

With this heartening thought, Biddy scrubbed herself clean, slipped into her nightdress and went off to bed, where she cuddled Dolly close and told her she much preferred her to a horrid young man, much. And presently slept the sleep of the righteous, despite her aches and pains, which were extensive enough to make her moan softly whenever she turned over.

‘Well, so you whacked George in the gob an’ locked ’im out – serve ’im right for muckin’ you about,’ Ellen said, when she got back and was told the saga of the cinema visit. ‘Wharra puddin’ ’ead! ’E needn’t come round ’ere tryin’ to mek up to me after that. No sir!’

‘I’m glad you aren’t annoyed with me, but I couldn’t think what else to do,’ Biddy explained. ‘I didn’t want to hurt George, but it was him or me. If only he’d not drunk all that stout …’

‘It’ll ’ave been the sherry; ’e ain’t used to sherry,’ Ellen said wisely. ‘An’ as for you bein’ responsible if ’is Mam dropped dead then you’d best start prayin’, since she died when George were three years old an’ ’e’s twenty-five if ’e’s a day. Now stop chewin’ over what’s done, ’cos it can’t be undone, an’ let me tell you
my
news. Bid, we ’ad a great time, it all went like a dream, and Mr Bowker says when ’e goes to Paris in the spring …’

‘Oh, the swine, no wonder he was willing to swear on her life that he’d be good! Still, I do feel relieved to know I’ve done no harm there. But wait on, Ellen! Tell me about the London trip first, so I can be properly envious.’

In fact, Ellen told Biddy about her London trip many times over the course of the next few days. The only part of it she had not enjoyed was the first night, when Mr Bowker had snored horribly loudly and kept her awake for hours, and just when it seemed that sleep was about to overtake her the traffic had started up and the hotel staff had begun to clatter.

‘And I didn’t much enjoy talkin’ posh all day and night,’ she admitted as the two girls made themselves a meal a few nights after her return. ‘Me jaw ached and me eyes watered wi’ so much squeezin’ of me vocal chords. But it were worth it – we never ’ad a cross word.’

‘That’s lovely,’ Biddy said absently. ‘Ellen, do you mean you won’t be seeing George again?’

Ellen shook her smooth blonde head. ‘No, I don’t suppose I will! ’E wouldn’t dare come crawlin’ round me, not after what ’e done.’ she sighed. ‘We’ve seen the last o’ Master George Alton.’

‘Good,’ Biddy said decidedly. ‘You don’t need him, anyway, Ellen. Not now you’ve got my money coming in. I’m on six shillings a week now, you know.’

‘You did mention it,’ Ellen said dryly. She looked sideways at her friend, who was chopping onions at the kitchen sink. ‘Biddy … don’t you want a feller?’

‘No,’ Biddy said shortly. ‘No time. Cor, these onions are strong, my eyes are running.’

‘When I asked you to share, I thought you’d be good fun, though,’ Ellen said thoughtfully, after a moment. ‘I thought we could go around together, meet fellers, go dancin’… all you ever want to do is eat an’ sleep.’

She sounded so injured that Biddy bit back the laugh which threatened.

‘I’m awful sorry, Ellen, but my job’s really tiring,’ she said. ‘But if you want to go dancing on a Saturday night I wouldn’t mind going with you. It would be fun, and though I don’t exactly want a feller, I wouldn’t mind a very quiet one, just someone to go around with a bit. But I’m still a bit young for all that … that …’

‘Oh, that! I din’t mean that, exac’ly. But a girl can’t go dancin’ without a feller … that’s to say you go in without ’em, then they come over to you and bob’s your uncle!’

‘Ye-es. Only don’t you think … I mean if Mr Bowker got to hear of it …’

‘That’s the trouble,’ Ellen said. ‘Mr Bowker sometimes don’t get the chanst to see me for a week, ten days. I gets awfu’ lonely then, Bid. It’s different for you, what you’ve never ’ad you never miss, but … well, I gets lonely.’

It would have been rude to say, in an astonished voice, ‘Do you
like
all that nasty business, then?’ so Biddy wisely kept her mouth shut, and after a moment or two Ellen said, ‘Then we’ll go dancin’ next week, eh? On Sat’day? There’s quite good places to go – the Acacia, up on Everton Brow, that’s good, the best one for us, I’d say. We can catch a leckie, they run ’em late on Sat’days.’

‘Well, so long as you realise I can’t actually dance a step,’ Biddy said somewhat anxiously. ‘They won’t try to make me dance, will they?’

Ellen laughed. She was looking sleeker, more contented than ever since her London trip, Biddy thought. Wouldn’t it be odd if Ellen really was in love with Bunny Big Bum, and eventually got him to the altar? Though divorce was dreadfully wicked, but if Mrs Bowker was quietly to pass away, and she was old and ailing, Ellen often said so …

‘No one will make you dance, goose,’ Ellen said bracingly. ‘Besides, it’s called the Acacia Dancing Academy, which means they do lessons, too. Only I’ll teach you … here!’ She began to shove and push at the kitchen table. ‘Give me an ’and wi’ this, then we’ll ’ave room for a practice session.’

The port of Grimsby, on the east coast of Lincolnshire, was as good a place as any to have engine trouble, probably better than most since it was a large and thriving port. And at least, as the Skipper said, they had managed to get the old
Jenny Bowdler
safe in harbour before the engine gave one last wheezing cough and packed it in.

‘It’ll be the best part o’ two weeks, lads, afore we sail again,’ the Skipper told his crew. ‘Anyone want to sign off?’

Dai hadn’t spent his wages, they were all tucked away, a nice little amount. He looked at Greasy, who was in a similar position, except that Greasy helped to support his mother and the kids, and raised his eyebrows. Greasy gave him a bit of a nod; go ahead, the nod said, if you make the move I’ll back you up.

‘I’d like to sign off, Skip, and Greasy O’Reilly would, too,’ Dai said. ‘It isn’t that we’re discontented, but we’d like to see more o’ the world, see? And there’s big seagoing vessels, fishing boats, all sorts, eager to sign experienced hands. We’d relish a change, like.’

Seamen, when they’re young, go from ship to ship all the time. It’s the best way to gain different experience, to fit you to take your ticket, if you’ve a mind to do well in the merchant service, the Skipper knew it as well as Dai and Greasy. So he just grinned at them, wished them luck and paid them off. The other men on board would probably stay for a while at any rate, then they, too, would change ships.

‘Where’ll we go, Taff?’ Greasy asked after the two of them had arranged a cheap bed in a communal lodging house for seamen on the waterfront and were returning to the
Jenny
to pack up their gear. ‘What’ll we do, eh, la?’

‘Shall we have a go at trawling, mun?’ Dai asked innocently. ‘Nothing quite as good as a fishing trip, there is. It’s nearly October and up in the north the fishing boats will be making their way along the coast, following the herring shoals, and the Scottish fishergirls follow the boats. They sweep down from John o’Groats to Land’s End, bringing their catches ashore at each port for the girls to clean and process. Why, those girls can gut the herring quicker than you can swallow a mouthful of ale, and they swear better than a Liverpool navvy – if we sail from here you’ll have all the female company you want, come October.’

‘You want to fish for herring, then? That’s orright by me, la! But they shoot their roes in October, November, you say, and then what’ll we catch? An’ I’ve never caught a fish in me life, though I don’t mind eatin’ ’em when the chance comes.’

‘Oh later, I want to go distant-water trawling,’ Dai said dreamily. They reached the
Jenny
and went on
board, clattering noisily down the companionway to their quarters. ‘No use going home until spring, by then my Da will have had a chance to miss me, see? Sîan writes regular, bless her, and a batch of letters I’ve had; they caught up with me here. My Da married his little brass barmaid and is beginning to miss the homemaking he had with my Mam, see? I’ll give him the winter to knock Menna into shape, then I’ll go home.’

‘What’s this distant-water trawling?’ Greasy asked, suspicion in every tone of his voice. He took an untidy and probably dirty pile of clothes and crammed them into his filthy holdall. ‘I don’t like the sound o’ it an’ that’s a fac’.’

‘It’s catching the great Icelandic cod and the real big ’uns, right up in the north. It’s seeing polar bears an’ penguins, and the air so cold it’s a danger to breathe in without a warm scarf round your face, mun,’ Dai told him, rolling his clothing neatly and stowing it in his own bag. Working on small fishing boats teaches you tidiness the hard way. ‘It’s icebergs bigger than the biggest sky-scraper in New York and snow wherever you touch land and the blown spume freezing before it clatters on deck in foul weather. It’s wicked hard, wicked cold … but exciting, dangerous, all the
interesting
things,’ Dai said with deep conviction. ‘You’ll not be interested, I suppose?’

‘Whassa money like?’

‘If you survive, it’s the best. They call distant-water trawlermen two-day millionaires because they make it and spend it fast. But I don’t suppose …’