Liverpool Taffy (30 page)

‘Go thirsty,’ Nellie said, smiling at him. She put the pan on the heat, then walked across the kitchen and pulled the curtains a little apart. ‘Oh Stu, look at that snow!’

Stuart followed her gaze; looking past her he could see the whirling flakes as they multiplied against the dark night sky. ‘I said we’d have a white Christmas,’ he said smugly. The milk began to hiss up the sides of the pan and he grabbed it off the heat just as Nellie abandoned the window and came across to him. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’

‘A white Christmas is a wonderful thing for us … but not so good for others,’ Nellie said thoughtfully. She began to pour his milk into a blue-and-white mug.

‘Oh, the Societies will be doing the rounds,’ Stuart said quickly. He went over to the pantry and got down the big red cake tin with the picture of Queen Victoria on the lid. ‘Any cake left?’

‘Oh Stu, if you eat rich fruit-cake this late you’ll get the most terrible indigestion and be up half the night! That’s why I didn’t offer you apricot pudding.’

‘Cake won’t hurt me; I’m starving, I had sandwiches for my dinner and a cup of weak coffee.’ Stuart cut himself a large wedge and then sat on the edge of the table, watching as Nellie finished pouring the milk and then bustled over to the Welsh dresser and produced a bottle of rum from its depths. ‘That isn’t cooking rum, is it? I want the real McCoy!’

‘It’s the same sort you buy for the dining-room,’ Nellie said. ‘How big is a tot?’

‘About tot-sized. Here, let me do it.’

Stuart poured the rum into the cup and Nellie made herself another cocoa with the small amount of milk remaining in the pan.

‘That stuff smells horrid,’ Nellie remarked as her husband, with the wedge of cake in one hand and the rum and hot milk in the other, walked with her across the kitchen. ‘I wonder what it’s like in cocoa?’

‘You’d hate it, you always fuss when I breathe it on you in bed,’ Stuart said. He sipped at the milk as Nell opened the kitchen door and ushered him through. ‘Never mind, eh? Only one more day of producing a newspaper and then it’s Christmas!’

Biddy arrived at the house in Ducie Street at nine o’clock on the dot next morning and Mrs Gallagher answered the door herself, just as she had the previous day. ‘Good morning, Biddy; you are prompt,’ she said. ‘Is that all your luggage?’

‘Yes,’ Biddy said baldly. It was no use trying to explain how she came to possess almost nothing. ‘Shall I leave it in the kitchen until later?’

Words could not have expressed her joy when Mrs Gallagher told her to take it up to her room, settle in, and then come down to the kitchen, where she, Mrs Gallagher, would be waiting.

‘You’ll find your uniforms hanging in the cupboard; I think they’ll fit you, you’re slimmer than Peggy but about the same height,’ she said. ‘Put one of them on and come down and I’ll see if you need tucks or lettings-out.’

‘Yes ma’am. And then what will I do?’ Biddy asked.

‘We’ll start off by preparing luncheon together,’ Mrs Gallagher said with her lovely smile. ‘And then we’ll go over the house, both of us, just dusting and so on. Mrs Wrexham and Mr Hedges come three times a week, so the place is pretty clean and tidy. Except for Elizabeth’s bedroom, of course. And then later, we’ll prepare the spare rooms.… Oh, I quite forgot, we have another guest, a young man, who will be arriving at about noon. We’d best do the small room out for him first, perhaps. Now off you go, Biddy.’

Biddy ran up the curving staircase and then up the narrower attic stairs, her heart almost bursting with pleasure and excitement. She had two whole rooms of her own now, and a place in this pleasant household, and she did not intend to spoil this wonderful opportunity. She would work extremely hard, get really good at the job, and stay here until she was too old to work any more.

She went into her bedroom, closed the door, and looked around her contentedly. In fact she kept looking round, to make sure she was not dreaming. Any roof over her head would have been welcome, but such a home as this was beyond her wildest dreams! And Mrs Gallagher was so understanding, so warm and friendly. And this room … she had never owned such a room in her life, nor expected to do so. She unpacked
her carpet bag slowly, putting her pillow on top of the far nicer one on the bed, only her pillow was her friend, she could not imagine going to sleep without it. Then she laid her blanket on the chair, where it looked rather grand, and put Dolly on guard by the pillow.

Spare shoes in the cupboard, spare underwear in the chest of drawers … it looks pretty lonely now but once I get paid I’ll begin to pick up some more clothes, Biddy told herself, turning regretfully towards the door. Oh … uniform!

She opened the cupboard and there were two grey gingham dresses, a black woollen dress, two big white aprons and one little, frilly one. She guessed that the pieces of shiny white linen were to wear on her head, but doubted that she could put it on correctly herself. Never mind, she would do her best and let Mrs Gallagher show her how to manage if she got it wrong.

The dress fitted more or less, and fitted better when she put the big white apron over it. I look really nice, she thought, standing on tiptoe to look at herself in the mirror on the chest of drawers. But all she could see was her head and shoulders, so she lifted the mirror off the top and gradually lowered it to get an over-all view, even if it was in small bits and pieces.

She looked all right. Smart, really. These clothes are the ones I’ll be wearing most of the time, so my other things won’t get worn out nearly as quickly as they used to do, she told herself. I’ll be all right here, I just know it. Safe. And happy, too. It’s the sort of house that welcomes you – I felt it soon as I came in the door.

She put the glass back on top of the chest of drawers again and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Then she set off down the stairs.

The morning flew. Biddy found the work easy when it was done with Mrs Gallagher watchful at her side. At ten o’clock she met the charlady, Mrs Wrexham, who proved to be a wispy little woman of fifty or so with greying hair, a squint and a slight but definite moustache. Despite appearances, Mrs Wrexham had an enormous, booming voice and a laugh which echoed round the house, but she was quite timid and Biddy could well imagine her hiding in a corner if someone roared. She was much stronger than she looked, though, and seemed quite prepared to scrub acres of linoleum, brush acres of carpet, clean and lay a dozen fires and then tackle what she called ‘small jobs’, which meant cleaning windows and blacking grates and the stove.

At elevenses time Mr Hedges came in, removing his boots on the doorstep and shuffling indoors in his socks. He was fiftyish, too, and not a talkative man, though he did have a few quiet words with Mrs Wrexham, and acknowledged Mrs Gallagher’s introduction of Biddy with a smile and a mutter of, ‘Ow d’you do, missus?’

‘Now let’s see how you can cook a meal for one young gentleman, one young lady – that’s Elizabeth – yourself and me,’ Mrs Gallagher said when Mr Hedges and Mrs Wrexham had both departed. ‘Mr Gallagher doesn’t come home for luncheon, you’ll meet him this evening, at dinnertime. Or at least I hope you will – he sometimes works very late.’

The two women set about the task of making a light luncheon for four people.

‘We’ll do a thick vegetable soup, I think, since the baker will call in half an hour or so; I must remember to order some of those delicious milk rolls which go so well with soup,’ Mrs Gallagher said. ‘Can you prepare these vegetables, Biddy, whilst I make a rhubarb tart?’

Biddy was at the sink, peeling and chopping vegetables, when the front doorbell rang. She knew it was the front one because there was an object on the wall above the kitchen door which actually contained the bells, all clearly labelled, and the bell labelled ‘front’ was jangling.

‘I’ll go,’ she said, her hands going up behind her to untie her apron, but Mrs Gallagher was before her.

‘It’s all right, Biddy, I’ll go. It will be the young gentleman who’s coming to stay with us for Christmas, Mr Evans. You go on with the vegetables.’

Biddy was rather disappointed not to have had the chance to answer the front door – she had her opening remark all ready, having been coached in it by Mrs Gallagher earlier. ‘Good morning madam, (or sir, of course, if it was a feller) I’m afraid Mrs Gallagher is not here at present but if you will leave your name …’

Still, there would be other opportunities. The black dress, Mrs Gallagher had told her, was for evenings, when they had company and Biddy would be needed to serve the meal.

‘But that is for business guests,’ Mrs Gallagher had added hastily. ‘At Christmas it’s very much jollier. We’ll all help, just wait and see.’

Now, Biddy could hear voices in the hallway, then footsteps. They mounted the stairs.

Mrs Gallagher is taking Mr Evans up to the blue room, Biddy thought, proud that she had got the hang of it all so quickly. The blue room was real smart, with a blue rug on the floor and blue cretonne curtains, and the dressing-table had marvellous mirrors which you could arrange, Mrs Gallagher told her, so that you could see the back of your own head. But the yellow room was even better with its Chinese wallpaper and the picture, over the mantel, of a willowy young lady with droopy hair and a very exciting red and black dress, apparently dancing all by herself in a wood.

Tomorrow, Mr and Mrs Prescott will have the yellow room and their twin sons will sleep in the little room off it, the one Mrs Gallagher said was a dressing room, Biddy reminded herself, working happily away at the sink. We’ll be a houseful then all right!

Presently, the footsteps came downstairs again. Biddy had finished the vegetables and was hesitating by the big pan. When she and her mother had made soup they had chopped the vegetables just as Mrs Gallagher had told her, and then they had melted a little dripping in a big pan and added the vegetables, cooking them until they were bright and glowing, but still quite hard. Only then had they added the stock.

Mrs Gallagher came into the room, or rather she poked her head round the door. ‘Biddy, I’m just taking Mr Evans to find Elizabeth – do you know how to make vegetable soup?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Biddy said after a slight hesitation. ‘That is, if you make it like my Mam did; she sweated the veg in a spoonful of melted dripping first, then added her stock.’

‘Yes, that’s it. Not too much stock, since this is thick vegetable soup. Oh, and can you find me a bottle of rhubarb please, and strain it through a wire sieve?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Biddy said. ‘I’ll do that.’

She did not have the faintest idea where the bottled fruit was kept but she was an observant girl and thought she would soon run it to earth. First, furthermore, she must make the soup.

The soup was simmering when someone knocked on the back door. Biddy flew across and opened it and it was a boy of about her own age pushing a box-cart laden with bread of varying sorts, though mostly they were large, two-pound loaves, partly covered by a checked cloth. The boy whipped the cloth off in a very professional manner and the most glorious scent of bread rose to Biddy’s nostrils.

‘Mornin’, chuck; she wan’ any bread?’ the boy said, jerking his head vaguely in the direction of the rest of the house. ‘You’re new.’

It was a statement but Biddy answered it as though it had been a question. ‘Yes, that’s right. I started this morning. Mrs Gallagher wants some milk rolls but she didn’t mention how much bread.’

‘She’ll ’ave a large brown, a small white an’ ’alf a dozen milk,’ the boy said confidently, but Biddy knew delivery boys; they were all trying to make a living and this one wouldn’t think twice about persuading her to give a large order just to have the money in his pocket.

‘I’d best ask,’ she said uncertainly. ‘It’s my first day, I don’t want to get into trouble.’

The boy widened his eyes, which were very round and dark. ‘I wouldn’t tell you wrong … wha’s your name, chuck?’

‘Biddy O’Shaughnessy. What’s yours?’

‘Albert Brett.’

‘Hello, Mr Brett. Have you worked for the baker long?’

‘I work for Lunt’s, I’ve been doin’ their deliveries two years. Look, me name’s Bert to you, Biddy, an’ you’d best go an’ ask Mrs Wozzit wharrit is she’s after, seein’ as Christmas is comin’ an’ I won’t be callin’ for a couple o’ days. ‘Sides, she’ll want a word wi’ me today, I reckon.’

‘Right, I’ll see if I can find her …’ Biddy was beginning when the kitchen door opened and Mrs Gallagher came into the room.

‘Ah, Albert’s here already, I see,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll take a large brown and a small white, Bertie, and I’d better have eight milk rolls, I think.’

‘I telled ’er that was what you usually ’ad, missus,’ Bertie said in an injured tone. ‘But there, you can’t trust folk these days an’ that’s a fact.’ He handed the bread over and Mrs Gallagher paid him, then pressed a small envelope into his hand. ‘Christmas box, Bertie,’ she said, smiling. ‘I hope you have a happy day.’

‘Cor, thanks, missus,’ Bertie said, giving Biddy a told-you-so look. ‘See you when it’s all over.’

He disappeared down the path, whistling jauntily.

‘Now, how are we getting along?’ Mrs Gallagher said, taking her purchases and putting them in a large enamelled box with the word ‘Bread’ painted on the lid. ‘You’ve got the soup started, I see – well done. Now I’ll show you where the bottled fruit is kept and you can see if your wrists are strong enough to break the seal on the Kilner jar …. I usually have to get Mr Gallagher to open bottles for me, but Mr Evans may feel equal to the task if you and I find ourselves unable to do it.’ She walked over to the large, airy pantry and pointed. ‘There, on the top shelf … I think rhubarb is quite near the front but you must use the steps to get it down.’

‘Mrs Gallagher, may I watch you make the pastry so that I can do it next time?’ Biddy said shyly presently, when the rhubarb had been fetched down off its shelf, opened, strained and stood ready.

‘Certainly you may. And then you may thicken and sweeten the rhubarb juice for me – we sweeten it with sugar, of course, and thicken it with arrowroot, which gives it a lovely shine. I usually squeeze an orange into the juice to add that special touch of flavour, and sometimes I grate the peel very finely and toast it under the grill and then scatter it on the tart. But Elizabeth doesn’t like it much, it’s Mr Gallagher who does, so we won’t bother with that today.’