Liverpool Taffy (7 page)

Biddy was trotting down the Scotland Road on her way to buy Ma Kettle some strawberries for frosting when she saw Ellen Bradley walking along the opposite pavement. She immediately hollered and waved. ‘Hey … Ellen! Come over here a minute!’

Ellen glanced around to see who had called her and spotted Biddy. Despite the fact that the two girls had not met for a year she crossed the road at once. ‘Bridget O’Shaughnessy, if it isn’t yourself,’ she gasped. ‘I thought you’d gone back to Ireland wi’ your Mam, cos we’ve not seen hide nor hair of you down our way for so long. What’s been ’appenin’ to you?’

‘A lot,’ Biddy admitted, linking her arm with Ellen’s. ‘Have you got a minute, Ellen? Because it’s a long story and right now I’m in a bit of a pickle and I’d appreciate some advice.’

‘Advice? I’m your gal for advice,’ Ellen said. ‘Ask away, queen.’

Biddy noticed that her old friend looked very smart and had grown beautiful since they had last met. She must be well over sixteen, Biddy calculated, since Ellen had been a class above her in school, and she looked very self-assured. Her smooth yellow hair was fashionably short, her lips looked a good deal redder than Biddy remembered them, and her brows and lashes had been darkened. Biddy glanced at the brown and cream two-piece suit and the high-heeled brown shoes on Ellen’s feet, then wished fervently that she had not been sent out in her boil-ups – the sugar-stained white apron, the draggly skirt, the blouse spotted and scarred with the making of a thousand sweetmeats. But having called to her friend, she had best explain herself.

‘Well, first off, my Mam died a year ago next September. They sacked her from her job six months before she died and we had nowhere nice to go, but we’d have managed if she’d stayed well. After she died I couldn’t afford to stay on in our room so I agreed to move in with the Kettles; I was working at Kettle’s Confectionery, still am, and that’s all part of my problem.’

‘Change your job, then,’ Ellen said, without waiting for Biddy to finish speaking. She led the way to a pile of empty crates outside a butcher’s shop and perched on one, patting the space beside her to indicate that Biddy should join her. Biddy did so and the two of them sat there in the morning sunshine, watching the passers-by with unheeding eyes whilst they talked. ‘Don’t tell me Ma Kettle pays you enough to keep yourself …
We’re poor but honest, us Kettles; ask anyone
,’ she mimicked. ‘I’ve not been in there for years, but when we were kids we reckoned she give short weight, the old devil.’

‘Well, that was a long time ago,’ Biddy said tactfully. She did not intend to get involved in a discussion of her employer’s morals. ‘The thing is, Ellen, she gives me bed and board but she don’t pay me. Well, think about it – where could I afford to live on the sort of money I could earn? I’m younger than you, too, I’m only just fifteen. So as far as I can make out, Ma Kettle’s got me for another year or so.’

‘Yeah … don’t you have no relatives, though, Bid? Usually, when someone’s Mam dies, relatives take you in.’

‘Well, I’ve
got
relatives, of course, but they’re all in Ireland,’ Biddy said. ‘I’ve never met them. My Mam ran away with my Da, you see, and they came to Liverpool. Her sisters and brother, and my Gran and Grandad, must be there still. Mam tried to write when she first married, but not even her sisters bothered to reply. Then she wrote again when Da was killed, and never had so much as a word of sympathy, let alone an offer of help. So I couldn’t expect them to do anything for me, could I?’

‘Well, I don’t know; it isn’t you they were annoyed with,’ Ellen began, then shrugged and sighed. ‘But if Ma Kettle don’t pay you much – sorry, if she don’t pay you anything – then you wouldn’t be able to afford the ferry across the Irish sea, so that knocks that idea on the ’ead. So is that your problem? Gettin’ in touch wi’ your relatives?’

‘Oh Ellen, of course it isn’t,’ Biddy said, exasperated with her friend’s butterfly mind. If that was what growing beautiful did to you, she herself had better stay plain. ‘I told you it had to do with the Kettles. It’s Ma Kettle’s son, Kenny.’

‘Kenny Kettle!’ Ellen giggled. ‘What a name, eh?’

‘He can’t help his name,’ Biddy said defensively. ‘But last spring he took me out for a picnic … we crossed over to Birkenhead on the ferry and caught a bus right out into the country. We had a lovely time, I really enjoyed meself, but then, just before we got on the bus to come home …’

‘He kissed you?’ Ellen hazarded.

Biddy stared at her. Ellen looked such a fluffy little thing with that bouncy yellow hair and her big, blue eyes, but she was shrewd, for all that.

‘You’re a mind reader,’ she said accusingly. ‘How did you know, Ellen?’

‘Because that’s what nine boys outer ten would ha’ done,’ Ellen said promptly. ‘You’re young an’ pretty – what else did you expect?’

‘Oh! But I didn’t want him to kiss me, Ellen.’

‘Ah well, he weren’t to know that, were ’e?’ Ellen asked wisely. ‘Not till ’e’d tried and been told to keep ’is kisses to ’isself.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, if only he’d listened it would have been all right, but now if I so much as pass him in the back kitchen he sort of grabs at me. And it isn’t only that I don’t like it, but if she caught us Ma Kettle would tell me to sling me hook and then what ’ud I do?’

‘Ah, I see your problem. No money, a feller what’s got ’ands like a octypus an’ ’is Mam jealous as a cat. Hmm.’

‘I don’t think Ma Kettle’s at all jealous,’ Biddy said fairly. ‘But she wouldn’t want Kenny getting mixed up wi’ me, it stands to reason. She wants him to pass his exams and be a credit to her.’

‘Same thing; she disapproves,’ Ellen said. ‘What you want, queen, is out; right?’

‘Oh, yes! But how, Ellen?’

‘We-ell, I do ’ave an idea, but we’d best meet again, talk it over. When are you off?’

‘Off?’

‘Free from work, Bid,’ Ellen said impatiently. ‘Do you ’ave Sundays? What time do you finish? Six? ’Alf past?’

‘Oh … well, I don’t get much time off … oh Ellen, I don’t get
any
time off, not really, because Ma Kettle has me clean the house, do the washing and so on, on a Sunday, we work all day Saturday until ten at night because people going to the cinema shows want sweets when they come out.… I might get away later on Friday … say nine?’

‘Too late. What about first thing in the mornin’ on a Sun … oh ’eck, you work then. Tell you what, make th’old bag gi’ you a day free. Say you must ’ave it, chuck. This Sunday an all. An’ come along to Shaw’s Alley, up the back o’ the King’s Dock. We’ll ’ave a bit of a clack an’ a cuppa an’ see what we can sort out.’

‘Shaw’s Alley? But you lived quite near us, on Paul Street,’ Biddy said, about to slide off the crate but
arresting herself to unhook her apron from an upstanding nail. ‘How come you’ve moved?’

‘Honest to God, Biddy, you ain’t the only one what’s done a bunk! Me family live at Paul Street still, it’s just me what’s in the Alley. Are you comin’ or not?’

‘Next Sunday morning? At about tennish? That’ll be all right, because she’ll think I’m in Mass. I’ll be there. Where’s it near?’

‘It’s on the corner o’ Sparling Street … don’t tell me, you won’t know it, not down there. Well if you catch a tram … no, a leckie’s out o’ the question, no dosh . Gawd ... d’you know Park Lane, chuck?’

‘Of course,’ Biddy lied haughtily.

‘That’s awright, then. Mek your way there, keep to the right ’and side till you come to Sparly, then it’s the first proper turnin’ off on your right and I’m second from the corner. Me name’s writ on the door, jest knock an’ come up.’

She had jumped down off the crate as she spoke, smoothed a hand over her bouncy yellow bob, and was hurrying up the road again. Biddy ran after her and grabbed her elbow.

‘Ellen … don’t go yet! Where’s your job? You haven’t told me a thing, I did all the talking!’

‘Oh! Well, no time now, queen. I’ll tell you all about it Sunday mornin’, tennish. Tara for now.’

Biddy, abruptly remembering her errand, stood staring after her friend for a moment, then, with a shrug, retraced her steps to the greengrocer’s shop she had been about to enter when Ellen’s familiar figure had crossed her vision. Mrs Ruby Hitchcot was lovingly setting out her strawberries in a glistening mound under a notice which read ‘Fresh today! Straight from the Wirral!’. She turned and smiled at Biddy. ‘Mornin’, queen. What can I do for you this bright mornin’?’

Biddy had met Ellen on the Thursday and by Sunday she
was in a rare state of excitement. She thought about telling Kenny, which would mean he might well walk up with her at least as far as Sparly, but decided against it. The fewer people who got wind of the fact that she had met up with an old friend, and guessed that the old friend might help her to escape from the Kettle ménage, the better.

On the other hand though, Kenny always went to the same Mass as she did, because then they walked up and back together, shared a pew, sometimes shared a hymn-book, and talked softly whilst waiting for the service to start. It made the service more amusing, Biddy acknowledged that, but now it also raised a considerable problem. If she told Kenny, then he might want to accompany her, which could be awkward, or he might want to stop her seeing Ellen, which would be worse. She absolved him of being a tale bearer and wanting to tell his mother, but if she did manage to get away he would come searching for her at Ellen’s … and might even put his Ma onto her if Mrs Kettle demanded her address from him.

Sunday dawned warm and sunny. Kenny suggested that she might get another day off and go along to Seaforth with him. ‘We could bathe,’ he said hopefully. ‘We could paddle, anyroad. Why not, our Biddy? It’s time you ’ad some fun.’

‘Look, I’m going to Mass,’ Biddy said patiently. ‘We’ll talk about it after dinner, eh?’

He scowled. ‘I’m not goin’ to Mass, not on a day like this. I’m not goin’ to miss this sunshine even if you wanna ’ang around the ’ouse all day. I’ll meet you out and I’ll have a word wi’ me Mam.’

‘All right, if that’s what you want,’ Biddy said. ‘See you later, then, Kenny.’

After the day out with Kenny, Ma Kettle had been prevailed upon to buy Biddy a best coat and skirt and a pair of decent shoes. The shoes had cardboard soles and were made of thin, cheap leather and the coat and skirt came from one of the stalls on Paddy’s Market, but they seemed very fine indeed to Biddy. So on Sunday morning she donned the blue coat and skirt, the striped blouse and the navy shoes, perched a straw hat on her curls, and set off for Mass.

The Kettles attended St Anthony’s at the top of the Scotland Road so Biddy turned in that direction,
walked a hundred yards or so and then crossed over the road and retraced her steps, feeling excitingly wicked as she did so. It was risky but after all, what could old Ma Kettle do to her? Slinging her out on her ear seemed less likely now, for it had gradually been borne in upon Biddy that she was a very useful person indeed in the Kettle household. Where else would Ma Kettle get someone who could help Kenny with his studying, cook meals, clean, launder, make sweets … and best of all, do it without a wage and without ever dipping her fingers into the till?

So she could perfectly well have asked for at least half a day off, but in fact that would have complicated things still further. Mrs Kettle would have grudgingly acceded to her request and Kenny, ears pricking, would have stuck to her side closer than glue. All would have been spoiled, so though this way she was deceiving Ma Kettle, Biddy did not let this affect her enjoyment of the day.

If Ellen asks me I’ll stay to dinner, she planned, hurrying along the pavement in the sunshine. And when we’ve had our talk perhaps I can walk down by the docks … I wonder what it costs to use the overhead railway? She could still remember how thrilled she had been as a child when her Da had taken her for a ride on it, all the way from the Pierhead to Seaforth and back, feeling like a proper princess as she peered into the docks, whilst her knowledgeable father told her all about the shipping that swung at anchor there.

But she would not part with her hard-won money on a treat, even if it was within her means. And that was not impossible, because Biddy had discovered that she could earn a little money from time to time, though if Ma Kettle had known, Biddy imagined she would have put a stop to it at once, on the grounds that Biddy’s time and talents were hers, bought and paid for by the roof over her head and her meals. Because Kenny had insisted, Ma Kettle always gave Biddy at least a penny and sometimes more for the church collection each Sunday, but Biddy would not have dreamed of pocketing money meant for such a purpose. Her money, unlike Ma Kettle’s, was made by fair means only.

It was Biddy’s neat handwriting which was in demand. Ma Kettle had soon discovered that a notice written out in Biddy’s hand was clear and legible as well as better spelt than anything she herself could produce. And then the grocer down the road, when Biddy had popped in on an errand, had asked if she could do some notices for his window.

Biddy complied and was grateful for the pence which found their way into her pocket as a result. She refused to allow herself to spend them, however, no matter how desperately she might long to buy something, and as a result she had several shillings, all in pence, ha’pence and farthings, salted away inside her pillow, a small, hard lump amongst the feathers.

She had transferred six pennies and four ha’pennies to her coat pocket earlier in the morning and now she jingled them thoughtfully as she walked. A ride on a leckie would be nice, but she grudged spending the money, especially on such a sunny day, when walking would be a pleasure. If she wasn’t asked to dinner she could always buy herself fish and chips … her mouth watered at the prospect … that was, if she decided not to go home to Ma Kettle’s until really late, though that would mean her deceit in not going to Mass might be discovered, which could have unpleasant consequences.

Biddy had just decided to tell a few lies for once–enough were told in the Kettle emporium each day to make her ears burn – when she realised that she had been so busy thinking and walking that she was actually on Old Haymarket, where the trams lined up when waiting for passengers.