Queen of the Mersey (24 page)

‘Can I take one out and see?’

‘No!’ She gave him a stern lecture, worried he might try.

One of his main ambitions in life was to take her alarm clock to pieces and she had to keep it on top of the wardrobe, out of reach. An awful lot of things had to be kept on top of the wardrobe, including her handbag, the scissors, the whisk – he had once tried to whisk the fingers of his left hand – the mincer, Hester’s dolls – her favourite, Gracie, had to be taken to the dolls’ hospital to have its arms and legs put back on.

Not that Hester cared. She adored her little brother who, so far as she was concerned, could do no wrong.

Any minute now, the allowance from the Army would stop and Laura had to think what to do with the rest of her life. She had two children to support and no intention of marrying again – anyway, she was still married to Roddy – and didn’t want to spend the next thirty-three years, until she was sixty, in and out of ill-paid jobs, scrimping and scraping to make ends meet. She couldn’t type, in fact there was very little she could do, and had no qualifications.

She’d been studying for her School Certificate when Roddy, then Hester, had come into her life and her education had stopped dead. Though it had been a good education. She’d taken subjects that didn’t appear on the syllabus of state schools. Neither Queenie or Vera’s boys had been taught Latin and French, Physics and Chemistry, Greek and Roman History.

Try as she might, though, Laura couldn’t think of a single job where a smattering of knowledge in all these subjects would be of any use. And Queenie’s inability to quote a string of Latin verbs hadn’t done her any harm. Last year, at only nineteen, she’d been made head of the Children’s Clothing department in Herriot’s, though that might have been due to the manager, Mr Matthews, having taken a shine to her right from the start. It was such a pity he was retiring and the recently demobbed assistant manager was about to take his place.

Staff who’d known Gordon Mackie before the war said he hadn’t been well-liked then, but after his time in the Army, where he’d been a sergeant-major, they liked him even less. A tall, red-faced man with a bristly moustache, an unusually broad chest and hardly any neck, he spoke to them as if he were addressing his troops, in a loud, barking voice, expecting no argument.

On his second day back at Herriot’s, he called a meeting in the staff restaurant after the shop had closed. They were told to address him as ‘Sir’, and warned to prepare for a massive reorganisation, of both themselves and the shop itself.

‘Things have been allowed to get very slack in my absence,’ he boomed, ‘And there have to be some changes made. It keeps people on their toes, knowing that things aren’t going to stay the same for ever.’

When he wasn’t marching around the shop, standing to attention in front of various counters, rocking back and forth on his heels, regarding the assistants thoughtfully, he could be found in his office drawing up charts, writing down names, then crossing them out and putting them in another column.

Herriot’s, once such a happy place to work, became full of ugly rumours and the staff divided into two camps: those who were willing to suck up to Gordon Mackie in the hope of emerging from the reorganisation in a better position than before, and those who weren’t.

Queenie, who couldn’t stand the man, fell into the latter camp. She was polite, but distant. She didn’t wish him ‘Good morning, Sir,’ in a sycophantic voice accompanied by a simpering smile. She didn’t admire his tie, ask how he was today, utter a single word of criticism against Mr Matthews and say how pleased she was he was back and in control. Nor would she stoop to flirting, fluttering her eyelashes at his stern, red face in the hope of influencing his decision.

At the beginning of December, when Herriot’s was gearing up for Christmas, employees were ordered to stay behind after the shop shut. It was Wednesday, half-day closing.

Once again they gathered in the staff restaurant where they were addressed by the new manager in clipped, curt tones. He began with some very unwelcome news.

After Christmas, the staff restaurant would close, he announced, and be replaced with a new Music department.

‘Are you allowed to do that, sir?’ Mr Briggs from the Furniture department enquired in a shaky voice. He had worked there for almost forty years. ‘I’d always understood the restaurant was the idea of Grenville Herriot himself to provide cheap meals for the staff. I can’t imagine he’d agree to it being shut down.’ The Herriot family lived in Chester. Although they took no part in the running of their shop, Mr Herriot always sent the staff a pound bonus at Christmas. Everyone had wondered why they didn’t get one last year. Gordon Mackie supplied the answer.

‘You’re obviously not aware, Briggs,’ he snapped, ‘that Grenville Herriot died eighteen months ago. Ownership has now passed to his daughters who have given me free reign to do as I please. In future, profit will be the first consideration, not the cosseting of staff. The rest room will remain. You can bring sandwiches and eat them there.’

They were then treated to a little pep talk more suitable for troops about to go into battle than shop-workers; urged to all pull together, proudly, shoulders back. Finally, ‘There’s a chart on the wall showing your new positions from the first of January. In order to be fair, every single employee has been moved elsewhere. Kindly stand in an orderly queue while waiting your turn to examine the chart. If anyone wishes to question my decisions, my mind is made up and I am not prepared to listen.’ He marched away, his back ramrod stiff.

A few people got up straight away to look at the chart, while the rest sat in stunned silence, which quickly turned into a mutinous rumble.

‘I’m not sure if I still want to work in his bloody shop,’ Mr Briggs said indignantly.

‘Don’t worry, Geoff, you won’t have to,’ shouted a white-faced Reg Barnes from Men’s Wear. ‘You and me have got the push. There’s a big list at the bottom. It looks as if everyone over fifty is on their way out.’

There was a rush for the chart. Josie Mellor, Perfumerie, lit a cigarette, now strictly forbidden, and said loudly that ‘Sir’ could stuff his stupid job where the monkey stuffed its nuts. ‘I’m leaving. I’m getting married in January, anyroad. Frank would far sooner I stayed at home, so he’ll be pleased.’

‘You’d have been in the new Music department,’ someone said.

‘I don’t care. In fact, I think I’ll leave now. Tara, everyone. I hope you enjoy working for another Adolf Hitler.’ With that, Josie gave a little wave and was gone.

Queenie wished she could do the same when she discovered she had been transferred to Ironmongery in the basement, where she would never see the sun, and which she knew, instinctively, that she would loathe.

The vacated jobs were filled by Gordon Mackie’s friends and relatives. Young men from his regiment took over Furnishing and Men’s Wear, Mrs Matilda Mackie, his wife, appeared behind the counter of Ladies’ Accessories, assisted by his daughter, Ann. Mrs Mackie seemed quite nice and no one could understand what she saw in her fearsome husband.

A handful of the old staff left in disgust at such blatant nepotism – mainly women with husbands already working. But few people were able to give up relatively well-paid employment at the drop of a hat. All they could do was grin and bear it, which Queenie, for one, was finding extremely difficult.

Ironmongery smelt: of bricks, though Herriot’s didn’t sell bricks, and washing powder, which they didn’t sell either. Perhaps it was the chemicals in the cast iron fire baskets and shiny grate fronts, the tin buckets, the spades and rakes, tools, stone hot water bottles, metal door stops in the shape of animals, that gave the corner in which she worked such an unpleasant odour. The bestselling item was buckets, which had been as hard to get as fruit during the war.

The department only needed one assistant. It had been Mr Brownlea, long past sixty, and perfectly happy to sit behind the till, only getting up when a rare customer approached – there were never more than twenty a day. But Mr Brownlea had been sacked, the chair taken away, and Queenie’s legs ached from standing, though they’d never ached when she’d been on Children’s Clothing. She was isolated from the other assistants and had no one to talk to. Every morning, she woke up with a heavy heart, dreading the day ahead, when she’d used to look forward to it.

Laura pressed her to leave. ‘There’s plenty of other shops that’d be happy to have you.’

But a stubborn Queenie refused. She was also a tiny bit scared of moving somewhere new and strange. Herriot’s had become as familiar to her as the house in Glover Street. It was like a second home. She didn’t join in the hope expressed by some of her fellow workers that Gordon Mackie would fall under a bus, but she prayed something would happen and she’d be transferred. Anywhere would be be an improvement on Ironmongery.

In fact, two things happened, one of them really horrible, but the outcome was to change her life for ever.

Christmas was a quiet, rather sober affair without the Tylers upstairs. Iris took Sammy to her sister’s on Christmas Day and the house felt abnormally quiet.

It seemed odd, slightly unsettling, only four of them sitting down to dinner.

They were, as usual, going to tea at the Monaghans’ – by now, three of the lads were home – but that was hours away.

Months ago, Hester had been told about her father. She’d taken the news calmly.

She was eleven and, apart from one short visit four Christmases ago, her daddy had been absent for more than half her young life.

‘You can always go and stay with him and his – friend,’ Laura told her. ‘Her name’s Katherine. They’d both be thrilled to have you.’

‘I don’t want to, thanks,’ Hester said coolly. ‘I don’t think I want to see Daddy any more. I shan’t write to him again, either.’

‘It’s up to you, sweetheart. I’d prefer you and Daddy to stay friends.’

Hester merely shrugged but, on Christmas Day, after dinner, when Laura and Queenie were washing the dishes, Gus came into the kitchen and announced gravely that Hester was sick. ‘Her head’s fell on the table.’

‘Oh, my God!’ Laura flew into the living room and found her daughter weeping copiously, her face buried in the white damask cloth. ‘Sweetheart! What’s the matter?’

‘Daddy’s horrible. I hate him. I wish he’d died in the war. After Christmas, I shall send him back his card and tell him so.’

‘I’m sure you wouldn’t really do such an awful thing, Hester, love.’

‘Yes, I would,’ Hester wept. ‘Why isn’t he with us? Why is he spending Christmas with some other lady?’

‘Where is my Dad?’ enquired Gus who’d followed them. ‘Sammy’s got a dad. Vera said he fell into the sea off a big, black boat, but the sweet Lord Jesus saved him and he’s coming back soon.’

‘Mummy, if Daddy knew about Gus, he might have come home,’ Hester said accusingly.

‘He knows about you, sweetheart, and he didn’t come.’ Laura could easily have cried herself at this unexpected turn of events. There’d been a time when she’d looked forward to the first Christmas after the war, when they’d all be together again, a family, though then there’d been no Gus on the scene. Now there was, and it would have been even better.

Gus was still watching her curiously, waiting for an answer as to the whereabouts of his father, and she had no idea what to tell him. Queenie rescued her by suggesting they play I Spy, a game he loved. A sulky Hester joined in, but recovered her usual good spirits when Gus spied something beginning with H

and, after they’d spied every H in the room and had to give up, he said triumphantly, ‘Horner.’

‘Horner?’ Laura and Queenie said together.

Hester broke into peals of laughter. ‘He means corner. “Little Jack Horner sat in the corner …” Oh, Gus, you’re such a funny little boy. Come here and let me give you a kiss.’

Late that night, when everyone had gone to bed, Laura re-read the letter Winnie had sent with the Christmas card from herself, Eric and Brian. She loved Newcastle and she and Eric were very happy.

… And you’ll never guess, I’m having a baby! It’s due in July. Brian’s home, very grown-up. I was worried he wouldn’t fancy having me for a stepmother, but we get on fine and he’s looking forward to having a little brother or sister. He’d planned on going to university when the war ended, but he likes the idea of becoming a teacher and is going on something called the Education Training Scheme instead. He’s got this little booklet. You’ll never guess, it says there’s a teacher training college in Kirkby, not far from where we used to work. Have you seen anything of Joe? Me and Eric were wondering if he’d divorce me so we can get married and the baby would be legitimate when it comes.

Laura had seen nothing of Joe Corcoran and it was the Education Training Scheme that had caught her attention. After Christmas, she’d find out more about it.

She quite liked the idea of becoming a teacher, too.

Whenever Queenie lifted a heavy object, her right arm gave a little twinge of protest, as if to remind her it had been broken twice and she’d better be careful.

It ached badly one day in Herriot’s when she picked up a fire basket, which she’d already wrapped in several sheets of brown paper and tied with string, and handed it to the large autocratic woman who’d just bought it.

The woman looked at her, astounded. ‘Would you kindly carry it to the door for me? My car’s parked outside.’

There wasn’t a male assistant in sight. Queenie tucked the bulky package under her left arm and made for the stairs. The woman followed, grumbling that she’d once had servants to shop for such mundane household items as fire baskets.

‘But nowadays the working classes think they’re too good to fetch and carry for their betters.’

Her burden was threatening to slip away. Queenie seized it with both arms, worried it might drop on to her feet. They reached the top of the stairs, the woman was complaining that the wages people expected were disgracefully high.

‘You’d think they’d be grateful to be given a job,’ she was saying when Queenie’s right arm gave way altogether and the fire basket fell with a loud clatter, right in front of Gordon Mackie who happened to be talking to his wife.