Queen of the Mersey (5 page)

She’d never felt a shred of love for her daughter, the result of a one-night stand with a travelling brush salesman only a few months after her husband had done a bunk. George Tate had been in the Merchant Navy and hadn’t bothered to return after a trip to America. Agnes didn’t care. George had been a no-hoper.

In her experience, most people were. For the life of her, she couldn’t understand folks not wanting a good time. She reckoned it was why they’d been put on earth, to enjoy themselves and have a laugh.

Once it became obvious George wasn’t coming back, Agnes set out to have the best possible time. Not that she’d been exactly a shrinking violet before, but a married woman had to be careful how she put herself about while her husband was away. In no time she found herself up the stick by a man whose name she couldn’t even remember and would never see again. Although she’d done all the usual things, drunk pints of gin, immersed herself in painfully scalding baths, the baby had refused to be budged.

People were hazy about when George had last been home and assumed the baby was his. Agnes claimed he’d been killed in an accident on the New York docks, that she was now a widow, which sounded better than the truth. She’d stuck to the story ever since.

It hadn’t crossed her mind to give the girl away when she was born. Agnes had always regretted it. Instead, she’d paid some woman to look after her during the day and got a job in Johnson’s Dye factory. This arrangement had continued until Queenie was five, though Agnes had been forced to remove the girl several times and find someone else when the women got angry over the various bumps and bruises on Queenie’s tiny body when she was brought to them in the morning.

‘Where on earth did that come from?’ they would exclaim. ‘She’s such a nice, well-behaved little thing. There’s no need to smack her.’

There were only so many times Agnes could say Queenie had bumped into a door or fallen downstairs. The women hadn’t spent all day in a stinking factory. They weren’t desperate for a bit of light relief; a drink, some congenial company when work was over. Agnes resented being stuck in, night after night, with a whingeing child. It was only understandable she give the kid a clout when she wet the bed or refused to stop crying – Queenie wasn’t all that nice and well-behaved at home.

The incident with Queenie’s arm had given her a fright. The kid had done something she shouldn’t have, or not done something she should have, Agnes couldn’t remember what it was that made her give her four-year-old daughter a shove that really did send her flying halfway down the stairs. She’d screamed blue murder all night long, and was still screaming next morning when an angry and exhausted Agnes took her to the house where she was being looked after.

‘What’s the matter with her?’ the woman had asked suspiciously.

‘I dunno, do I?’ Agnes growled. ‘She’s just in one of her moods.’

‘I’ve never known Queenie in a mood. She’s always as good as gold. What’s wrong, dearie?’ The woman knelt down and made to pick Queenie up, and the kid only screamed louder. ‘Her arm’s broken!’ the woman gasped, horrified. ‘You’d best get her to hospital straight away.’

‘But I’m on me way to work!’

‘I don’t care if you’re on your way to heaven, Mrs Tate. Queenie needs to have her arm set straight away. And I’d have a good explanation ready for the doctor, if I were you, else you might find yourself up on a charge.’

Agnes had had dealings with the law before; twice for being drunk and disorderly, once for soliciting, though the latter had been a misunderstanding.

The last thing she wanted was the police involved. She took Queenie home, put her arm in a sling, and fed her with Aspro, cursing loudly when she thought about the money she was losing. She also lost the next day’s pay searching for another woman to look after her.

The arm had managed to set itself, but the bones hadn’t knitted together properly, so that for ever afterwards, from the elbow down, Queenie’s right arm faced the wrong way. The sight of her daughter’s crooked arm always irritated Agnes beyond endurance. It was a constant reminder of what a damn nuisance the girl had been since the day she was born.

Queenie was five, had started school, when Agnes decided to become a barmaid. At least she’d have company, could share a joke or two with the customers, be able to dress nice for work, and there wouldn’t be a creepy supervisor breathing down her neck all day long. The spinster sisters who’d lived downstairs used to put the kid to bed. Both were dead by the time Queenie turned eight, and Agnes judged she was old enough to look after herself and make herself useful around the house. Despite her arm, there wasn’t much Queenie couldn’t do, but she’d never been able to manage the ironing, and the washing was always sopping wet when it went on the rack because she couldn’t wring it out.

Agnes took a Player’s Weight out of her bag and lit it. Everywhere was so quiet.

She couldn’t stand the quiet or being alone. If she went with Derek Norris, she’d never be alone again. What’s more, she imagined London being the sort of place that was never still. It was probably buzzing with activity right now, even though it was nearly midnight. The clubs would be full, the cafés open, there’d still be people on the streets.

Could she leave Queenie on her own? Any minute now, the girl would get a job. It was her arm that had stopped her so far. She’d been for half a dozen interviews, but employers took one look and decided she wasn’t up to cooking or cleaning or doing anything heavy. But something was bound to turn up soon. Agnes had done her duty. It was time she thought about herself. ‘Before it’s too late,’ Derek had said.

Too late! She wasn’t getting any younger, but then who was? Next year, she’d be forty. She’d have to get a move on if she wanted a good time. If Derek brought them train tickets tomorrow, Agnes decided she’d be off.

Laura had acquired a fear of letters. It was rare one came for her or Roddy, and they were usually about something innocuous, but she worried constantly that his relatives, or her father, had discovered where they lived.

She uttered a little gasp when, one morning in August, she heard the letter box click and the flutter of a letter on to the mat. Approaching warily, she picked it up, hoping it was for the horrid woman upstairs, but the brown envelope was addressed to Roderick Bennett Oliver, and bore the dreaded words ‘On His Majesty’s Service’ in black print in the top left-hand corner. She knew straight away that he’d been called up.

Sometimes, if he was working nearby, he came home and ate the sandwiches she’d made for his lunch. She put the letter on the mantelpiece and prayed he’d come today. But lunchtime passed and he didn’t. Laura sat on the settee, her sewing forgotten on her lap, her eyes fixed on the letter. What was going to happen to them now? she asked herself, before realising it was a stupid question. She knew exactly what would happen. Roddy would go into the forces, she and Hester would be left in Glover Street on their own. She would get a job, war work of some sort, not only because she wanted to do her bit, but she would need the money.

The matter had already been discussed with Vera, who’d offered to look after Hester while Laura was at work. It was all settled and the future looked very hard, not just for her, but for the entire population.

She wondered idly how the War Office, or whoever it was who sent out call-up papers, had known where Roddy lived? How had he been tracked down to this address? They’d had no contact with officialdom since they’d come to live in Glover Street.

In the middle of her reverie, Hester came in sulking, having quarrelled over something trivial with Mary. The two girls had become inseparable, but Laura had a feeling they didn’t like each other much. Hester considered Mary too boisterous, whereas Mary thought Hester not boisterous enough. They teased each other mercilessly over their wildly differing accents, and Hester’s exquisite table manners were mocked, while Mary’s lack of them derided.

‘What’s happened now?’ Laura asked with a sigh.

‘Mary won’t let me have a go on the swing.’ Hester sniffed. The swing was merely a rope slung over a lamppost.

‘She will when she’s had a turn herself.’

‘She’s been on it for ages.’

Laura suggested she play with the bat and ball she’d recently bought – the hard sponge ball was attached to the bat by a piece of elastic. She quite enjoyed playing with it herself.

‘The elastic’s snapped.’

‘I can easily mend it.’

The idea seemed to appeal and Hester returned outside with the bat and ball.

Laura watched through the window. Her socks were grubby, her frock had a little tear in the sleeve, and her sandals were badly scuffed. Yet she looked happy.

Much happier than Laura had been at the same age. Little girls had to be brought to the vicarage for her to play with, or she was taken to their houses. She’d never been allowed to set foot outside on her own until she was in her teens. At boarding school, a mistress had accompanied the fifth-form girls on their weekly outings to Tunbridge Wells, although being carefully chaperoned hadn’t stopped her from meeting Roddy, she remembered with a smile.

She saw a little boy come hurtling along the pavement on a home-made scooter.

Bigger boys, Caradoc Monaghan amongst them, were kicking a football against the grain silo wall. A hopscotch grid had been drawn outside her window. Laura fancied having a go on that, too.

Mary had stopped swinging and was watching Hester thoughtfully. Seconds later, she ran into her own house and came out with her bat and ball. Unlike Hester, who still hadn’t quite got the hang of it, Mary could hit the ball in every direction, and began to slam it upwards, sideways, downwards. She was showing off, and the regular thump, thump, thump could be heard inside the house. Hester dropped her bat and made for the swing and the two girls glared at each other, which they seemed to do an awful lot.

Laura sighed and returned to the sofa. Out of habit, she picked up her sewing, but continued to stare at the mantelpiece, at the letter that was about to completely change the course of their lives.

As she had guessed, the envelope contained Roddy’s call-up papers. He would be joining the Army and had been assigned to the King’s Own Regiment. He was commanded to present himself at the Territorial Army Headquarters in Park Road, Bootle, at 8 a.m. on Monday, prepared for immediate departure.

‘Immediate departure to where?’ Laura cried.

‘A training camp, I suppose.’ He looked remarkably composed, but men were like that, never revealing their emotions. Inside, he would be as upset as she was.

‘Not that I’ll need much training. I was in the Cadet Force at St Jude’s. The adjutant was a teacher who’d been a captain in the regular Army, so I’ve already been fully drilled in the basics.’

‘Monday’s only four days away.’ They’d never been apart for a single night before. She wasn’t sure if she could bear it.

‘I know, darling.’ He held out his arms. ‘Come here!’

She snuggled on to his knee, determined not to cry, which would only make things worse for him. He was holding up so well. ‘I’m amazed the War Office managed to find you,’ she said in a shaky voice. ‘And why are you being sent away so quickly? I thought you were supposed to have a medical first?’

He didn’t answer for a while then, with a little shrug, he said, ‘They didn’t need to find me, Lo. I’ve already had a medical. I volunteered, that’s why.’

‘And you didn’t tell me!’ She leapt off his knee and stared at him accusingly.

‘You want to leave, don’t you? You can’t wait! You don’t care what will happen to me and Hester if you’re killed.’

‘I won’t be killed,’ he said confidently.

‘How can you possibly know that?’

‘In six months, the whole thing will be over.’

‘And how can you possibly know that?’

‘It’s only common sense, my darling Lo. Come here!’ Once again, he held out his arms, but this time she ignored them.

‘Don’t darling me, Roderick Oliver.’ She stamped her foot, angrier than she’d ever been before. ‘You actually want to fight. You’re raring for it. That’s because you’re a man and men are stupid. They start wars, can’t wait to rush off and fight them, and us women are left behind to pick up the pieces.’

Roddy looked impressed. ‘Where did you get that from? You don’t usually have such strong opinions.’

‘Oh, go and jump in the lake, Roddy.’ She went to the front door and shouted loudly for Hester. Two gulls on the roof opposite immediately took flight, and Hester arrived looking scared. ‘What’s the matter, Mummy?’

‘Ask your father.’ Laura stamped into the kitchen to get the dinner.

‘Our Billy’s going on Monday, too,’ Vera told Laura the following day.

‘I bet he wasn’t silly enough to volunteer,’ Laura grumbled. She’d come across to Vera’s first thing for a moan. Vera appeared quite happy to leave the breakfast dishes on the table in favour of a chat. She wore a crossover pinny that had stopped crossing over a long while ago and now barely met on her chest.

Hester and Mary were squabbling upstairs.

‘Billy wouldn’t dare. He’d have got a black eye, if he had.’

‘Roddy didn’t even tell me.’ Laura’s brown eyes shone with indignation. ‘He just went and did it without a word. That’s what I find so maddening. If he’d been called up because it was his turn, it would be different. We fought all night.

It was our first proper row.’

‘Well, there’s a first time for everything, Laura, luv.’

‘He said it was his duty. I said it was his duty to stay with me and Hester for as long as he could, but he can’t see it that way.’ She snorted contemptuously.

‘I wanted to kill him.’

‘That wouldn’t have helped much.’ Vera leaned towards the other woman and said confidentially, ‘You’ll never guess what my Albert’s gone and done.’

Laura gasped. ‘Don’t tell me he’s volunteered too.’

‘Not at fifty-six, luv, no,’ Vera hooted. ‘But he’s giving up the trams and going to work in a munitions factory. Mind you, the pay’s good, though it’s shift work.’

‘Good for Albert! I want to do something like that, but when I told Roddy, he had a fit. He insists Hester and I are evacuated. He said it would be dangerous to stay in Glover Street, so close to the docks, and I said it would be less dangerous than him going off to fight.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘We rowed about that too.’