Rose of Tralee (16 page)

So now, having raised the question of his niece again, Jack decided that it was best not to speculate. ‘Mebbe she’s workin’ for a florist an’ mebbe she ain’t, he said. ‘But whichever, I reckon we’re best to continue lettin’ sleepin’ dogs lie. Tomorrer, you tek Rosie round a couple o’ florists an’ she can see what she thinks. After all, she’s goin’ to continue at school for another couple o’ years, come what may, an’ you never know. In the meantime she may decide that teachin’s just what she’d really like to do.’

He knew that Lily was still hopeful that Rose might change her mind and go for a teacher, but in his heart he doubted it very much. Rose was bright as a button, but she’d not be happy cooped up in a classroom when she could be out of doors. No, he agreed with Lily that she should continue her schooling and possibly go on after the convent to a business college, so that she could get an office job. And meanwhile the two of them ought to be able to keep Rose clear of Mona, particularly as the younger girl had very little time for the older.

So next day, despite the fact that the snow had returned and with it, a nipping wind, Lily and Rose set off for the city centre, where they would enjoy themselves, Lily told her daughter, taking a good look at the dozens of florists in St John’s Market and maybe get a spot of dinner at the Kardomah.

‘There’s Bees on Bold Street – they have lovely flowers,’ Lily said as the two of them set off for the tram stop. ‘They’re worth a visit. An’ . . . an’ there’s bound to be others what we’ll come across.’

‘If we go to the Kardomah we might as well pop
into the Bon Marché,’ Rose said slyly, knowing how her mother loved the shop. ‘It’s nice to have a wander round, Mam.’

‘Right, we’ll do that. And mebbe we’ll nip into Cooper’s an’ get somethin’ nice for your dad’s tea,’ Lily said comfortably. ‘Poor Dad, he won’t be sittin’ at his ease sippin’ tea at four, like we will, so we’ll buy him somethin’ really good.’

‘An’ there’s a café on the second floor in Cooper’s where we could have our cuppa,’ Rose said hopefully. ‘They have great cakes, too.’

Mother and daughter smiled conspiratorially at one another. They would have a lovely outing and enjoy, as much as anything, seeing Jack’s face when they produced a treat for his tea.

Rose enjoyed St John’s Market, but although she loved the flowers and thought the girls looked pretty in their smart overalls, she decided early on that this would not be the life for her. The customers were not always polite and the younger girls seemed just like skivvies to her. They were scarcely allowed to touch the flowers except under an older woman’s instructions, and although the blooms smelled sweet most of them were greenhouse reared at this time of year and therefore very expensive, which meant that customers were few. What was more, they weren’t particularly friendly to the shop assistants, giving their orders but not really being much interested in what was on show.

‘But it’ll be different when there’s more flowers, more choice,’ Lily said as they finished their tea. ‘I know you thought the assistants didn’t get much chance to handle the flowers, but I reckon you’d be makin’ up bouquets an’ bridal posies an’ all sorts
once the finer weather comes. Why, it won’t be long before we’re seein’ the first snowdrops,’ she added as they donned their outer clothes and headed reluctantly down the stairs once more. ‘It’ll soon be spring, you mark my words.’

‘Oh, Mam, how can you say that?’ Rose asked as they walked towards the street doors once more. ‘We’ve got the worst of the winter to go . . . all the winter term, in fact.’

‘It cheers me up to think of spring,’ Lily said, then stopped short as she pushed through the door into the chill of late afternoon. Outside, yellow fog swirled, thick with the scent of coal dust and river mud. ‘Oh Lord, if there’s one thing I hate it’s a fog. I can’t see across the street, never mind to the tram stop. There, an’ I were goin’ to suggest a walk up to Lewis’s, but I think we’d better get ourselves home as soon as possible. It’s thick enough now; just imagine what it’ll be like be the time your dad comes home.’

‘A pea-souper, I reckon,’ Rose said gloomily. ‘What’ll we do, Mam? Go to the Pier Head? We’ll have a good choice of trams down there. Oh, poor Dad, he’s always late when it’s foggy.’ She seized her mother’s arm and the two of them joined the jostling crowd on the pavement. ‘Most folk’ll be goin’ home now the fog’s down, so if we follow the crowd we’ll probably end up at the Pier Head loops. What’s for tea, Mam?’

‘Well, I was goin’ to have fried fish an’ chips from Fred Morris, on Heyworth, bein’ as how we’ve been on the razzle-dazzle all day. But seein’ as the weather’s turned bad on us and your dad’ll be chilled to the bone, I think I’ll make a stew. Warmed-up fish an’ chips is no substitute for a good, hot meal, so we’ll try for a tram which takes us up to Heyworth, then I
can get stewin’ meat at Sandon’s an’ veggies at Gaulton’s. I like shoppin’ on Heyworth, you always get good value, an’ your dad dearly loves a nice stew.’

‘Me an’ all,’ Rose said, licking her lips. They reached the loops and milled around with the others already waiting. Rose could hear the river sounds louder than the muffled traffic noises and somewhere a fog-horn boomed out its sad warning note. She took her mother’s warm hand in hers and squeezed it, more to comfort herself than for Lily’s sake. ‘Won’t be long now, Mam. A queue like this ’un means there’s trams due quite soon.’

Rose was right, for within five minutes a tram approached, its bell ringing warningly because in a fog it was not possible to see the vehicles until they were almost upon you. Rose and her mother, used to the suddenness and the thickness of Liverpool fogs, had drawn their scarves up over their mouths and pulled their hats well down, but Rose spotted the tram’s indicator board and gave a little crow of triumph. ‘It’s a 31, that’ll take us to Heyworth,’ she said gratefully, for the cold was beginning to penetrate to the marrow of her bones, or so it felt, after the warmth of the shops. ‘Come on, Mam, no point in hangin’ back.’

Accordingly the two of them joined the pushing, shoving crowd of people trying to get aboard the 31 and presently Rose found herself crammed into the interior, with her mother right up at the far end whilst she herself was wedged between a small man who smelt of tobacco and kippers and an extremely large old lady, hung about with shopping bags and smelling strongly of onions.

‘All aboard? Hold very tight, please,’ the conductor
shouted and began collecting fares, though there was scarcely room to move amongst the many standing passengers, or so one would have thought. But the conductor, used to the problem, managed to wriggle his way from one end of the vehicle to the other and mounted the stairs, shouting to the interior passengers the reminder that it was one pull on the strap to stop the tram and two to start it again when everyone who wanted to get off had disembarked.

‘I ain’t goin’ to know when we reach Cabbage Hall, norrin this flamin’ fog,’ the old woman next to Rose remarked comfortably. ‘Mind, I dare say someone’ll tell me; folks usually does.’

‘We’re gettin’ off on Heyworth, at Abbey Street,’ Rose explained. ‘Or we might get off at Hibbert, or Jefferson; it don’t matter much. We’ve got shoppin’ still to do, you see. I ’spect our mam’ll tek a look in several shops before she buys.’

‘Oh aye. I’m fond o’ a bit o’ shoppin’ meself,’ the woman said with considerable understatement when you counted the bags, parcels and packages in her possession. ‘But today I been gettin’ stuff for me daughter. She writ me a list. I allus say there ain’t no pleasure shoppin’ from a list, but she jest don’t see it. Now if I were shoppin’ for meself I wou’n’t go to all them posh shops on Ranny, I’d go along the Scottie, or Byrom, or even Heyworth. Oh aye, you can pick up a bargain like that, many’s the time . . .’

The tram lurched to a stop and through the misted window Rose could see people surging eagerly forward. Several of them got on whilst the conductor took more fares and one, a slim girl who looked to be in her early twenties, was jostled close to Rose, apologising as the press of people pushed them together. ‘I’m awful sorry, someone gave me ever
such a shove and I’ve been footing it in the fog for what seems like hours. Did I hurt you?’

‘No, I’m all right, I’ve got so many clothes on that bouncin’ into me is like bouncin’ into a football,’ Rose said cheerfully. ‘Why’ve you been walkin’ in the fog, then? Mam an’ me walked a good bit earlier, because I’ve been wonderin’ whether I’d like to work in a flower shop, so we went an’ took a look at some. But just about when the fog come down, I guess, we went into Cooper’s for tea an’ a cake. Were you shoppin’, too?’

‘No. Working.’ The girl said briefly. She looked Rose consideringly up and down. ‘So you’re thinking of working in a flower shop! Well, it
might
be fun, of course, but I should think you’d be bored in a week. Still, you might really take to it I suppose.’

‘I was beginning to see that it was pretty much like any other sort of shop work by the time we’d done the first two or three shops,’ Rose admitted. ‘But it’s so hard to find out what you would like to do when your mam an’ dad just keep sayin’ to stay on at school an’ get educated. What do you do?’

‘I’m a reporter on the
Echo
. I do all sorts, but today my first job was getting some copy for my fashion notes. I was interviewing the woman who’s organising the mannequin parade at Lewis’s in a couple of weeks, and then I went along to see another woman who’s publishing a book of poems all about Liverpool. She lives down by the docks and I couldn’t even
find
the house for the first half-hour, in this fog. Still, I’m finished for the day now, so I’m going to spend a nice evening with an old school friend. We’ll have a cosy supper and then toast our toes by a decent fire and talk each other’s heads off, I expect.’

‘A reporter!’ Rose said, much struck. ‘You must be awful clever!’

The girl shrugged, then smiled mischievously at Rose. She was a pretty creature, with dark-red hair cut in a fashionable bob, reddish-brown eyes fringed with very dark lashes and a small, upturned nose, and when she smiled, a deep dimple appeared in one cheek. ‘No, I’m not clever at all, just persistent. Oh, and I was good at compositions at school and wrote little pieces for the school magazine. I was lucky to get the job, though. Lots of girls fancy newspaper work these days, because they hope to get onto one of the glossies.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Rose said, wondering what on earth that might mean. ‘I’m good at compositions, too, Sister’s always readin’ my stuff out. What’s your name, then? I expect you’ll be famous one day, and if I know your name I’ll be able to say I met you when you worked on the
Echo
,’

‘I’m Nancy Gregg, but I don’t suppose I’ll ever be famous, though you’ve a better chance in a newspaper office than in a florist’s. What’s your name, then?’

‘Rose Ryder. Which school did you go to, Miss Gregg? Did they tell you to try for work on a newspaper? Only I’m at the convent school on Mount Pleasant and all they ever talk about is teachin’, an’ I don’t want to be a teacher.’

Miss Gregg laughed. ‘Typical! St Joseph’s Select – my school – was just the same; all they could suggest was teaching, or staying at home and being a good wife to some chap. But I’ve an aunt in London who writes short stories and articles for the glossies and she said to try a newspaper first, so I did, and as I said, persistence paid off. Why, if I told you how hard
I had to work to get the job it would put you off, but if you’re really keen on writing, then get yourself trained as an office worker first off. Go on a business course and learn shorthand, typing, book-keeping, that sort of stuff. I had to, in the end, and I can tell you it’s been useful. The reason that my boss sends me out on lots of stories is because of my first-class shorthand, so if you want to do my sort of work that’s one good way to begin. Now I’d better start moving down towards the door or I’ll get carried past my stop.’

‘Oh, d’you live hereabouts then?’ Rose said, very disappointed. ‘I thought you’d be goin’ a bit further than this.’

‘I did tell you,’ her new friend reminded her above the rattle and crash of the tram. ‘I’m visiting a friend tonight, someone I was at school with. Normally, I wouldn’t be on the 31 at all, I’d be on the 10. I’ve a shared flat out at Prescott, because it’s cheaper living out there than in the city, though it’s a bit of a fag having to travel all that way night and morning. Still, at least it’s on a tram route. I was determined not to live right out. The trams are so convenient and very much cheaper ...’ Miss Gregg reached up and tugged on the strap. Despite the fog she seemed to know very well when the area she wanted came in view. ‘Well, Miss Ryder, it’s been interesting talking to you and I wish you the very best of luck in your future career. Stick to your guns and maybe you and I will work together one day. Good-evening.’

‘Good-evening,’ Rose said, wishing fervently that she could hop off the tram and question her new friend further. But at least she knew her name and where she worked. It would not be impossible to get in touch with her again.

The tram stopped and several people other than the young reporter surged towards the doors. Rose moved obediently up towards the front as her mother beckoned and they managed to find a fairly comfortable perch against the glass panel which separated the driver from his passengers.

‘You all right, Rose?’ her mother asked. ‘Who was that gal, then? I saw you chattin’ to her – pretty thing, weren’t she?’

‘Yes, and ever so friendly. She was tellin’ me about her job . . . she said she went to St Joseph’s Select . . . where’s that, Mam?’

‘Dunno, but the Sisters of Mercy teach there. It’s rather posh, I think . . . costs a deal, I dare say. Not that your fees are exactly cheap, but ...’

‘Fares please! Move further down the car, ladies and gents all! Now come along, madam, if you want to gerrof you’ve gorra move a bit faster’n that.

The tram was stopping again and though the conductor’s remark was good-natured, the lady so addressed was not. ‘I can’t see a bleedin’ thing out there,’ she said plaintively in a strong Irish accent. ‘I don’t know whether we’re at the Landin’ Stage or John o’ Groats, an’ there’s no one willin’ to say for sure, so naturally I’m lingerin’, so I am. I don’t want to find meself lost in weather like this.’