Rose of Tralee (24 page)

‘Right, sir,’ Rosie said. She hurried out of the room, then slowed to cross the outer office. She was thinking about her interview with Mona later. What on earth could she say to her cousin which she’d not already said? There was absolutely no point in Mona appealing to her, when it was Mam who held the purse strings and said who lodged with them and who did not. Of course, Mam was getting worried, there was no doubt of that. And why should they not
take Mona in, after all? Dad wouldn’t have turned her away, Rose decided. Yes, that was the tack to take. Lily would want to please Dad, whether he was here to speak for himself or not and she was suddenly certain that Dad would not have turned Mona away, whatever she had done.

‘She won’t do wrong whiles she’s under
our
roof,’ she could hear his deep, calm voice saying, inside her head. ‘Gi’ the gel a chance, our Lily. If things was diff’rent, an’ it was Rosie wantin’ a roof over her head, I hope someone ’ud give her a chance.’

Yes, that was the way to go about it, Rose decided, especially if Mona really did come clean and tell her why she’d decided to change her ways. Mam was as soft as a brush, really, always ready to give someone a second chance, but the reminder of Dad would clinch it. Happier now, she headed for the typists’ room.

Rose met Mona in her lunch-hour and agreed to sound out her mother about the Irishman, Sean O’Neill, who urgently wanted what he called ‘dacint, homely lodgin’s’ for himself. According to Mona the man, whom she described as elderly and respectable, with a wife and small daughter and a son in his twenties back home in Ireland, had lodged for some years with a woman in Lavrock Bank and had been perfectly happy there.

But then his son had accompanied him back from Ireland and had taken a job in the city, and the woman in Lavrock Bank had resolutely refused to have the son as a lodger too. And though Mr O’Neill had found the son a place in a terraced house only a couple of miles or so off, he did not like being separated and wanted to be nearer.

‘Then might that be two lodgers?’ Rose asked hopefully, but Mona explained that the son was not at all keen to move, personally.

‘He’s wi’ a lorra younger fellers, an’ likes it right well,’ Mona explained. ‘But he wants to meet his da for a meal now an’ then, mebbe to go for a drink in a pub, an’ two miles is a bit far of an evenin’. What’s more, when Mr O’Neill suggested his son might come in for dinner of a Sunday, his landlady said she’d not allow it, not even if he paid extry, like. So Mr O’Neill thought it were time for a move ... an’ he don’t like the Lavrock place above half any more, ’cos the woman who first took him in moved away, an’ Mr O’Neill can’t see eye to eye wi’ the new landlady. There’s been bad feeling afore this, he telled me.’

‘D’you think he’ll care for us?’ Rose asked rather doubtfully. He sounded a difficult tenant to her.

But Mona was reassuring. ‘You’ll like him an’ he’ll like you,’ she said. ‘He’s a nice ole feller, honest to God, Rosie. He’ll be no trouble, an’ who knows? You might get the young ’un an’ all, in time.’

‘How did you meet him?’ Rose said at last. It was, she knew, the first question her mother would ask.

‘I’ve gorra pal at work, a gal called Janet Feeny,’ Mona said. ‘We was goin’ off for a day to New Brighton an’ I went to her house to fetch her out. She lives next door to Mr O’Neill’s lodging house an’ as we came out, so did Mr O’Neill. He was meetin’ his son, as they was goin’ for a bit of an outin’ too, takin’ the ferry an’ all. So naturally we started to chat, an’ next thing we knew, we were discussin’ his situation, so far from where his son lodged, an’ were sayin’ I’d an aunt wi’ a big old house up that way an’ I was hopin’ to move in meself when you was settled. An’ then Mr O’Neill mentioned as he was searchin’ for
digs, an’ I remembered you’d said you’d got plenty of bedrooms ... the rest you know, as they say.’

‘I see,’ Rose said. ‘So you don’t really know this feller all that well yourself?’

‘No, but Janet does an’ she telled me all about him, an’ his son, an’ why Mr O’Neill wanted to move.’ Mona leaned over and tweaked Rose’s nose playfully. ‘Any more questions, Miss Nosy?’

‘No, I reckon I know as much as you do, now,’ Rose admitted. ‘Come on then, let’s buy a penn’orth o’ chips, then I’ve got to get back to the office.’

So Rose returned to Patchett & Ross hopeful that her mother would agree to the two lodgers and that presently she and Mona would be living together, for much though she liked the new house and the new neighbourhood, she sadly missed her pals, who had gone to school with her and knew her so very well. So far, she had met a couple of girls who lived nearby, but though they were friendly enough they were not really interested in her, so Rose welcomed the thought of having her cousin to share her home. Mona will be able to give a hand in the house, too, she told herself as she bustled around the office in the four o’clock tea-break, pushing her battered trolley into the typists’ room and on to where the clerical staff worked. I expect, once we’ve got a full house, there’ll be work in plenty.

Then Mr Garnett called her in to his office and asked her to take a letter to a ship which had just docked. ‘Ask for the first mate, Mr Simpson,’ he said. ‘And give the letter to him. We sailed together once and as m’brother says, there’s nothing like the personal touch in business.’

‘Right, sir,’ Rose said automatically, taking the long brown envelope. ‘Do I wait for a reply?’

‘Ask Harry . . . that is, Mr Simpson,’ Mr Garnett said after a moment’s thought. ‘He may not be able to reply at once, but if not, tell him we’d appreciate a reply within twenty-four hours. All right?’

‘All right, Mr Garnett,’ Rose said, taking the two steps necessary to reach the doorway of Mr Garnett’s tiny cubicle. It seemed unfair, she thought, in view of his size, that Mr Garnett had drawn the short straw, or the tiniest of all the offices, but she supposed that the size of the office was more a question of seniority than size of inhabitant. Still, seeing Mr Garnett trying to double up his long legs under the small desk, and knocking his elbow on the wall every time he forgot the restrictions of his room and tried to write without cramping up his arm, was enough to make a cat laugh. ‘I’ll go right away.’

‘That’s a good girl,’ Mr Garnett said. ‘I’ll be here until six but then I’ll have to get a move on. I’ve got a date with an angel, y’know. So mind you’re back by then.’ He hummed the tune of the song he had just quoted and Rose turned and smiled, though the thought of Mr Garnett making love to a young lady was more comical even than seeing him squeezed behind his desk. He reminded her of one of those crane-flies, all legs and loosely-jointed body, which buzz around in the summer evenings, bumping into faces and lights, and making girls scream, and she thought that being hugged by him would be a horrid experience. His arms would go round a girl twice, she pondered as she ran down the stairs. Still, he couldn’t help being so long and thin, she shouldn’t make a mock of him, even in her head. I’m no oil-painting, she reminded herself. Oh, don’t I wish my hair were smooth and shining, like Greta Garbo’s, or a lovely dark red, like Norma Shearer’s! And it would be nice
to have a pert little nose like Clara Bow’s and a wonderful figure, like Marlene Dietrich’s. But since she was unlikely to become a film star, she supposed that it didn’t really matter and continued to dash out of the offices.

The walk to the Queen’s Dock, where the ship she was to visit was moored, was a pleasant one on such a mild and sunny afternoon. Rose hurried, because she could not amble once she got going and anyway she knew it would be a protracted business to find the right ship, then the right man and either get permission to go aboard or ask someone to bring him ashore, but even so she thoroughly enjoyed the walk. The wind was blowing onshore and brought with it the salt tang of the sea, a sort of wild freshness which suited Rose’s mood. No wonder so many of the firm’s office boys had run away to sea, she thought. All the glamour and excitement of a life on the ocean wave was perpetually being brought home to them – and the wages at Patchett & Ross, though sufficient for a girl, could not have compared well with what a midshipman or a cabin boy – Rose was vague about ships’ crews – could have made. Still, she could not imagine going to sea herself. She loved the land too much, her home, her mother, even her job.

Presently she turned right onto Sefton Street and after slowing to wave to some small boys travelling on the overhead railway and slowing again to cross the swing bridge at a decorous pace, she reached the Queen’s Dock. The ship she wanted was moored in Number One Dock, so she headed there.

The gangplank was down and the sailor guarding it called to another seaman, who went and fetched Mr Simpson, who proved to be the absolute opposite of his friend Mr Garnett, being short, broad and round-faced,
with his skin brown from the salt breezes, and small, twinkling eyes.

He took the envelope, opened it and read the contents quickly, then turned back to Rose. ‘Hello ... you’re new, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Rose said. She had no idea how one should address the first mate of a cargo ship, but decided to play safe. ‘The office boys keep running away to sea so Mr Edward thought a girl might be safer.’

Mr Simpson grinned. ‘Well, in one sense I agree with him, but knowing my old pal Spidy Evans . . . still, mustn’t tell tales out of school, eh? How d’you enjoy the work?’

‘It’s grand,’ Rose said. ‘Is – is there a reply, sir? Only Mr Garnett said most particularly that he wanted me to go straight back to the office. He’s got a date wi’ ... well, an appointment I should say.’

Mr Simpson laughed. ‘A date? Not a real date, with a real girl? Not old Spider Evans? What girl would look twice at a beanpole like him?’

‘I wouldn’t know, sir,’ Rose said rather woodenly. She did not think it nice of Mr Simpson to refer to his old friend in such terms. ‘Is there a reply, then?’

‘No, not ... hang on a mo. You’re the messenger, right?’

‘That’s right,’ Rose said cautiously. ‘If you write a note I’ll tek it back to Mr Garnett.’

‘Well, it’s not exactly ... hang on here for a sec.’

And before Rose could say again that she could not linger he had turned and run back up the gangplank and onto the ship. Sighing, Rose sat down on a bollard. No point in getting in a state – you could not expect the feller to write a note standing on the quayside. Naturally he would go back into his cabin
or whatever they had aboard ship and write it properly there.

After five minutes, her new acquaintance reappeared. Furthermore, he had what looked like a largish box swinging from one hand and Rose’s heart gave a disbelieving thump. Surely he did not expect her to carry that great thing back to the office with her? She was a messenger, not a dockie.

But Mr Simpson had anticipated objections. ‘It’s light as a feather,’ he said cheerfully, handing over the box. ‘Tell old Spider that I knew he’d want the old feller really, but just didn’t have time to take him when he last visited me. And here’s the reply,’ and he thrust a sheet of paper, folded into a square, into her right hand and the box into her left.

‘I’m not meant to carry bleedin’ great packages,’ Rose said indignantly, then almost dropped the box, which, she now realised, was not a box at all but a cage of some sort with a green baize cloth draped over it. ‘Hey, what’s in here? Ooh, it moved ... it’s alive!’

She set the object hastily on the ground, staring at it with widening eyes, but Mr Simpson stepped forward at once and lifted a corner of the green baize, so that she could see what was within. It was, she saw, a large, many-coloured parrot with scaly grey legs and white patches around its remarkably bright and intelligent eyes.

‘Don’t worry, it won’t bite,’ Mr Simpson said, snorting with laughter. ‘It’s Mr Garnett’s parrot, Gulliver. The bird never left his side whilst he was afloat and when he decided to stay ashore he left it with me, promising to pick it up next time we docked. Only what with one thing and the other, with him always being busy and myself the same, I’ve not
got round to handing over the bird. But you turning up . . . well, it suddenly struck me that it was a heaven-sent opportunity, see? Now you get back to good old Spidy and tell him you’ve got Gulliver there and he’ll be so pleased he’ll probably throw up his date tonight and take you out instead.’ He looked her over. ‘He could do worse,’ he added with a chuckle. ‘Pretty little thing like you, he’d have a grand evening, I’m sure.’

But Rose scarcely heard the compliment, far less heeded it. ‘Will it sit quiet or will it try to fly round and overset me?’ she enquired worriedly. ‘I don’t know nothin’ about birds, Mr Simpson. Suppose it flaps an’ breaks a wing or a leg? Mr Garnett won’t be too pleased wi’ me then, will he?’

‘Keep the baize cover over him and he’ll think it’s night, and night’s the time for quiet sleep,’ the first mate advised. ‘He won’t flap around in the dark, got more sense. As for breaking a leg or wing, just think, girl! In the wild, that bird would roost in a tree during one of the hurricanes common in his native country, and the branches would whip around far more than just swinging from your hand.’

‘Well, I don’t know as how ...’ Rose began, but she was speaking to Mr Simpson’s back; he was mounting the gangplank, calling out to someone at the head of it. Rose, with a sigh, adjusted the big wicker hook on top of the birdcage which accidently tipped the cage at an odd angle and she heard an ominous thump; clearly, regardless of what Mr Simpson might say, the bird had forgotton about clinging to the branch of a tree in a tropical gale and had simply dropped off its perch. Accordingly she pulled the cage until it was swinging freely alongside her and set off.

*

It was a fair journey after all, though once or twice, when she tripped over a manhole cover or turned a corner a little too sharply, strange sounds issued forth from under the baize. Indeed, when she was forced to stop rather abruptly at the junction of Victoria Street and John Street, an old lady waiting at the kerb to cross behind her began to tut indignantly at the dreadful, raucous words which she plainly thought were coming from Rose’s lips. Rose gave the cage a quick kick and the mutter died away into low grumblings – clearly Gulliver realised that night or not, retribution was at hand if he misbehaved.