The Girl From Seaforth Sands (21 page)

‘I telled her not to have nothin’ to do wi’ Tommy Chee,’ Bill said, going towards the back door and opening it into the teeth of the gale. ‘I’ll not have me daughter larkin’ around in this sort o’ weather with anyone, let alone a chap as I’ve forbid her to see.’ And before Suzie could say another word, he was out through the door and battling his way towards the tram terminus.

It was gone midnight before two thoroughly exhausted girls reached Seaforth once more. For the overhead railway had not been able to battle all the way out to Seaforth, so they had been forced to walk from Alexandra Station. As Amy dropped Ruth off at her door, however, she remarked that the storm seemed to be lessening at last and, weary though they were, the girls agreed to meet next morning on the tram that would take them both in to work – if they were running by the following day. But the salt wind from the sea usually saw off snow and ice quite quickly, so there was a good chance that by next morning things would be at least nearly normal.

Amy let herself into the kitchen as quietly as she could, guessing that the rest of the family would be in bed. Sure enough, the kitchen was empty. When she had hung her soaking outer garments over the clothes horse to dry before the fire, put on some more fuel so that it would not go and die on her and made herself a hot drink to take up to bed, she heard
a sound from the stairs. She thought that perhaps Albert might have worried over her lateness but to her astonishment it was Suzie who came out of her bedroom on to the little top landing, a scruffy shawl round her shoulders and her hair in curl papers. ‘Where’ve you been, you wicked gal?’ she hissed, as Amy began ascending the stairs. ‘Oh, you deserve a good thrashing for keepin’ your dad out so late in this terrible weather. What’s more, I’ve not slept a wink for worryin’ over the pair of youse. I telled Bill you was old enough to manage for yourself and come in when you felt like it, but would he listen? No, off he goes into that fearful weather to wait at the tram terminus till you turned up, no doubt. Is he still below? You should ha’ sent him up first, ‘stead of scurrying for your own bed, like the spoilt little madam you are . . .’

‘Tram terminus?’ Amy exclaimed, quite bewildered by this flood of invective. ‘But I didn’t come by tram, I came by the docker’s umbrella. The last tram was hours and hours ago, so Ruthie and me went along to the Pier Head and caught the train. Only it stopped at Alexandra and couldn’t go any further, so we had to walk.’

‘You didn’t . . . Oh, my God! But you must have walked past the terminus. Didn’t you see no sign of your dad? I’m tellin’ you, he set off to walk there hours since and he’s still not back.’

‘There wasn’t a sign of anyone waiting,’ Amy said doubtfully. ‘There was one tram standing in the middle of the road, all covered in snow, but no sign of my dad. He must’ve gone into a house nearby for shelter – Mr Benbow lives near there, on Peel Road, doesn’t he? Do you suppose he’s popped in there and got benighted?’

‘No, of course he hasn’t – wouldn’t dream of doin’ such a thing and worryin’ the life out o’ me. Oh, Gawd, wharrever’s happened to my Bill, then?’ Suzie spun round and hurled the door of the boys’ room so wide that it crashed against the wall. Amy could hear her hollering at them, and guessed she was shouting at Gus and shaking Albert and Paddy, who slept like the dead once they had gone off. ‘Oh, my Gawd, oh, my Gawd,’ Suzie wailed. ‘Gerrup fellers, we’re in real trouble. Here’s that blamed Amy come home by the docker’s umbrella and she says she never saw my Bill when she passed the tram terminus. So gerrup the lot of you, you’ve gorra go and search for him.’

Amy took a hasty swig of her hot drink and then went towards the clothes horse where her coat still steamed. She began to struggle into it again, as sounds of stirring came from upstairs. She was still searching for a dry headscarf to replace her wet one when the boys came clattering into the kitchen, Gus in the lead. All three of them were pale-faced. Gus stared at her as though he were still dreaming. ‘Amy? Is it true what Suzie just said? Is me dad out in this awful weather?’

‘He must be, since she says he’s not come in,’ Amy said briefly. She went over to the dresser and rummaged through the cupboards for another pair of woollen gloves to replace her wet ones, then pulled them on. ‘Is Suzie coming to search, too? Or is it just us three?’

‘Four,’ Albert said gruffly. ‘Unless you’d rather stay in, our Amy? Only you’re already awful wet – I reckon our dad would rather you didn’t go searchin’ for him in this weather and at this hour.’

‘I’m coming,’ Amy stated, but did not explain that
she had not expected Paddy to join them. He was not a Logan, after all, though had she been forced to give her honest opinion she would have had to admit that she thought the boy was very attached to her dad. Despite the fact that there had been no work for him on the shrimp boat, Bill took Paddy with him as a replacement for Gus or Albert when they had a day off, and said that Paddy was useful and had all the right ideas. ‘But three’s plenty for a boat the size of the
Mersey Maid
, ’ he was wont to say half apologetically. ‘If Gus ever wants to go his own way, same as our Ed and Charlie have done, then I’d tek Paddy aboard like a shot. But until that day it’s the just three of us.’

So now, the boys wrapped up, all four of them set out, Amy walking with Gus. They reached the tram terminus in good time and, having seen nobody waiting, were about to turn back when Albert gave a shout. ‘What’s that . . . in that doorway? It may be some old tramp . . .’

The four of them ran, slipping and sliding through the thick layer of snow, to where a figure lay slumped, half in a shop doorway, but more across the pavement. The reason he had been difficult to see was that he, too, was thickly covered with snow, but as soon as Gus rolled him over, Amy gave a cry. ‘It’s our dad!’ she gasped and began to try to lift him, with the boys doing the same. ‘Oh, whatever’s come to him, Gus?’

Gus was a quiet young man, not given to much shows of emotion, but when Amy looked into his face, as they gradually lifted Bill up into a sitting position, she saw tears shining in his eyes. ‘Reckon he had some sort o’ attack,’ he said. ‘Or mebbe
slipped and hit his head. There’s a bump over his right eye . . . see?’

Amy looked, but could make out little in the dim light. ‘But . . . but he’s alive, isn’t he, Gus?’ she quavered. ‘He wouldn’t die from a fall, would he? Suzie says it’s my fault because I was late coming home, but how could I possibly know our dad would come looking for me and have a fall? Oh, Gus, I do love our dad, I can’t bear to think of him hurt bad!’

As though he had heard, Bill gave a deep, rather frightening groan, then said in a husky whisper, ‘I’m awright, thanks. If you’ll help me to me feet, gentlemen all, I’ll be mekin’ me way home for me wife will be worried that I’m so late. I must ha’ fell as I got down from me fishin’ boat . . . the snow’s that confusin’ . . .’

‘We aren’t gentlemen, Dad, it’s me, Amy, and the boys,’ Amy said, her voice breaking. ‘Don’t you know us?’

Bill looked vaguely up at her, then his eyes slid away and his head sagged. He was plainly barely conscious; had probably not heard what she had said.

‘Don’t worry him, Amy love, he’s not hisself,’ Gus said authoritatively. ‘Albert, you’re a sturdy feller, you take hold of him round the waist and we’ll make him a chair atwixt us. Paddy, you take him under the knees and see he don’t slide forward. Amy, you run home and get the brandy out of the little end cupboard in the fish scullery. Oh, and warm a blanket, and pull the kettle over the flame.’

Anxious to do everything she had been told, Amy fairly flew back to the house, burst into the kitchen and told Suzie, in a gabble, that they had found Bill,
that he had been lying in the snow and was, she feared, ill. ‘He seemed not to know us, but Gus said I was to warm a blanket and bring out the little bottle of brandy in the end cupboard.’

Suzie immediately bridled, as though Amy had somehow insulted her. ‘No, that you won’t.’ Her tone was vicious. ‘Anything that’s to be done for my Bill I’ll do meself, I thank you. You’ve done harm enough already.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ Amy said, defensively, heading for the stairs. There were blankets on her bed which she could bring down for her father. ‘I didn’t
know
he was going to wait up for me, did I?’

She disappeared into her room, grabbed a couple of blankets and came hurrying down the stairs once more. Suzie came over, took the blankets and spread them over a chair before the fire, then said spitefully, ‘Get out of me sight. It’s your fault that we’re in this terrible fix, your fault . . .’

The opening of the door stopped her dead in her tracks. Gus and Albert came in, Bill’s moribund form between them, with Paddy holding the door wide, then closing it quickly behind them to keep the weather out. Without another word they began to get Bill out of his wet clothes and into the warmed blankets, while Suzie made a drink from the boiling water in the kettle.

‘We need a doctor,’ Gus said, after they had settled Bill as comfortably as they could upon the sofa. ‘Albert . . .’

Albert was out of the door on the words and Amy followed him, anxious now only to get away from Suzie’s sharp tongue. Once her lather was better she would explain to him why she had been late. Dad would understand, she was sure.

The matter, which had seemed grave enough in all conscience when the young people had brought Bill home, turned out, upon the doctor’s arrival, to be even more serious. ‘He’s concussed, following a nasty bang on the head, and freezing cold from exposure,’ he said briefly, having examined Bill. ‘He’ll be best in hospital.’ He had looked rather hard at Suzie. ‘Might he have taken a drink or two?’ he asked. ‘If he was somewhat uncertain of his footing . . .’

Suzie was silent, looking a little self-conscious, but Gus said at once, ‘My father only has the occasional pint, Doctor Payne. He couldn’t have had a drink tonight anyway, ’cos he went out far too late.’

‘Then perhaps he slipped on the icy pavement,’ the doctor said quickly. ‘I don’t think he should be moved, not immediately at any rate. I’ll come in first thing tomorrow – only it is today already, of course – to see how he’s going on. In the meantime keep him warm and quiet. There’s nothing broken, only a nasty bruise on his head.’

Amy looked in on her father early next morning before the rest of the family were up and found the kitchen quite warm, despite the fact that the fire had burned very low. Of Suzie there was no sign, but while she was making up the fire with fresh logs brought in from the backyard, she came in from the scullery. She had a shawl wrapped round her shoulders and must, Amy supposed, have been out to the lavatory, for she was holding up her nightgown so that the hem would not get wet and wore on her feet the short rubber boots which she kept by the back door. She gave Amy a baleful glance, then went and sat in the old armchair, which she had drawn up close to the sofa.

Amy finished mending the fire and pulled the kettle over the flame. It was already hot and soon boiled, so she made a pot of tea and poured out two cups, carrying one across to her stepmother. ‘Has he woke at all yet?’ she asked, eyeing her father’s pale face anxiously. The livid bruise had swollen the right-hand side of his brow, giving him a lopsided, angry appearance. ‘He doesn’t look too bright, poor Dad.’

Suzie appeared to give this question some thought before replying, briefly, ‘He ain’t stirred all night. I’ve not moved from his side save to go out to the lavvy just now.’ She took the proffered cup of tea without a word of thanks and sipped it noisily.

‘The doctor said he’d be round early; I wonder if I ought to wait until he’s been?’ Amy said. It worried her to see Bill lying there so pale and still.

But Suzie shook her head.

‘You gerroff to work. Your dad ain’t going to be fishing for a bit, so we’ll need every penny the rest of you can earn.’

Amy finished her tea and began to struggle into her coat. She went over to the sofa and kissed her father lightly on the forehead. ‘See you tonight, Dad,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Wish I could stay, but I wouldn’t be welcome – I reckon you know that. The boys will be up soon, though, and they’ll see to anything Suzie wants done.’

For a moment Amy thought she saw Bill’s eyelids flicker, but he continued to lie absolutely still and she concluded that it was wishful thinking. He was still far away, in a land of his own, where none of them could follow him. So she wrapped herself as
warmly as she could and left the house, closing the door behind her.

The previous day’s storm had given way to a brisk, salt-laden breeze and a clear sky. The snow still lay piled up beside the road, but Amy guessed that it would probably not linger long. She did not know whether the trams would be running, but thought it would be better to walk in to work, rather than return to the house to face Suzie’s anger and resentment. She did not know why her stepmother was blaming her so cruelly and unreasonably for what was most certainly not her fault, but she already knew that Suzie’s bouts of ill temper were best avoided.

She reached Ruth’s house just as her friend emerged from the jigger and hurried eagerly to meet her. ‘Oh, Ruthie, we’re in awful trouble at home, just wait until I tell you . . .’

The day of the storm, which was to remain vivid in the minds of the Logan children for many years, was almost equally bad for others. When Amy arrived at the fish market the stall was not manned. Mrs O’Leary, it transpired, had gone to the home of her married daughter but had insisted on setting out for her own house as soon as tea was over, on the grounds that if she did not leave soon she would miss the last tram. She had caught it all right, but had also caught, along with it, a severe chill through hanging around in the snow and wind. She was now in bed and would be for some time. The man on the next stall informed Amy, with a certain amount of relish, that he had had a visit from Mrs O’Leary’s sister Bridget, who ran the flat they shared nearby. She had told him that Mrs O’Leary was in bed, with a fire lit in her room, a hot toddy by her bedside, with Bridget waiting on her hand and foot and telling her at frequent intervals that she had been a fool to rush round to young Maria’s place in such weather instead of coming straight home.