Two Penn'orth of Sky (5 page)

Despite the fact that she had always despised Nightingale Court, Emmy felt she should ruffle up in its defence. But before she could open her mouth, Johnny had joined them. He took Emmy’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting it go. ‘Em, I’m that sorry,’ he said earnestly. ‘Your mam were a lovely lady, always thinking of others. And she wasn’t so very old, either. She’ll be greatly missed.’

‘She was sixty-three,’ Emmy said. ‘She and my father had given up hope of having a child when I was born. But you’re right, Johnny. Everyone who knew her loved her and – and I don’t know how I’ll go on without her.’

Later that day, when everyone had left, Peter asked Emmy if he should try for a shore job. ‘The money won’t be so good, or the prospects, but if you’d prefer it, my love . . .’

‘I wouldn’t dream of being so selfish,’ Emmy said quickly, ‘but it’s awfully generous of you to suggest it, darling Peter. Of course I’m going to miss Mam horribly, but it’s something I have to face.’

Peter said no more, but next day he went out on some mysterious errand and came back to proudly announce that he had secured the services of a maidservant. ‘Her name’s Lucy Waters and she’ll live in,’ he told Emmy. ‘She’s sixteen years old and she struck me as being a bit old-fashioned but very dependable. She’s moving in the day after tomorrow, so you won’t be on your own for long, my darling.’

‘Oh, Peter, you’re so good to me,’ Emmy gasped, though she was not at all sure that she wanted a live-in maidservant. But, on the other hand, Peter was
leaving next day and without her mother’s constant companionship and support, she knew she would find it very hard to manage. She looked shyly up at him. ‘When will we go to see your parents now? I know you must have written to tell them what had happened and why we had had to delay our visit, but did you make any plans for your next leave?’

‘I telephoned them,’ Peter said briefly. ‘It may well be some while before I get sufficient leave to take you into Hampshire, my love, but as soon as it can be arranged, I’ll see to it.’

All Emmy could do was acquiesce, but she was beginning to wonder whether she would ever visit Epsley Manor and the rest of the Wesley family. And if he’s really reluctant, I suppose I shouldn’t insist, she told herself. This time, I won’t ask again. I’ll simply wait to be told, and hope that it won’t take too long to arrange.

As soon as Lucy Waters walked into the house, Emmy knew that Peter had been right, as usual. Lucy might be young, but she was everything that Emmy could have asked. Being young meant that she was happy to play with Diana, to take her to the park and to spend time with her, yet she never neglected her household duties. She told Emmy, frankly, that she had done very little cooking, but she was a quick learner and had soon taken most of the kitchen work into her small, capable hands. Emmy had not realised how much her mother had done. All the baking, for a start, a great deal of the cleaning, and more than her share of cooking, bottling fruit and making jam. Now, Lucy took on such tasks easily. This was particularly helpful when Peter was home because it freed Emmy to spend more time with him and of course
it also meant that Lucy could keep an eye on Diana whilst her parents took a taxi into the city centre to visit the theatre, cinema, or some other place of entertainment.

‘She’s a treasure,’ Emmy murmured on the first night of Peter’s next leave as they lay, entwined, in their bed. ‘I know she’s young, but she doesn’t seem it, somehow. She’s very responsible. Is that why you chose her?’

‘Yes, I suppose it must have been,’ Peter said dreamily. ‘It certainly wasn’t for her looks!’

Emmy thought of Lucy up to her elbows in suds, her small, freckled face streaked with perspiration, her mousy hair damp with it. When she had first joined them, Emmy had marvelled at the girl’s strength, for she was thin and stringy, weighing a good stone less than Emmy herself, though they were the same height; but now she realised that the girl was still growing and would probably get both taller and heavier before she reached maturity. She said as much to Peter, reminding him, rather sharply, that since one should not judge a book by its cover, one should not condemn a girl simply because she did not happen to be pretty. But Peter made no reply, and Emmy realised that he was fast asleep.

It was a brilliant day. Emmy had woken Diana early so that they could be in Nightingale Court in good time to pick up the Fisher family for their trip to New Brighton, as it was a fairly long journey. What was more, they would be taking a picnic lunch with them – though they would buy a teapot, and some lemonade for the kids, when they reached the resort – so she needed time to pack everything into her wicker basket and then to get the bathing things and any other seaside equipment organised before they left. It was Lucy’s day off, which was why Emmy had chosen it. Normally, Lucy would have accompanied them, but today she and a friend were taking the overhead railway as far as it would go, and then tramping into the countryside. Lucy was looking forward to her day out enormously so it had seemed only sensible to Emmy that the suggested visit to New Brighton, with the Fishers, should be on the same day.

Emmy sang to herself as she moved around her sunny, well-equipped kitchen, preparing for the day ahead. She was in a happy mood, not only because she and Beryl were taking their children for a day at the seaside, but because in two days’ time her dearest Peter would be home once more.

Emmy’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the back door being thrust open and Diana’s small body appearing in the aperture. ‘I got the stuff you
asked me to buy from Cubbon’s, Mammy,’ the child said breathlessly. She was lugging a shopping basket, using both hands, but a triumphant smile lit up her face. ‘You said to get a dozen currant buns and a box of iced fancies. And I went to Mr Mayor’s and bought the Smith’s Crisps, the ones with little blue screws of salt in them, and half a pound of humbugs. And here’s your change.’ She had dumped the bag on the kitchen floor, and now produced a small purse from the pocket of her little pink dress and spread the money out carefully on the kitchen table. ‘There you are! I went to Mr Wetherby’s and you always say he’s an honest man, but he writ down the prices anyway, so’s you can see I wasn’t cheated.’

‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ Emmy said gaily, giving her little daughter a hug. Diana’s thick, shining brown hair was fashionably bobbed, and her pink gingham dress was stylishly low-waisted. She wore neat white socks and patent leather strap shoes, and Emmy loved her to bits. She and Peter wanted more children but it was a side of their marriage which they seldom discussed. Emmy knew Peter ‘took precautions’ because he did not want her exhausted by childbearing, but he had said, last time he was home on leave, that once Diana was in school, it might be time to think about providing her with a brother or sister. Emmy was none too keen to repeat the experience of giving birth, but she always went along with Peter’s suggestions and agreed with him that it would be nice for their daughter to have a brother or sister.

‘Mammy! If you stand there dreaming, we’ll never get to Nightingale Court, let alone New Brighton! Gerra move on!’

Emmy jumped and hastily continued wrapping sandwiches in greaseproof paper and packing them
into the large wicker basket. Diana was very like Peter; both father and daughter tended to give orders and expected instant obedience. However, Emmy did not mean to be ordered about by a five-year-old and said dampingly: ‘Don’t you let me hear you talk like that, my girl, or you’ll get a slap you won’t forget in a hurry. It’s “get a move on”, not “gerra move on”. What do you think your Daddy would say if he heard you talking like that?’

Diana put a thin little hand over her mouth but her round, tawny eyes gleamed with mischief and she clearly did not fear the threatened smack. ‘He’d say, “That’s Nightingale Court talk,”’ she said brightly. ‘So since we’re going to Nightingale Court just as soon as you finish packing those sandwiches, I don’t see as it matters.’

Despite herself, Emmy smiled back. She thought Diana had a point. When in Nightingale Court Diana, like herself, used the other language and since Peter was never around to disapprove, for he never accompanied them to the court, she supposed that the pair of them would continue to do so. However, she had no intention of being beaten, if only verbally, by her daughter. ‘That’s all very well, but at this moment you’re in Lancaster Avenue, so just you behave accordingly,’ she said severely. ‘Now run upstairs, there’s a dear, and fetch me down your bathing costume and the big blue and white striped towel. And if you want to take a bucket and spade, you’d better fetch them too.’

‘Right, Mammy,’ Diana said, trotting towards the door. ‘Shall I fetch your cozzie as well?’

Emmy laughed, but shook her head, though a trifle regretfully. She could do a splashy and rather ineffective breast stroke which Peter had taught her,
thinking it shocking that any girl living alongside the Mersey with the Leeds and Liverpool Canal close by should be unable to swim, but she was no expert, and was only prepared to enter the water when Peter was close at hand to prevent a catastrophe. ‘No thanks, darling. Your Aunty Beryl can’t swim, so the pair of us will hire nice comfy deckchairs and watch you kids splashing in and out of the waves. Hurry now!’

Beryl Fisher gazed around at the golden sand and the happy crowds, searching idly for Charlie, Lenny, Becky and baby Bobby. All her children were bright except for Becky who, Beryl had had to accept sadly, was not quite the same as other four-year-olds. She could not eat with a spoon and her speech was poor, her vocabulary small. The older boys were aware of this and always kept an eye out for Becky, willingly helping her when she needed it, although they themselves were as self-willed and independent as they could possibly be, having decided to take after their father, Beryl concluded. Wally Fisher was nothing if not independent, and took it for granted that his kids could look after themselves, but he was the kindest man Beryl knew; it was the reason she had married him. Like Emmy’s husband, Wally had been at sea, but on his marriage to Beryl he had managed to get a job in Higson’s brewery in Stanhope Street. He did not earn the sort of money which would have enabled him to rent anything more expensive than No. 4 Nightingale Court, nor did it allow his wife to remain at home all day, looking after the children. Beryl cleaned in a big store three nights a week and took in washing for several establishments – restaurants, boarding houses and small cafés – who wanted linen
cheaply laundered. At twenty-nine she knew, without rancour, that she looked at least ten years older than Emmy, possibly even a little more. She loved and understood Wally, though marriage to him had had its difficult moments. Sober, he was a decent enough feller, but when he had a few bevvies inside him he could do a lot of damage, though always without meaning to do so. He had never touched a hair of her head in anger, would have been shocked at the mere thought of hurting a child. Even their scruffy mongrel, Bones, had never fled the house when Wally was drunk, though he did hide under the table as Wally lurched around, breaking anything he tripped over and setting fire to his own eyebrows in his attempts to light up a Woodbine. On one occasion, he had put his foot clean through the coke hod when trying to make up the fire, and had clumped round looking like a man in one iron boot, apparently oblivious of the strange appendage attached to his right leg. However, it had been several years since Wally had come home drunk. No man with four children could afford to drink more than a pint or two if he meant to see them decently fed.

Wally and Beryl were both large but Wally was a good six inches taller than she, and at least five stone heavier, so it was a real blessing, Beryl often thought, that he was not a violent man. It was also a blessing, though Wally did not always agree, that Granny Pritchard, Beryl’s seventy-five-year-old mother, lived with them. She contributed her tiny pension to household expenses, only keeping back a few pennies for her own use, and without her to look after the children, Beryl did not know how the Fisher family would have managed. Neighbours were always kind but there was no doubt that the young Fishers were
a bit of a handful. Even Granny Pritchard sometimes complained that they were more inventive than the devil himself, and they minded her more than they minded most since she had been a part of their lives for as long as any of them, even Charlie, could remember.

Still, Granny Pritchard was having a rest today, Beryl thought, gazing dreamily to where her four and little Diana were building what they boastfully announced would be the biggest sandcastle in the world. And she and Emmy were having a rest too, leaning back in their comfortable deckchairs with nothing whatsoever to do until it was time to eat their carry-out, and even that had cost her no trouble today, since Emmy had provided all the food and intended to pay for the drinks they would fetch later.

Beryl glanced sideways at her friend and saw that Emmy’s lids were drooping. Apparently, doing nothing all day could be almost as tiring as working every hour God sent, Beryl thought, without bitterness. Right from the moment that Mrs Dickens had asked the young Beryl to keep an eye on Emmy – had actually paid her a few coppers to do so – she had loved the younger girl, admiring her pretty looks, her beautiful clothing and her sweet, affectionate nature. Even now, when they were both married women with children, she felt no envy of her friend and understood why Peter did not wish his wife to visit Nightingale Court. One glance at Emmy’s frail beauty and one wanted to protect her, and though the majority of those living in Nightingale Court were simply the victims of poverty, doing their best to rear families and feed themselves on hopelessly inadequate wages, there were others whose fights and physical violence often disturbed the night-time peace.

Emmy stretched, yawned, and turned towards her friend. The sun had brought the faintest flush of rose to her cheeks and she looked even prettier than usual, Beryl thought affectionately. And of course, she would be getting excited because Peter’s ship, SS
Queen of the South
, would be docking in a couple of days. But right now, Emmy’s large blue eyes turned towards her friend and she spoke dreamily, as though she really had been almost asleep. ‘Beryl? D’you fancy a cup of tea? It’s a bit early to start on our picnic but there’s a café on the prom where we could watch the kids and get ourselves a drink at the same time. Charlie’s a real good little feller; he’ll keep an eye on the others for twenty minutes or so.’