The Girl From Seaforth Sands

About the Book

About the Author

Also by Katie Flynn

Title page

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Copyright

Liverpool, 1902. Bill and Isobel Logan scratch a living by selling their shrimps around the streets of Liverpool, but Amy, their youngest daughter, hates the smell, about which their neighbour, Paddy Keagan, constantly taunts her.

When Isobel dies, Bill marries Suzie Keagan, a good-looking widow who is lazy and selfish. The Keagans move in and tension begins to mount...

Amy is desperate to get away. She takes a room share in the city centre but Liverpool is in turmoil with strikes and riots, and life is hard for young girls. Furthermore, Amy’s visit home is spoiled by the presence of the hated Paddy...

A warm and moving story of young people and their loves and jealousies, played out against the hardship and humour of their Liverpool background.

Katie Flynn
has lived for many years in the Northwest. A compulsive writer, she started with short stories and articles and many of her early stories were broadcast on Radio Mersey. She decided to write her Liverpool series after hearing the reminiscences of family members about life in the city in the early years of the twentieth century. She also writes as Judith Saxton. For the past few years, she has had to cope with ME but has continued to write.

Also by Katie Flynn

A Liverpool Lass

The Girl From Penny Lane

Liverpool Taffy

The Mersey Girls

Strawberry Fields

Rainbow’s End

Rose of Tralee

No Silver Spoon

Polly’s Angel

The Liverpool Rose

Poor Little Rich Girl

The Bad Penny

Down Daisy Street

A Kiss and a Promise

Two Penn’orth of Sky

A Long and Lonely Road

The Cuckoo Child

Darkest Before Dawn

Orphans of the Storm

Beyond the Blue Hills

Little Girl Lost

For Florence Walker, whose excellent memory of her father’s work as a shrimp fisherman enabled me to write this book.

My most sincere thanks go to Heather and John Cross for introducing me to ‘Auntie Flo’, aged 102, whose delightful reminiscences gave me the idea for this book, and thanks, also, to the Liverpool Local History Library for finding me the ancient – but incredibly useful – book on Liverpool fishermen in the early years of the twentieth century.

It was a cold day, although June was well advanced, and Amy Logan, cowering in the doorway of a shop on the corner of Berkeley Drive, wondered whether she had been wise to leave the house in such a hurry that she hadn’t even put on a coat. She had peeped out of her shelter hoping that the rain would have begun to ease but it seemed to her, she thought sourly now, that it was pelting harder than ever.

Drawing back into the shelter of her doorway, Amy remembered that today should have been Coronation Day, but two days ago King Edward VII had been and gone and got appendicitis, whatever that might be, and the whole thing had had to be cancelled. Amy had supposed, vaguely, that it was an ailment only suffered by royal personages, but her mother had disillusioned her. ‘Kings and princesses!’ she had scoffed when Amy had aired her views. ‘No, no, it’s a thing anyone could have. Your stomach blows up and you get awful pain; your Uncle Reggie had his appendix out years ago when he was just a lad. Still and all, I reckon it’s a nastier business when you’re a man grown.’

Amy’s mam was deeply interested in the royal family. She admired Queen Alexandra greatly and often said that she and the Queen had a good deal in common, though she had never deigned to explain exactly what she meant. Perhaps it was the fringe, Amy thought now, or the regal bearing, for Isobel
Logan always walked as though she had a poker up her back. At least, that was what Amy had heard her elder brother Edmund saying one day, his tone half laughing, half admiring. But in any event Amy had swallowed her disappointment over the loss of a day’s holiday, because she had been told that as soon as King Edward recovered the date of the coronation would be fixed once more. And let’s hope it won’t be a day like today, Amy thought grimly, peering out at the downpour. It wouldn’t help to have all those fine clothes and fancy hats dripping down royal necks. She grinned to herself. Suppose the colours ran? The Muspratt family who lived in Seaforth Hall would look really good with their faces streaked with purple or green. Amy, who saw members of the Muspratt family in church every Sunday, could just imagine their chagrin if their smart clothes were ruined, even in such a good cause as a coronation.

But right now, great cloud-reflecting puddles filled the road and when a vehicle came by the cart was preceded by a bow wave of water where, just opposite her doorway, two large puddles had joined to form a veritable lake.

Amy thought, a trifle wistfully, of the room she had left in such a hurry twenty minutes or so earlier. The kitchen had been warm and bright, and she and her sister Mary had been knitting and chatting happily enough when she had heard the rattle of a handcart over the rough cobbles which paved the jigger. Immediately Amy had known what this meant. Her father, Bill Logan, was a shrimp fisherman and the rattle of his handcart meant that he was bringing in his catch to be cleaned, shelled and prepared for potting. Potted shrimps were a great
favourite with the Liverpool housewives who shopped in the St John’s fish market on Great Charlotte Street, so shrimps potted today would be sold to the stallholders, making the Logan family a fair sum. The Logans had six children, although Edmund no longer lived at home, and any money they could earn was welcome.

But however much Liverpool people might enjoy shrimps, both potted and plain, Amy absolutely loathed them. When she had been small she had simply disliked the smell and taste of the little pink creatures, but as soon as she was seven or eight and deemed old enough to help, she had had to join Gus, Charlie, Mary, Albert and her mother round the big kitchen table in their work of preparing the shrimps both for market and for the potting. The shells of shrimps are spiteful to small, soft fingers and Amy very soon had the criss-cross, paper-thin cuts on her hands – as had all the Logan children – caused by the spiny carapaces of the little shrimps. There was always a risk, furthermore, of being stabbed by a spine of a yellow weaver fish, if one of them had been netted accidentally. These small yellow fish had poisonous spikes all over their bodies that could cause agonising wounds, which would remain painful and swollen for many days despite the most rigorous attention.

Amy very soon realised, what was more, that only the swiftest possible withdrawal from the scene would enable her to elude the job. A quick visit to the privy in the yard might get you out of the way for ten minutes, but then a brother or sister would be sent to rout you out and return you to the kitchen to do your share.

Amy, the youngest of the Logan family, had come
later to the shrimping than most, because her father spoilt his little girl and knew how she hated the work, but Isobel was adamant that all the children should do their share. ‘Just because she’s the youngest that does not mean she can shirk jobs she doesn’t like,’ she had said severely, staring at Bill over the top of her small half-glasses. ‘She’s young and quick with keen eyesight; that means she won’t miss bits of weed and shell, and she’ll be helping to earn her keep the same as the rest of us. Being the youngest isn’t anything special. Why, if I were to have another littl’un, she wouldn’t be the youngest any longer. You’d expect her to work then, I dare say?’

Bill had seen the justice of this – even Amy had realised it was fair enough – and had stopped trying to get her excused from the work, so now it was in Amy’s own hands. If she heard the rattle of the handcart returning and could make herself scarce before Bill got into the yard, then she was safe so long as she stayed clear for two or three hours, for it took that long for the family to work through a batch of shrimps. Then, when she did return home, the chances were that her mother might not realise she had deliberately bunked off and Amy would be safe again – until the next time.

But right now, with the rain being blown almost horizontally across the front of her doorway, Amy was beginning to wonder whether she might have been better off picking shrimps. The kitchen would be warm and cosy, the family chatty and her father, if he had had a good catch, would be expansive and talkative, encouraging Amy’s elder brothers Charlie and Augustus to talk about the fishing and their various adventures. There might be a cup of tea if
one worked fast and neatly, producing perfect shrimps with no stray legs still attached or tiny bits of transparent shell still in place.

On the other hand, though she had skipped out of the house before anyone else had heard the cart, mumbling an excuse about visiting the privy, Isobel was becoming suspicious of Amy’s frequent absences when work was on hand and might easily extract a penalty if she guessed that her daughter was skiving off once more. Only a week previously Amy had returned to the house to find a quantity of shrimps still unshelled. ‘Ah, Amy,’ her mother had said with a narrow smile, ‘just in time, chuck. You can finish off that lot while Mary helps me with the tea and the boys have a rest. I know you wouldn’t want to see your brothers and sister do your share as well as their own.’

Amy had been mortified and had vowed to herself that next time she disappeared she would be sure to stay away until the hateful work was finished. She did not mind if she was given extra work about the house, so long as it was not preparing shrimps. Isobel could get her peeling spuds or mending nets or even cleaning creels, so long as she avoided the shrimps.

Having decided to stay out until the danger was over, however, did not mean that this miserable doorway was a good place to be. Amy peered out once more, trying to decide just what to do with her time. Her friend Ruth lived a couple of streets away and Ruth’s mam would probably welcome Amy in, despite the fact that Ruth was the eldest of five children and their little house was always crowded. But Amy was barefoot – it was summer, after all – and the thought of splashing through perhaps a
quarter of a mile of chilly puddles and then having to retrace her steps a short while later did not really appeal. Besides, Ruth’s mother would expect Amy to help amuse the little ones and to give Ruth a hand with whatever her friend was doing. It might not be as bad as preparing shrimps, but Amy was not overfond of helping to make a meal which she would not be eating, so going all the way to Ruth’s was not a good idea.

If I had some money I’d go and buy a bun at the baker’s on Rawson Road, Amy thought longingly. But Isobel did not give the children pennies for peeling the shrimps or doing other household chores. ‘Earn money away from the house,’ she was fond of telling her children. ‘Don’t take money out of it. Fisherfolk need every penny they can get.’

Having decided against a visit to Ruth’s, Amy bent her mind to alternatives. It wasn’t the weather for a stroll around Knowsley Road looking at the shops and there would be few games of ollies or skipping going on in such weather. Even her favourite place, Bowersdale Park, would not provide much amusement on such a day. It was a shame that Seafield Grove was, by and large, an elderly neighbourhood, so that there was little choice of companionship with children of her own age locally. The small terraced houses were largely inhabited by fishermen, most of whom had grown-up families. The two exceptions on Seafield Grove were the Logans and, at the far end of the street, the Keagans. Suzie Keagan had been widowed shortly after the birth of her son Paddy, and had moved in with her widowed mother-in-law and aunt. Isobel did not like the younger woman and disapproved of young Paddy who, despite being the same age as Albert,
was rarely in school and was clearly more than his mother could cope with. Bill, however, said that Paddy’s heart was in the right place and felt that, in the circumstances, the boy had to take paid work whenever he could get it. He never made any comment when Isobel said that Suzie was a bad manager, making little effort to see that the money she earned got spent wisely, and Amy thought that this silence was a reluctant agreement. Left to herself, Isobel had once been heard to say that Suzie would seldom have cooked or cleaned, for she disliked housework, and this meant that their neighbour had all the makings of a slut. But Suzie’s elderly mother-in-law and aunt kept the place reasonable, and though Paddy wore shabby, too-small clothing and did not seem to possess a pair of boots, at least he was fed most of the time and had, what was more, plenty of spirit, most of which he bent to mischief, Amy thought now.