The Girl From Seaforth Sands (12 page)

So it was, with Albert pushing the cart and with baby Becky in her arms, that Amy finally left the house. She was well wrapped up in a thick though ragged shawl and the baby was well muffled too. Even so, the cold wind cut like a knife and as the three of them turned into Crosby Road they gasped as it hit them, snatching the breath from their mouths. Amy instinctively curled closer round the child and Albert grabbed at the sack of shrimps.

‘It’s hellish cold on the boat, but at least I ain’t pushin’ a bleedin’ great barrer over slippery cobbles,’ Albert shrieked above the wind. ‘Must we do the big houses today? It’s them long drives and often, when you reaches the house, some snooty bitch of a maidservant says, “Not today, thanks,” and slams the door on your snout. Let’s try some of the streets off Knowsley Road in Bootle, shall us?’

‘Good idea,’ Amy shrieked back. Like Albert, she did not enjoy either the long walk up gravelled drives or the snubs that could result if an unfriendly servant came to the kitchen door. People in the poetry streets, as her mother had called them, were friendly and sympathetic towards young shrimp sellers and if they had the money would always buy. Shrimps were a treat to such people, not a garnish to already luxurious meals. In fact, the main reason that Isobel insisted on the children trying the larger houses was because such families ate more fish. Since they had no fish to sell today, common sense as well as the bitter cold dictated that they follow Albert’s suggestion.

Accordingly the children, battling their way along Crosby Road with the wind off the sea hurling itself at them, dived into the temporary shelter afforded by the Rimrose Bridge and turned into Knowsley

Road. It was a real relief to enter Byron Street, out of the worst of the wind, and knock on the first door. A tall, plump woman, swathed in an enormous calico apron, smiled down at them from the doorway. ‘Well, if it ain’t the shrimp seller!’ she said, her hand going to her apron pocket, ‘and on such a wild day, too. About all I’ve got in the house is bread and marge, but shrimps goes well with everything, so I’ll have a pint, if you please.’

Amy picked up the tin measure and filled it generously; Mam had always said it didn’t do to skimp. If you were generous, your customers bought time and time again; if you were mean they would turn you from the door next time you called. ‘Sixpence, please, missus,’ she said, tipping the shrimps into a brown paper bag, and letting Albert screw it closed and hand it over, since she had the baby in one arm. The customer, noticing the child, leaned over and chirruped, but baby Becky never stirred. Sheltered from the wind and in her sister’s familiar embrace, she was as snug as in her own cot.

‘Ain’t she a good little soul?’ the woman said wonderingly. ‘And pretty as a picture, too.’ She looked searchingly at Amy. ‘She don’t favour you much. Your sister, is she? I suppose your mam’s busy today?’

‘Mam died a month back,’ Amy stated briefly. It was a question she was growing used to hearing and it no longer brought tears to her eyes, though she still missed Isobel dreadfully. ‘But we’re a big family. My sister Mary’s doing a spring clean, that’s why me and Albert took baby Becky on the shrimp round.’

‘Ah, that explains it.’ The woman nodded. She produced a sixpence, which she handed to Albert and, after a second’s hesitation, a round brown halfpenny, which she pressed into Amy’s hand. ‘For the littl’un,’ she mumbled, and was back in the house with the door closed before Amy could thank her.

‘Well, isn’t that just lovely?’ Amy asked as they approached the next door. ‘Mary said Baby would sell shrimps for us and it looks like she was right. Come on, Albert, let’s try our luck again.’

Three hours later, with the last shrimp sold and their pockets bulging with pennies, they made their way towards the nearest tram stop. By now both children were exhausted, so each took a handle of the cart and dragged it behind them with Albert taking the baby from his sister, since he was the stronger of the two. ‘Are you sure you want to go to the fish market today, our Amy?’ he asked as they reached the stop. ‘It’s gerrin’ late, an’ you must be tired out – I know I am. Besides, the littl’un will want feedin’ again pretty soon I dare say.’

Amy, though she was sure she was every bit as tired as Albert, shook her head. She intended to see the older woman and get things sorted out today, otherwise they would go on fumbling through life, never knowing whether they might have been selling too cheap and buying too dear. ‘It’s all right, I’ll have a nice sit-down on the tram and I’ve still got a bottle for Becky in my skirt pocket.’ Amy let go of the barrow and took the baby from Albert’s none too reluctant grasp. ‘I know the barrow’s heavy for you to push alone, but it won’t matter how much you jostle and jounce now it’s empty. Tell Mary I’ll try to be back in time for tea.’

Albert snorted. ‘I ain’t goin’ straight home,’ he
said self-righteously. ‘Our dad’s goin’ to be seeing to the boat for a while yet. So I’ll go an’ give: him a hand.’

It was Amy’s turn to snort. ‘In this weather our dad’ll be round at old Ben Carpenter’s havin’ a glass of his wife’s home-made wine an’ a nice bit of fruit cake,’ she said, just as a tram drew up alongside.

‘Yeah, well . . .’ Albert gave a guilty grin. ‘I’d sooner be wi’ the Carpenters than have Mary buzzin’ round me lugs, tryin’ to make me scrub floors or chop wood, or even make the perishin’ beds. Our Mary’s good at dele-whachamacallit, but she’s not so keen on workin’ herself, I’ve noticed.’

‘Delegating,’ Amy said as she swung herself on to the platform and headed for an empty seat. She turned briefly to wave to Albert, but her brother was already heading back towards Trevor Street and the Carpenters’.

Amy leaned back in her seat and settled the baby more comfortably in her lap. By a piece of good fortune the tram was a number 24, which would take her all the way to her destination, for Mrs O’Leary had her stall in St John’s fish market in Great Charlotte Street. Mrs O’Leary was a fat and friendly body who bought a good deal of fish, particularly shellfish, from the Logans. She was in her late sixties and because she no longer felt able to work every day in the market she had lent the use of her stall, on Mondays, to Isobel. If there was sufficient fish, Isobel would thus be able to sell at least some of their catch direct to the customers, while paying Mrs O’Leary a small sum for the privilege. Because of this sharing, convenient to both, the two women had become good friends and Isobel had impressed on Amy the importance of always leaving the stall immaculate for the real owner’s return the following day.

So if there’s one who’ll advise me, it’ll be Mrs O’Leary, Amy told herself. It might have been easier to talk to Mrs O’Leary, she reflected, had she been alone, but she was not sorry to have baby Becky with her, for the baby was company even though she could not talk and, what was more, holding her little body beneath the shawl meant they helped to keep each other warm. The wind was still bitterly cold and though the baby seemed light, Amy knew from experience that she would grow steadily heavier with each passing hour.

Amy saw several people she knew and greeted them politely, but as the tram rumbled along the Stanley Road getting ever nearer to her destination she began to feel the weight of responsibility descending on her narrow shoulders in a very unpleasant way. If Mary couldn’t bring herself to do it, then Dad should have, she thought miserably. It was no good looking for help from either of her older brothers. Because the fishing was so poor at this time of year, Charlie had taken work in the brewery maltings in the Midlands and would not be returning until early May, so he could be discounted as far as help went. Gus and Albert, of course, worked with Bill on the boat and could not be spared. Even so, Amy felt increasingly put upon, especially when it crossed her mind that she was going into the city centre in the most blatant manner on a day when she should have been in school. Sagging off school was a popular pastime among the young lads, but because of Isobel’s rigid principles, Amy had never feared the attendance officer before. Now, however, she knew that it would go hard with
her if she were caught. The family might need her – did need her – but the authorities would not see it this way and the fact that she had been forced to go on this errand in order to keep her family solvent would not make a jot of difference.

The tram arrived at Lime Street and Amy and her burden got down without incident. She made her way round the corner into Roe Street, past the Royal Court, glancing curiously at the billboards outside the theatre as she did so. How lovely it would be to attend a performance at the theatre, she thought wistfully. Her mam had taken her and Mary to a pantomime once and she had never forgotten it. But she could not linger today to examine the photographs of the actresses nor the details of the present drama and turned into Great Charlotte Street, heading for St John’s fish market.

Mrs O’Leary was sitting behind her stall but the moment she saw Amy she got to her feet and surged into the aisle between the stalls, enveloping girl and baby in a loving but odorous embrace. Gently disengaging herself, Amy remembered her mother saying that Mrs O’Leary was one of the many old shawlies in Liverpool who seldom washed the bits that didn’t show. ‘When they get old they get cold,’ she had told her small daughter. ‘Oh, they buy new clothes all right, but they just put them on over the old ones. That’s why so many of ’em look fat as fivepence when they’re really skinny as a sprat. So when Mrs O’Leary gives you a hug, just you take a big breath first, like someone divin’ into deep water, and give her your best smile. She’s a good woman, better to us than most; I wouldn’t hurt her feelings for the world, nor let you girls do so.’

‘Well, well, well, if it ain’t little Miss Amy and the babby,’ the old woman said wheezily. ‘Come round be’ind the stall, queen, and you shall have some tea from me bottle and a nice piece o’ cake. There’s allus a lull around now so I gorra moment to meself.’

Amy accompanied Mrs O’Leary to the back of the stall, where she perched on an empty fish box reflecting unhappily that she would pong as badly as her hostess if she stayed here long. She accepted a tin mug of cold tea, though she declined the proffered cake, producing a scone which had been left over from the carry-out she and Albert had shared earlier and biting into it. ‘Me dad said I’d better bring a mouthful since I’m not likely to get home until late,’ she explained thickly. ‘Mrs O’Leary, we’re in terrible trouble at home and I remembered my mam telling me before she died that if I ever needed advice to come to you. She said you were a good friend to us Logans and would be sure to put me on the right path, like. My dad’s a grand fellow, so he is, but he’s that moithered without Mam and that puzzled what to do that I can’t put any more on him right now.’

Amy looked appealingly up at the old woman, feeling guilty because she knew very well that Mrs O’Leary would assume Isobel’s words had been spoken just before she died; a sort of last request, if you like. Whereas, in fact, Amy had gleaned the information about her mother’s old friend from chance remarks Mam had let drop over the last couple of years. Isobel had been too busy fighting for her life to give a thought to last requests, Amy knew, and felt tears rise spontaneously to her eyes.

‘There, there, queen,’ Mrs O’Leary said, clearly much moved. ‘Don’t you go starting to bawl, because your mam was right. What I can do I will,
though that may be little enough, the Lord knows. So you’re in a pickle at home, eh? Well, I suppose that’s scarcely surprising for a better organised, more businesslike woman than your mam I’ve yet to meet, and folk like that take everythin’ into their own hands and never consider how the people they take care of would manage without them. I’ll be bound your da doesn’t know how to boil an egg or wash a babby’s napkin, let alone change one. But now I think back, don’t you have an elder sister what’s in service? Don’t tell me your da hasn’t sent for her? So why ain’t it her askin’ for me help? She’ll be the fair-haired, pretty one.’

‘Yes, that’s Mary,’ Amy agreed. ‘And she’s come home all right, but the fact is, Mrs O’Leary, she doesn’t understand much about the fish and shrimps and that. She said she’d rather look after the house and leave the business side to me.’

Mrs O’Leary pulled a doubtful face. ‘You’se awful young and small,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘They’ll scarce see you acrost the top of the stall. Or wasn’t you thinkin’ about takin’ your mam’s day? Only I doubt you’ll mek the same money sellin’ wholesale as you do direct. An’ if your da lets his fish go to the wholesale next door, you’ll soon be scrattin’ round for rent money since it ain’t likely that a couple o’ kids will strike the bargains your mam used to make.’

‘Oh, but we want the stall, if you please, Mrs O’Leary,’ Amy said eagerly. ‘I’m still in school and there isn’t much I can do about that, but Mary will run the stall, except at holiday times, and then I can stand on a fish box – or two, if that means folk’ll take me more seriously.’ She had not discussed the matter with Mary but assumed the older girl would
take on the work for the sake of the family, though she knew her sister hated the thought of selling fish. ‘But Mam never told us what rent she paid you, nor the prices she asked from the other stallholders for the shrimps and the crabs and that.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I know Mam had arrangements with folk over fish prices, but I don’t know what they were, and I’m afraid of making a mess of it so folk get angry and won’t buy any more.’

Mrs O’Leary smiled down at her and pulled a scruffy piece of paper and a stub of pencil from a pocket in her voluminous skirt. ‘You’re a sharp one,’ she said approvingly. ‘I’ll write it all down, as much as I know that is, an’ you and your sister – an’ your da too, o’course – can mull over it this evening. See what’s best to do. Of course, at this time o’ year, with fish bein’ difficult to get ’cos catches is small, us’ll all pay more for what you bring in. Your da will know all about wholesale prices and seasonal variations, I’m sure of that, it’s just your mam’s side of the business that she kept close to her chest.’

Amy was beginning to thank her profusely when baby Becky, obviously noticing that the pleasant rocking motion of tram and walk had ceased, began to grizzle. The old woman, with a delighted chuckle, held out two fat, cushiony arms, and Amy placed the baby in them and then handed over the bottle of milk. ‘Do you want to give her this, Mrs O’Leary?’ she asked. ‘It’s time she had a feed, I guess.’