The Girl From Seaforth Sands (13 page)

‘It’s cold,’ Mrs O’Leary objected, folding fat fingers round the banana-shaped bottle. ‘Tek it to Dorothy’s Dining Rooms down the road an’ ask them to warm it up for you.’ She chuckled, gazing down at baby Becky’s small face. ‘I’ll keep
the littl’un quiet while you’re gone. Babbies like me so don’t you worry that we shan’t get along.’

Since the baby had stopped crying as soon as she was handed over, Amy concluded that either Mrs O’Leary was right or the child was too stunned by the older woman’s odour to utter a peep. Accordingly, she set off for the dining rooms and was soon back and watching with satisfaction as Mrs O’Leary crooned and cuddled, and the milk sank in the bottle.

When the baby was fed and changed, Amy tucked her back into the shawl once more, got Mrs O’Leary to retie the knot so that she was held securely against her and set off for the tram stop. She had all the information she would need scribbled down on the scrap of paper and felt a good deal happier. Mrs O’Leary had suggested she should tell Bill Logan to pop into the market the next time he was in the area. ‘For what you young’uns need is a growed woman to keep an eye on the babby an’ do the actual potting of the shrimps,’ she said impressively. ‘I don’t deny you and young Mary is goin’ to do your best but you should be in school, queen, and when times is good and catches is large, the two of you will have your work cut out to pot the shrimps, let alone sell ’em. What’s more, pottin’s an art an’ I’ll be bound your mam never let either of you tek a hand in it. That right?’

‘That’s right,’ Amy had been forced to agree. ‘But Dad reckons we’ll kind of pick it up, once we start. He said he’d get a recipe . . . or at least I think that’s what he said. But Mary’s been in service; I’m sure she must have an idea of how to pot shrimps.’

‘And by the same token, if your sister would rather keep house than sell fish, why have you got
the littl’un?’ Mrs O’Leary had said suddenly. ‘You’d think a gal of her age – what is she, fourteen? Fifteen? – would love a-lookin’ after her little sister.’

Amy had been struck by the obvious common sense of this remark. Now that she thought about it, it seemed downright strange that Mary had chosen to burden her with the baby who would have been happier, and better off, in the cradle which the two girls lugged downstairs each morning and up again at night. What was more, Mary did seem to enjoy looking after Becky, often telling Amy how to do small jobs, such as bathing the baby in a comfortable manner, for Mary could still remember how her mother had treated Amy herself when she had been small.

But Mrs O’Leary had looked at her questioningly so Amy said inadequately, ‘I don’t know, I’m sure, except I suppose she’ll be able to get on better without having to see to baby here. Thanks again, Mrs O’Leary.’

But right now, standing at the tram stop with the bitter wind cutting through her second-best skirt and whipping strands of hair out from under the shawl, she thought rather bitterly that Mrs O’Leary’s question had been a good one. Whatever had possessed Mary to insist that she take the baby on such a freezing cold day? To be sure, Becky was sleeping contentedly enough, warm in the shelter of the shawl, but Amy could see that her little nose was like a cherry where the wind had caught it and knew that such intense cold was not good for babies. She decided that she would have a talk with Mary when she arrived home and would make it plain that she, Amy, was not a servant who would do all the work
and take all the responsibility, while Mary flicked a duster around their small house.

Standing there in the cold, she grew more and more indignant with her sister, until her cheeks burned with righteous anger. She rehearsed the pithy speech she would make when she got indoors, and planned to tell her father that such behaviour was unfair and should be punished.

By the time she got off the tram at the Seaforth Sands terminus, she found she was quite looking forward to getting home. The kitchen would be warm, there would probably be a cup of tea waiting, she had got the information they needed and her courage was high. She would make Mary see that; as Gus had said the day her Mam had died, the Logan family must pull together.

She began to walk briskly in the direction of Seafield Grove, and the baby awoke and started to grizzle. ‘Never mind, baby,’ Amy said breathlessly. ‘Soon have you home in the warm and then won’t we tell our Mary some home truths!’

She reached the jigger, trotted down it and entered their yard. The men were not yet back from the fishing for there were no seaboots lined up in the wooden porch against the back door and no cart full of fish awaiting gutting. She opened it stepped into the kitchen and paused. It felt chilly, almost unlived in, and though the fire was alight it burned sullenly beneath a layer of white ash. Amy began to undo the knot of her shawl and put the baby down in the cradle, realising as she did so that she was very tired indeed.

‘Mary!’ she shouted sharply. ‘Mary, where in heaven’s name have you got to? The fire’s damn near out, and me and baby is fruzz wi’ cold. Surely
I’ve done enough today without having to remake the fire while you lie around in bed?’

But even as she spoke some instinct told her that she was wasting her breath. The house was empty. Mary might have gone to do the messages or simply round to see a neighbour but she was definitely not at home. With a most uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach, Amy ran up the stairs and flung open the door of the bedroom that she and Mary shared. One glance was enough to tell her that her sister had gone. None of her clothing or personal possessions remained in the small room. A second glance revealed a pencilled note pinned to Mary’s pillow. With a sinking heart, Amy unpinned the note and read it as she made her way downstairs.

Amy, don’t be cross
, [the note began],
I just can’t live like this and our dad won’t fetch anyone in to help while I’m at home. Dear Amy, I know you will think I’m being hard on you, but it’s for the best. Don’t let our dad try and fetch me back for I’ll only run away again. This is so important to me and not just for now but for my future. I’m really sorry, but one day, you’ll understand
.

Your loving Mary
.

Amy put the note down and slumped into a chair. This changed everything. For a start, there was no way she herself could run Mrs O’Leary’s fish stall while school was in session. Nor could she look after the baby or pot the shrimps, let alone sell from door to door without her sister’s help.

But a little hard thought brought a ray of sunshine to lighten what had seemed at first a real catastrophe. Mary had shown no enthusiasm at all for
staying at home, let alone coping with the multitude of tasks her mother had daily tackled. She and Mary had longed for Bill to employ a grown-up woman, someone who knew all about rearing children, and coping with the task of potting shrimps and selling fish.

However, sitting here worrying would not get the fire going again, nor sort out what the family were to have for their suppers when they came in. Amy got off her chair, went and riddled the fire, and walked into the pantry. It was odd, really, she mused as she took potatoes from the sack and dumped them in the sink, how at first Mary’s defection had struck cold and chill. Now, having thought about it only a little, she realised that Mary was right. Two girls might stumble along somehow, but sooner or later they would need outside help. Whereas if Dad was forced to get a woman in . . .

Please, God, let it be someone kind, who can cook as well as my mam and who’ll love baby Becky, she prayed, as she began to scrub. Someone cuddly, like that nice widder-woman from Belgrave Road, who made those lovely apple pies for the harvest festival supper last year. Or there was a kind soul on Clarendon Road who had been known to give kiddies sweets when they sang carols outside her door come Christmas. Just so long as Dad doesn’t go giving us over to some slut like Suzie Keagan, who doesn’t bother to do her own work, let alone anyone else’s. Only Dad would have more sense, surely? He must know as well as she did that Suzie never did anything if she could get someone else to do it for her. He must know that she liked a little drink as well; that she wasn’t above pinching the odd copper or two from an employer’s till and that the fellers said she gambled on the horses and the dogs whenever she could afford it, and sometimes when she couldn’t.

Thinking of these drawbacks to Suzie’s character eased her mind; Bill would never allow such a woman into his home and among his children.

Satisfied on that score, she continued to scrub potatoes. Surely, with Mary gone, her dad would have no option but to employ some woman? So if Mary’s flight forced his hand, it would be for the best . . .

It was a bright September day, with a soft breeze bringing the sense of the countryside into the small end house on Seafield Grove. Suzie was hanging out the washing, knowing that in the kitchen behind her Gran would be making the breakfast porridge for the three of them. Paddy had gone off long before Suzie had got up; Gran always roused early and got his breakfast, although Paddy tried to assure her that he would do very well on a slice of bread and jam, and a sup of cold tea. He was now lowest of the low, working for the dairy on Dryden Street, off Great Homer Street. He started at five in the morning and he mucked out the cows, saw to their clean bedding, their feed and their general health, and was responsible for rolling the milk churns out of the cowshed and into the dairy itself. The work was poorly paid, but Suzie thought her son quite enjoyed it. It was better than being cooped up in a shop or a factory and the staff were kind to him, giving him odds and ends of food that were not quite up to the dairy’s usual standard.

Suzie herself had been working for the Logan family ever since early March, when Mary had run off back to Manchester. She rather enjoyed being able to come and go as she pleased in someone else’s house, for the Logans were mostly absent while she did her work. She also enjoyed running Mrs O’Leary’s fish stall on Mondays each week, because it brought her into contact with other people, both customers and stallholders, and enabled her to salt away the odd bob or two, as well as taking home for the Keagans’ tea any unsold fish still fresh enough to eat.

During the school holidays, of course, Amy looked after the baby and did a good deal of the housework, which was a bonus since Suzie very much disliked scrubbing floors, polishing furniture and preparing enormous meals for the family. But in term-time she was forced to do quite a lot of these things, and disliked the dullness and repetitiveness of the work.

Not that she worked very hard. She didn’t mind looking after Becky who was nearly seven months old now. At first the baby had been colicky and difficult, quick to cry and slow to smile but gradually, as the weeks passed, Suzie got her into a routine and now she was easier. Housework itself, which meant cooking, cleaning and washing, was divided pretty equally between Amy, Gran and Suzie herself. Suzie had pretended to be shocked when she discovered that Bill boiled the shrimps in the Logans’ copper, but it had been a good reason to take their washing back to her own house, where Gran dealt swiftly and capably with it. ‘I don’t know about you, queen,’ her mother-in-law was fond of remarking, ‘you oughter be a colonel in the army or an admiral in the navy, ’cos you’re so bleedin’ good at gettin’ other people to do your work.’ She had shaken her head sadly, only half joking. ‘Us Keagans’ve always bin workers and your Abe was just another such, but you’ve got a lazy streak as wide as the tramlines runnin’ down the Scottie.
You’ll never do owt you can wriggle out of – ain’t that so?’

Sometimes Suzie admitted that it was and sometimes she simply shrugged and laughed, but in her heart she knew that her mother-in-law was right. Without the two old ladies to give a hand, her home would soon have degenerated into a slum and without the money which she was now bringing in she would have been in deep financial trouble months ago.

The truth was, she reflected, pinning baby Becky’s nappies on the line, that she had to watch her Ps and Qs in front of Bill. He did not approve of women gambling, or drinking, though he thought there was no harm in himself going out of an evening and having a bevvy or two with his pals, or with his two elder sons. The idea that she might either go drinking or gambling had not, she was sure, ever entered his head. And because it was clear that he both liked and trusted her, Suzie was determined that such ideas should remain a mystery to him. She had always liked Bill Logan but now, being around him so much, she liked him even better. He was a generous, amusing, even affectionate man for, though the loss of his wife had grieved him deeply, he was gradually coming to terms with it. She pinned the last nappy to the line and returned to the kitchen, reminding her mother briskly that she would be gone from the house now until about four that afternoon, when Amy returned from school and could safely be left in charge of both house and child.

Old Mrs Keagan gave a derisive sniff but made no other comment. However, she went to a large pile of linen standing on the draining board and shovelled
it into an oilskin bag, remarking as she handed it to her daughter-in-law, ‘Don’t forget all them shirts
you
so neatly ironed nor all them nappies
you
boiled till they was white as snow, queen. It wouldn’t do to let anyone else take the credit for
your
work, would it, eh? And if young Amy were to come round a-fetchin’ of it, she might see more than you’d like, Mrs Clever Keagan.’

‘Oh, young Amy’s gorra head on her shoulders and a mean streak even wider than the tramlines on the Scottie,’ Suzie said with a chuckle. ‘I doubt she believes I do me own washin’ and ironin’, let alone theirs. But she don’t go tale-clattin’ to her dad, I’ll say that for her. And though I don’t like the kid, she won’t try an’ put a spoke in me wheel so long as the work gets done. Now that we’ve got the pottin’ of the shrimps sorted out, she’s content to sell ’em for as much as she can get. And I never get a sniff of that money,’ she finished, with only the slightest trace of bitterness. She glanced around the kitchen. ‘Paddy go off all right this morning?’