The Girl From Seaforth Sands (19 page)

‘We aren’t thinking of getting wed, you know,’ Amy had said, giggling, ‘We’re just pals, same as you and Tommy are.’

‘There you are, then!’ Paddy had yelled, red as a turkeycock with frustrated anger. ‘Tommy’s
my
bleedin’ pal, not yours! He’s me workmate and me bezzie, and I won’t have you horning in and spoiling things, so just you back off, Shrimpy Logan.’

Amy had not wanted a fight so she had said nothing more, but if she had bitterly resented Bill’s interference in her friendship with Tommy, how much more bitterly had she resented Paddy’s attempts to force her hand and make her give up seeing his pal. She would not have changed her behaviour one iota because of Paddy’s words, but her father’s strictures were a different matter. Therefore, since she had no intention of forming any relationship other than friendship with Tommy Chee, she had gradually stopped seeing him altogether, though it had cost her some pangs to make excuses every time he issued a casual invitation.

Consequently Amy had begun to feel herself friendless indeed. Her school friends had scattered, many of them working away, and those who were still at home had made other friends among their new workmates. So Amy, working hard at the fish market all day, preparing and selling shrimps in the long summer evenings and working for her stepmother in the house whenever she was free to do so, was scarcely conscious of the social life she was
missing and had begun to feel like a caged rat on a wheel, with escape impossible.

Now, Mrs O’Leary’s suggestion danced enticingly before Amy’s inner eye, presenting a delightful picture of independence, not only from Suzie Keagan but from the abominable Paddy Keagan as well. If only Ruthie would agree they could have a lovely time, just the two of them, managing for themselves. So Amy set off to fetch the ice, with an empty bucket swinging from either hand and with her mind full of exciting plans. She was forced to reflect, however, that the money she was at present paid would scarcely cover half the rent of even the tiniest room, let alone feed and clothe her. But there were other jobs; in winter her working day ended early and she supposed she could get a job from, say, six to ten, working behind a bar in one of the many public houses which surrounded St John’s Market or even waiting, or skivvying for the cook in a popular dining room. Alternatively she and Ruthie could approach a third girl to share a room with them. This would make the rent cheaper and, what with odds and ends of fish which Mrs O’Leary would doubtless give her and whatever the other two could provide, surely it would be possible for three of them to find somewhere they could afford?

‘Mornin’, Amy,’ Harry Roper said cheerfully, as Amy clanked her buckets on to his cold stone floor. ‘Wharra day, queen! Have any difficulty reachin’ the market today? You come in from Seaforth way, don’t you? I dare say it’ll be possible to get into the city for a while, but what with this blizzard and the folk all wantin’ to go home at the same time, you’d best ask Mrs O’Leary to let you leave work after
dinner while the trams is still runnin’. It’s a helluva walk out to Seaforth from here.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ Amy agreed gloomily, as Harry began to chop at a block of ice and drop the pieces into her buckets. ‘Mrs O’Leary was asking why didn’t I think about moving into the city, sharing a room with a pal, so I didn’t have the journey in winter. But I dare say it would cost more than me and a pal or two could afford. Rooms are pricey round here, so I’ve heard.’

Harry filled the second bucket and pushed both across the floor towards her, then straightened, his hand in the small of his back. ‘If it were just a room you were after, I dunno as it’d break you to take a bit of a room in one of the courts, or somewhere like that.’

‘The courts?’ Amy said doubtfully. Ever since she had been small she had been warned by Isobel about the courts and those who inhabited them. ‘Dens of iniquity, that’s what they are, those courts,’ she had told her small daughter, as the two of them hawked shrimps round the city streets. ‘They live there, all crowded in like animals, ten to a room, they say, and if there’s money missing or some old woman hit over the head for the sake of the few pennies in her purse, then it’s to the courts that the scuffers go first. So we’ll not hawk our shrimps round the courts, queen. We’ll take ’em to honest folks.’

Bill, who was less prejudiced than his wife, informed Amy privately that the folk who lived in the courts were not all bad. ‘Some of ’em’s just poor, luv,’ he told her when she repeated Isobel’s remarks. ‘You get real respectable folk livin’ in the courts, folk who’d take as much care of their little houses as your mam does of ours. Proper little palaces, some
of ’em. But your mam went sellin’ shrimps round the courts on the Scottie when we was first married. She were expectin’ and she got a mouthful of abuse and a stinkin’ old boot hurled at her head by a drunken docker. Your mam ain’t never forgot it and you could say it coloured her feelings about the courts. So don’t condemn folk out of hand just because of where they live.’

However, it seemed that Suzie had shared Isobel’s bad opinion of the courts, though possibly for a different reason. ‘I get more customers for the shrimps in the pubs than in them courts,’ she had told Amy, when Amy had suggested trying the narrow, crowded little alleyways. ‘Besides, landlords reckon shrimps give you a thirst, so we’re always welcome in the pubs.’

‘There’s nowt wrong wi’ the courts, queen,’ Harry said gently now, walking with her to the doorway. ‘I only suggested it because I know a little place at the back of Skelhorne Street, off Hilbre Street, where’s there a widow woman by the name of Mrs Beckham, ever so respectable, who lives at number 8 Kingfisher Court and who might let a room to a couple of nice young girls what wouldn’t mess up her home.’

Amy, who had been about to cross Rose Street, stopped on the edge of the pavement. ‘I’m sure a place like that would suit me and Ruth just fine,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Thanks ever so much for suggesting it, Mr Roper. Me and Ruth will have a talk and I’ll come back to you. Thanks again.’

The rest of the day went with amazing speed. Despite the fearful weather – for the blizzard continued to blow for most of the day – there were sufficient customers to keep Amy busy gutting and
filleting fish. Because of it, however, Mrs O’Leary closed the stall at four in the afternoon and advised Amy to go home while the trams continued to run. ‘If they’re still runnin’, that is,’ she added darkly, buttoning her long black cloak up to the neck and winding her black scarf round her face to the eyes, so that her voice emerged muffled. ‘If the trams have stopped there’s always the overhead railway, so be a sensible girl and make for it, if the trams ain’t runnin. You don’t want to be benighted here, do you? See you tomorrer.’

‘Thanks, Mrs O’Leary,’ Amy said but she did not commit herself to going home at once, since she intended to wait for Ruth, so that they might discuss the exciting proposal of renting a room between them. She went through to the sinks at the back and washed as thoroughly as she always did, rinsed her apron and hung it over a hook, took off the clumsy wooden clogs she wore for work and donned her outer clothing. Having muffled herself up, she went briskly out of the fish market into the bitter wind and headed for Dorothy’s Dining Rooms. She had money in her pocket for a cup of tea and a bun, and decided that if she did not see Ruth she would send a message to the kitchens by one of the waitresses. If Ruth could tell her at what time she would finish work she could stay in the dining rooms, spinning out one cup of tea, or possibly two, until her friend was free to join her.

When she reached the dining rooms they were already crowded, with people staring anxiously out at the snow and ordering tea and crumpets or something more substantial. The bustle and busyness were a revelation to Amy, who did not frequent such places as a rule, and she realised that it
would not be possible to do as she had planned and wait in a corner until Ruth was free. Instead she decided to approach the woman sitting in the little glass-fronted box at one end of the room, taking the bills and the money, and handing out change with a smile and a pleasant word to her customers.

This must be Mrs Owen, who owned the establishment, Amy supposed, so she approached her with a certain amount of caution, not wanting to get Ruth into trouble on her first day in the job. But Mrs Owen no sooner heard her say that she was Ruth’s friend than, with a harassed glance at the crowded room, she said, ‘Why, if you’re going to wait for Miss Durrant then you might as well be useful! We’re rushed off our feet, as you can see, and there’s piles and piles of dishes and cutlery waiting to be washed up, so if you nip through into the kitchens and borrow a clean apron you might give Ruth a hand with ’em.’

‘Well, yes . . . of course, if I can be . . .’ Amy began uncertainly, to be briskly interrupted: ‘Good girl. Off wi’ you, then!’

In a daze, Amy followed the woman’s pointing finger and pushed her way through a baize door, nearly knocking over a perspiring waitress as she did so. She tried to apologise but the woman merely said, ‘Gerrout of me way, young ’un. Two beef dinners for table 6!’ and continued across the dining room as though Amy did not exist.

In the kitchen Amy saw Ruth up to her elbows in hot suds, frantically working her way through a large pile of dinner plates, cups, saucers and glasses. She also saw, on a hook above the long wooden draining boards, a number of white aprons. Hesitantly, she took one down, hung up her heavy
coat and put on the apron. Then she approached the sink. ‘Ruthie? Your boss told me to come through and give you a hand, so you’d be free sooner and we could go home. The snow’s still falling, so Mrs O’Leary let me go early, but it seems your boss thinks trade’s too good to turn down. Shall I wash or wipe?’

Ruth turned and grinned at her, then unhooked a red and white striped cloth from a line of them under the sink and handed it to her friend. ‘Wipe,’ she said briefly. ‘Someone just telled me this is the teatime rush and we’ll go home soon’s it’s over. Mrs Owen – she’s the boss – isn’t a bad sort, but she lives in the city so she don’t have to rely on trams an’ such to get her home. Start on the plates, will you? It’s mainly the smaller ones coming through now; they’re not half so mucky as plates what’ve had dinners on ’em.’

So Amy, used to hard work, settled down to wipe up the mound of crockery and, because the water was very hot indeed and Ruth a thorough and conscientious worker, it was not too bad a job. The dried plates soon began to pile perilously high on the big kitchen table behind the sink, while the piles of unwashed crockery dwindled at last.

At first, Amy had simply worked as hard as she could, but gradually, as the pile of clean plates grew, along with another of cups, saucers and side plates, she began to realise that she was enjoying herself. It was warm in the kitchen and the workers seemed to be a happy crowd. They called out, chaffed one another and even teased Ruth, though she was a newcomer and this was her first day’s work. It was hard not to draw comparisons between this sort of work and that of the fish market. The older people in
the market were friendly with one another and were quite kind to Amy, but everyone was selling for themselves just as fast as they could and the camaraderie, which was so evident in the Dorothy kitchen, was simply not present in St John’s fish market.

Despite Mrs Owen’s fears that they might have to close early, business continued to be brisk. It was soon obvious to Amy, peeping into the dining room, that a good many of the customers had come in for a bite to eat because their trams or buses were either not running or running so late that they would miss their evening meal. ‘It’s good business for Mrs Owen, that’s for sure,’ she whispered to Ruth as she thumped a pile of plates on to the draining board. ‘But what’s it going to mean for us, queen? If our tram isn’t runnin we’ll have to get the overhead railway and I don’t know the times of the trains, do you?’

‘No, I don’t,’ Ruth admitted.

‘Well,’ said Amy, ‘I usually catch a tram. Still, if we’re late our folks’ll guess it’s the weather what’s held us up. How long will we be here, do you suppose? Only Mr Roper, who sells ice to the fish market, told me about a good sort of woman called Mrs Beckham who lets rooms cheap.’ She went on to tell Ruth all about Mrs O’Leary’s suggestion and Harry Roper’s information, and Ruth listened, bright-eyed.

‘If only we could rent the place,’ she said longingly when Amy finished her tale. ‘I won’t deny I’m happier at home than I were in service, but I miss havin’ me own space, if you know what I mean. And I shall miss not being able to relax when the day’s work is done, because Mam will expect me
to set to and help wi’ the younger ones. You can’t blame her, but if I weren’t livin’ at home . . .’

‘Shall we go round to this court, off Skelhorne Street, when we finish here, then?’ Amy asked eagerly. ‘I’m game if you are, Ruthie. After all, we’re going to be late whatever we do, so we might as well get some good out of it.’

This somewhat garbled reasoning seemed eminently sensible to Ruth, so the two girls continued to work hard until seven o’clock, when Mrs Owen came into the kitchens to tell them that they had done very well and might go home now. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning,’ she said to Ruth and then turned to Amy: ‘Thank you very much, young ‘un. If you ever need a job you can come to me for a reference.’ She held out a hand and dropped several coins into Amy’s palm. ‘You’ve earned every penny, my dear,’ she added as Amy stared blankly at her. ‘You didn’t think I’d expect you to work for me wi’out so much as a penny piece in payment, did you?’

‘I . . . I didn’t really think, Mrs Owen,’ Amy stammered. ‘It was so nice and warm in the kitchen and I was helping Ruthie to get finished sooner . . . but thanks ever so much. Why, I reckon we could go home in a taxi cab if we wanted!’

Mrs Owen laughed, but shook her head. ‘Gerron a tram, chuck,’ she advised, turning to take down her heavy coat from its peg and beginning to struggle into it. ‘There’s bound to be a tram goin’ your way.’

Presently the two girls, well muffled against the storm, stood on the edge of the pavement waiting to cross. Despite the lateness of the hour the street was still busy and, as they waited, a tram swept past, sending a bow wave of filthy slush towards them.
Amy jumped back with an exclamation of disgust, grabbing Ruth’s arm to pull her out of danger as well and, as she did so, saw a white and malignant face leering at her from the tram window. It was Paddy, plainly delighted to see her soaked and probably imagining that she had missed the last tram into the bargain, which might well get her into trouble at home.