The Girl From Seaforth Sands (38 page)

Since her parents’ death, Ella had rather dreaded Christmas. It was such a family time and even the sight of carol singers in the street or a bedecked tree would bring tears to her eyes as she thought, with loving nostalgia, of Christmases past.

Once she was sharing the room with the other girls, of course, things became easier. The room was Minnie’s home and had been ever since Mrs Miniver’s death, and the two girls had made as merry as circumstances allowed, even endeavouring to cook a small chicken over the open fire, which caused much hilarity, as well as a strong smell of burning when the skin of the bird became enveloped in flames. With Amy’s and Ruth’s arrival, the run-up to Christmas was no longer something to be dreaded, but on the day itself, when the two younger girls returned to their families, Ella knew that she and Minnie both had to work hard not to let themselves fall into gloom. Amy would have liked to take Ella home with her, and Minnie too, but because of the size of the Logan family – and the size of their tiny house – this was clearly impossible. Ruthie, too, lived in a small, overcrowded house, so could do little entertaining.

It seemed, however, that this year was to be different again. Philip had actually asked Ella if she would like to accompany him back to his parents’ home in Manchester to share their family Christmas. For the first time in their relationship Ella was in a quandary. It was such a commitment and, although she was extremely fond of Philip, she did not yet feel sure enough of her own feelings – or his – to want to
put them to the test. Inevitably, if she went home with him everyone, probably including Philip, would assume that marriage was a likely event in the not too distant future. Although Ella was an enthusiastic suffragette, she believed that a happy marriage was the best thing which could happen to a woman. She also believed in the old saying ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure’ and thought fearfully that if Philip were to see her under his parents’ roof he might realise that she was not, after all, the sort of girl they would wish him to marry. She chided herself for this fear, for was this not 1911? If it was generally accepted that many young women had, of necessity, to earn a living in order to keep themselves, then it followed that the Grimshaws must know such young women existed, might even admire them. It was common knowledge that, in order to get a decent position in any walk of life, a woman had to be ten times more intelligent and determined as any man. Philip himself acknowledged it, but would his parents? He had a sister, Laura, of whom he was very fond; suppose Laura did not take to her?

Ella tried, rather timidly, to put these questions to Amy, who simply stared at her round-eyed. ‘You think
you
are going to feel uncomfortable among the Grimshaws?’ she asked incredulously. ‘You think they’ll look down on you? Well, if they do so, all I can say is they aren’t worth knowing. Besides, don’t you think that Philip probably takes after one or other of his parents? If that’s so, then they’ll be lovely people who will accept you for what you are, a brave and resourceful woman, making her own way in the world.’

‘But I don’t want to be thought of as a brave and resourceful woman,’ Ella wailed, running her hands through her short, curly hair, for she had had to cut the left side to match the right as soon as her hair had reached a respectable length. ‘I want to be thought of as pretty, eligible and . . . and charming.’

Amy laughed at this honest declaration. ‘Votes for women, indeed,’ she scoffed. ‘You’re just like the rest of us women, queen. In our heart of hearts we all want to be cherished and protected, and thought of as helpless little darlings. Well, Ella, just you go ahead and visit Philip’s folks, because you’re pretty as a picture and smart as paint, and worth a whole flock of empty-headed society beauties.’

‘Do you know, I believe I will?’ Ella said slowly. She looked around their room, which was already decorated with brightly coloured paper chains, a miniature Christmas tree and sprigs of holly tacked on to the picture rail. ‘You and Ruthie will go home, of course – but what about Minnie? I can’t and won’t leave her here to celebrate Christmas alone.’

‘Why, she must come home with me, of course,’ Amy said at once, without appearing to give the matter so much as a moment’s thought. ‘We’ll go to Seafield Grove for Christmas Day and Boxing Day, but come home to Huskisson Street at night. Then there won’t be any question of who’s to sleep where – though come to think of it, Mary probably won’t be coming home for Christmas, so Minnie and I could share with Becky just for one or two nights. I meant to tell you, I went into Blackler’s yesterday in my dinner hour and had a chat with Mary. She’s thinking of staying with a pal over the holiday and not coming back to Seaforth. She took a leaf out of our book, you know, when she came back to Liverpool, and began to go about more with friends
from the store. So unless she comes over for the New Year, we shan’t be seeing her in Seaforth for a while. And you’ll never believe it, Ella, but she’s actually found a feller, someone she really seems to like for himself. I don’t say she’s serious, probably he’s just a friend, but nevertheless, she does like him and he’s only a tram driver and plain as a plum pudding, apparently. And you know our Mary, she’s always put looks, money and position high on her list of requirements, so the fact that she’s looked twice at a tram driver, and an ugly one at that, must mean she’s head over heels.’

Both girls laughed at the thought of Mary actually falling in love with anyone, let alone with a young man whom she would plainly think her social inferior. So having decided what to do with Minnie, they continued with their plans for Christmas.

Mary had enjoyed her meeting with Amy, for the two girls did not see each other very often. She had told Amy briefly that she had met someone called Haydn Lloyd, who had made a great impression on her. She had not, however, gone into any more detail because, even to herself, the friendship had seemed a strange one. At least, it would have seemed a strange one to the old Mary, the Mary who had gone steady with Roderick Campbell for five years, during which time she had grown more and more similar to Mr Campbell and less and less like the girl who had set out to conquer Manchester with such high hopes.

At the time, Mary had scarcely been aware that she was changing, hardening. She had not realised, until Roderick had left her, that she had been
slowly but surely becoming like him, embracing his attitudes, ambitions and values, and allowing her own to become almost completely submerged.

At first, when he had taken up with his little tart, as Mary had called her, she had felt bitter shame and rage for her lost years, along with the feeling that she could not hold a man, not even one as thoroughly unworthy as Roderick had proved to be. But gradually, as the weeks passed, she had begun to feel a lightness of spirit and a burgeoning of hope. It was this, at last, which gradually made her realise how bad Roderick had been for her and how infinitely better off she was without him.

She had gone back to Seaforth, however, when her bitter shame and rage over Roderick’s defection had been at its height. Then she had agreed to meet up with Amy for a day out, and that day had determined her on the move back to the city of her birth. For they had met Ella, Minnie and Ruth after work and had walked back to Huskisson Street together, staring into shop windows, covertly eyeing the young men they passed and light-heartedly announcing their preference for dark men, fair ones, tall ones or cheeky ones. Then they had purchased fried fish and chipped potatoes for their supper and had eaten their meal out of newspaper wrappings, and had spent the jolliest evening imaginable in the girls’ big room, chatting, laughing and exchanging frank comments about life in general and married life in particular, until Mary had truly envied Amy her room share and had begun to see that young men were really not as important as she had once thought.

She had remembered afterwards how she had
arrived in Seaforth in a white heat of rage, determined to find Philip Grimshaw so that she might somehow become his young lady, which would have shown Roderick that Mary was not to be trifled with. She knew that Roderick had been jealous of Philip, whose superior looks and intelligence had made him popular with young men and girls alike, so to flourish Philip in Roderick’s face would have been a triumph indeed. She had speedily realised the futility of this plan when Amy had explained how brief their meeting had been and had added that they had not seen Philip since, nor did they expect to do so. But by then it no longer mattered. Mary had realised the fun which could be had with a group of girlfriends and had returned to Manchester no longer interested in spiting Roderick but determining, instead, to make a new life for herself in Liverpool which would not, in the early stages at any rate, include the capturing of a young man.

Deciding on this course, she had taken the job at Blackler’s and accepted Faith’s offer of the room share. Bearing in mind the enjoyable evening she had spent with Amy and her room-mates, once she had settled in, she had invited three girls, from the departmental store in which they all worked, back to her room one evening for a light supper and a cosy chat. This had proved so successful that later the four of them had gone off to the Empire Theatre on Lime Street to see Cecilia Loftus and Albert Whelan. This had led naturally to the suggestion that they should go dancing together at the dance academy on Renshaw Street and it was here that Mary had met Haydn Lloyd for the first time. He had asked her to dance with him within half an hour of her arrival at the hall and Mary, who was seldom
without a partner, had slid gracefully into his arms and had barely noticed him as a person, save for the realisation that he was no more than an inch taller than she. Very soon she realised that he was a marvellous dancer, with a degree of expertise considerably superior to Roderick’s. He was an interesting companion, too, talking in a lively fashion and, what was even nicer, his hands did not continually stray, so she was able to enjoy his company without worrying that he would presently begin to take advantage of having his arm about her, the way so many men did. In fact, she found dancing with him such a pleasure that for the rest of the evening he became her chosen partner, even taking her out during the interval and buying her a small sherry at the nearest public house.

Haydn Lloyd was as Welsh as he sounded and Mary had always rather looked down on the Welsh, considering them country bumpkins not worthy of the attention of a sophisticated city girl like herself. And now, here she was, the beautiful Miss Logan of Blackler’s, who had had so many offers in her time, actually contemplating spending her Christmas holiday somewhere in the wilds of Wales with a man who was neither wealthy nor influential – a man, furthermore, who was a widower with two small children.

He had told her about his kids at their very first meeting, had admitted that he missed them most dreadfully and that they lived in Mold, in the county of Flintshire, with
his mother. When he had worked down the coal mine at Llay, they had lived in a miner’s cottage quite near the pit. However, his wife had died shortly after the birth of his second child and he had moved his family to Mold to live with his mother. There, he had taken work on the land but had speedily found that he could not keep his family on the wages of an unskilled farmworker. Having worked in the open air for a few months, he had no desire to return to the pit. So, with his mother taking care of the children, he had left North Wales to try his luck in the great city of Liverpool. He had speedily found work driving the trams and had hoped, at first, to bring his family to the city so that they could all be together. However, he soon realised he could not cope both with the children and with his job on the trains, and his mother, though a most amenable woman, had utterly refused to leave her neat little terraced house at her time of life. She hated cities, besides which, lodgings in Liverpool were not cheap. Accordingly, Haydn continued with his job, sending money home and retaining only enough to keep himself.

Any sensible girl would have drawn back immediately at this point, because it was as plain as the nose on his face – and that
was
plain! – that Mr Lloyd was looking for a wife to take the place of the one he had lost and Mary, like all girls of her age, wanted romance, a good life and, eventually, children of her own; she did not want to be made use of as a mam for a fellow’s motherless kids. Yet despite knowing all this, Mary had not drawn back. She had Eked Haydn for his ready grin, his strength of character and for the sheer
goodness
of him, which was a delight after Roderick’s self-seeking, humourless attitude to life.

And now Mary was sitting in her comfortable little armchair in her rooms on Mather Avenue, wondering whether she had gone slightly but definitely mad. It was one thing to like a fellow, to want
to continue seeing him, but she was actually contemplating going away for Christmas with a man she had met a bare two weeks before, and not a rich or an influential man either, but a tram driver in his forties, with a thick thatch of greying dark hair, a pair of sparkling black eyes and a rather large nose.

She was still telling herself that she must be mad to consider Haydn Lloyd’s proposal, when a small voice spoke in her head.
What’s wrong with a tram driver – or a miner, come to that? the little voice said. Who are you when you’re at home? Why, you’re nothing but the daughter of a humble fisherman, like the girl in the fairy story, the one they told you in infant school! Oh, I know you may tell yourself that you’re a senior sales lady, doing well for yourself, but what does that matter, after all? Even if you rise to be head buyer in Gowns, you’ll still be nothing but a fisherman’s daughter, when all’s said and done
.

The little voice was right, Mary knew it, and not only did she know it, she also acknowledged it as no more than the truth. She had never taken Roderick home because she knew he would despise her background, her father and brothers, even the smell of fish that hung around the house in which she had been born and bred. But Haydn was a different person altogether. He would
like
her father and feel completely at home with her brothers. He would probably consider the little house in Seafield Grove a palace compared with the pit cottage in which he had grown up. She could imagine him helping the boys to heave the boat ashore, gathering up arms full of dripping net, carting boxes laden with flapping fish up the beach and on to the roadway. In short, Mary thought joyfully, Hadyn would be one of them; he would not think for one moment that a
tram driver was either superior or inferior to a fisherman. That was not his way. He would simply think them likeable folk and would settle down to become a part of the family.