The Girl From Seaforth Sands (47 page)

So now the room in Huskisson Street only had three occupants and Amy suspected that there would soon be only two, for Gus and Minnie were planning a marriage of their own in the autumn, and even Albert and Ruthie, who still had a deal of saving up to do, meant to marry when they could afford it.

Amy had wondered if she and Mary might move in together, but that was before she had met Haydn. Having met him, she had been forced to acknowledge that he and Mary were deeply in love and would be marrying as soon as arrangements could be
made for Haydn either to find work in Mold or to move his family to a house in Liverpool.

Amy, accepting any shifts, no matter how awkward, which the hotel had offered her, sometimes felt so lonely that she could have cried. In the six months that had elapsed since Paddy’s flight from Seaforth she had been out with four different young men and had found each of them in turn insignificant and boring when compared with Paddy. A stranger might have thought she had not known Paddy well, but as the months had passed, Amy had realised she had known him very well indeed, but until Christmas had refused to think of him as anything but her enemy. Once the barriers had crumbled, however, she had begun to appreciate him for himself, even to love him, and though he was now far away she could not unlove him.

Letters had come from Paddy whenever he was in port long enough to dispatch an epistle, but none of them had been addressed to Amy and he had given no hint in any of them what had caused his sudden flight. What was more, he had never sent them a forwarding address, saying that his vessel’s movements were uncertain so they had best save up all their news for when he returned in the summer.

‘Amy, have you finished that report yet? Mr David sent me to fetch it as he needs to read it through before he speaks to Mr Frank.’

Miss Carew’s small, bright face, poking round the edge of the door, made Amy jump, but she whipped the paper out of the machine and smiled at her colleague. ‘Just finished it,’ she said reassuringly, casting a quick glance over the four pages she had typed. ‘I haven’t had a chance to check it through, though. Can Mr David wait another five minutes while I do that?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he can,’ Miss Carewe said easily, perching on the corner of Amy’s desk. ‘Have you heard, Amy? There’s been an outbreak of measles – or was it whooping cough? – in Seaforth; ever so many kids have got it. Isn’t that where you came from? Oh, I know you lodge in Huskisson Street, but don’t your people live in Seaforth?’

‘Yes, they do,’ Amy said, trying to concentrate on the sheets of paper spread out on her desk. ‘Do shut up for a moment, Miss Carewe, or I’ll never get this finished.’

‘All right, all right, don’t snap my nose off,’ Miss Carewe said without apparent rancour. ‘I just thought you might know a bit more about it, you coming from there. Don’t you have a sister still in school? Whooping cough is a nasty thing and measles can be pretty bad, though of course modern medicine does help.’

Amy agreed rather absently, finished reading through her work, pinned the four pages of the report together and handed them to Miss Carewe. Then she picked up her typewriter cover, fitted it over the machine and left the office. Her shift had been over half an hour ago, but she never grudged finishing off a job for Mr David, who was an easygoing, thoughtful employer. As she left the building and crossed Lime Street to catch her tram, she was debating whether to go straight home or whether to pop into Lyons Café for a cup of tea and a bite to eat, which would save her cooking when she got back. She had just decided on Lyons when someone tapped her shoulder, and turning, she saw her father, his face streaked with sweat and his blue
eyes anxious. ‘Amy! I were just about to go over to the hotel to see if you were there, when I spotted you crossin’ the street. Me love, I’ve come straight from Seafield Grove – your mam’s not herself and your sister’s really bad. Can you come?’

‘Yes, of course. What’s the matter with them?’ Amy asked, falling into step beside Bill. Once, she thought, she would have corrected the expression ‘your mam’ pretty sharply, but now she felt that this no longer reflected on Isobel. Suzie had been a good mam to Becky and the boys, and of late had been a good friend to Amy herself, so why not refer to her in future as mam?

But she said nothing of this as the two of them hurried to the nearest tram stop. Bill was explaining that Suzie had suspected Becky of having whooping cough and had put the child to bed, only to wake next morning with a sore throat, a burning head and a voice which sounded so hoarse that he had scarcely understood a word his wife had said. ‘I’ve done me best to see to them both, but it’s not easy for a feller,’ he explained earnestly as they got on the tram. ‘Becky’s burning hot and calling for her mam, and poor Suzie keeps struggling out of bed to go to her . . . it all happened so suddenly, Amy. The boys went off to the boat and I meant to make your mam comfortable and then come in to the stall . . . only what with trying to keep Suzie in bed and telling Becky she’d be all right if she’d only keep under the covers . . . and we can’t afford to let the fish go bad because there’s only young Kenny on the stall to sell it . . .’

‘It’s all right, Dad,’ Amy said soothingly. ‘I’ll spend the evening with you, make the boys a meal, get the invalids comfortable and then go back to
Huskisson Street. If they are no better by morning then we’ll send for the doctor. Why didn’t you send for him today, incidentally? One of the girls at work said there was whooping cough or measles, she didn’t know which, in Seaforth. Did you notice if Becky had spots? I imagine Suzie probably had measles when she was a kid – perhaps she’s got a nasty feverish cold, or influenza or something.’

‘In June? Isn’t that a winter illness? As for gettin’ the doctor, there was no one to send,’ Bill said, looking harassed. ‘The truth is, Amy, that I’ve never had to deal with illness before. When your mam was ill there was you and Mary and the nurse always on hand, and the doctor coming in, and when you kids were young your mam saw to you. Last year, when Becky had the chicken pox all I had to do was pop me head round the door when I got home at night, ask her how she was feeling and give her any little treat I had managed to pick up. This . . . this is different.’

How different it was Amy was able to judge for herself within moments of entering the house. The fire, which Bill must have been neglecting all day, was dead in the stove and though this scarcely mattered as far as warmth was concerned, for it had been a hot day, it meant that it was not possible for Amy to make the invalids a hot drink until it had been rekindled. What was more, the room was in great disarray, the table covered in dirty crockery and cutlery, the porridge pan on the draining board stiff with dried porridge and the dirty washing, which someone had carried downstairs, piled in an untidy heap before the low stone sink. There was also a stale and unpleasant smell in the room, which caused Amy to fling open both windows and the door before heading for the stairs.

Becky was in the girls’ room, alone in the big feather bed. Her face was scarlet and she was breathing with difficulty. She had thrown off her bed covers but was sunk deep into the feather mattress. The bed itself was wet with Becky’s sweat, as were her nightgown and her small, burningly hot body. She had appeared to be asleep when Amy had softly opened the door, but as Amy trod across the room towards her she opened large, fever-bright eyes and began to cry. ‘Oh, Amy, I feel so ill, I does,’ she said in a tiny, hoarse voice. ‘Our dad gave me a drink before he left, only I knocked it over and now the bed’s all sticky and horrible. I were sick on to the lino and I’d only taken two mouthfuls,’ she added pathetically.

‘So I see,’ Amy said ruefully, gazing down at the sticky patch of vomit on the linoleum. ‘Never mind, sweetheart, presently I’ll come in and clean you up and change you into a fresh nightgown. I’ll do something about that bed as well,’ she added, eyeing the sticky, crumpled sheets with revulsion. ‘But I must just go along and see how Mam is. She’s ill as well as you – did our dad tell you?’

‘She isn’t as ill as me,’ Becky wailed, scrubbing at her tear-filled eyes with small, grimy fists. ‘She went downstairs to fetch up my dolly, only she forgot to bring her back. And she said we should have porridge, or a nice rice pudding, only that was
hours
ago and I’ve not had a thing to eat since yesterday.’

‘Mam
is
ill, queen,’ Amy said, heading for the door. ‘Are you hungry then, Becky? Could you eat some porridge if I made it? Rice pudding takes ages to cook.’

‘No, I’m not hungry, I’d be sick if I tried to eat porridge,’ Becky whined. ‘But I’m ever so thirsty, Amy, ever so ever so thirsty. I could drink a whole big jug of lemonade or even of water, if there weren’t nothin’ nicer.’

‘I’ll get you a drink when I’ve seen Mam,’ Amy promised from the doorway. ‘I’ll be back in five minutes, don’t you fret.’ She left the child’s room, passed the open door of the boys’ room, glancing in and seeing with disfavour that it was a tip, the bed unmade and the floor covered with dirty clothing. She reached Suzie’s room, tapped briefly on the door and went in. The bed was empty.

For one horrified moment Amy could only stare. Then she remembered Becky’s remark about Suzie going downstairs to get the child’s doll and a dish of porridge but Suzie, she knew very well, had not been in the kitchen when she passed through. She might, of course, have been in the fish scullery but had this been the case, surely Suzie would have called out or made some sign. Amy turned and was about to leave the room again when it occurred to her to look under the bed. The large chamber pot, wreathed in red roses, was missing. Straightening up with a relieved sigh, Amy realised that Suzie must have taken the pot downstairs to empty it and was probably even now coming back across the yard.

Accordingly she returned to Becky’s room and was looking for a clean nightdress in the child’s drawer when she heard a shout from below: ‘Amy! Come and give us a hand, chuck. Your mam’s come over all fainty like and I can’t . . . I can’t . . .’

Amy fairly flew across the room, down the stairs and into the kitchen, where she found Bill in the scullery doorway, struggling to get his
wife off the floor. Suzie was a big woman and for the first time Amy realised that her father was no longer a big man. She was horrified that without her really noticing he had grown old. Now that she thought about it, she remembered that he was past sixty and the arms that clasped Suzie, though sinewy, were frail compared with her own.

‘It’s all right, Dad, I’m here,’ Amy gasped, bending to heave Suzie up into her own arms. It was no light task, but between the two of them they managed to manoeuvre the unconscious woman to the sofa, where she lay with her head propped at a most uncomfortable angle and her limbs sprawled all anyhow. Amy felt her burning forehead and pointed to the open door. ‘Fetch the doctor,’ she said imperatively. ‘I’ll see to Mam and don’t go running, because I can’t have you ill on my hands as well and you’re no chicken, Dad. If you meet the boys on your way, send Albert for the doctor and you come back here. And don’t
worry
,’ she added. ‘It’s still maybe only a feverish cold.’

By the time Bill arrived back with the doctor the situation was looking a good deal better. Suzie had recovered consciousness and was sitting up and drinking a cup of cold water, and the kitchen was much tidier, with the dirty crocks soaking in the sink and the washing out of sight in the scullery. Suzie was wearing a clean nightdress, and Amy had her own guess confirmed as soon as the doctor took a look at his patient, for when she changed Suzie’s nightgown she had seen the faint beginnings of a rash all over her stepmother’s neck and shoulders. ‘Aye, you’ve got the measles all right, Mrs Logan,’ the doctor said cheerfully. ‘Only fancy a grown woman taking the measles – whatever were you thinking of? I can see we shall be off school for a day or two.’

Suzie smiled rather feebly at this gentle raillery, but Amy could see that she was relieved by the diagnosis, measles being a childish complaint from which the sufferer usually recovers without much difficulty. The fear of scarlet fever had been the first thing that had sprung to Suzie’s mind when she had begun to feel so dreadfully ill and it would have meant weeks away from her family, imprisoned in the isolation hospital.

But when the doctor saw Becky he was less certain what ailed her. She had a sore throat, complained that her eyes were hurting her and had been sick twice, but as yet there was no rash. On the other hand when he sounded her chest he told her jokingly that there seemed to be a little orchestra playing down there, and when he and Amy returned to the kitchen he admitted it was possible that the child had somehow managed to contract more than one ailment. ‘There’s whooping cough about and with her mother having caught measles it’s possible, though unlikely, that young Becky has a touch of both,’ he said bluntly. ‘However, I’ll give you a prescription for something which will help the cough and bring the fever down, and you must keep her as clean, cool and comfortable as you can. If the weather weren’t so hot I’d advise you to take Becky into her mother’s room, but as it is, she’s best with the bed to herself. Is it possible to change the feather mattress for a horsehair one? She would be a good deal cooler and very much easier to nurse.’

‘Yes, I can manage that,’ Amy said. She knew that the single bed in the boys’ room which Paddy had once occupied had a horsehair mattress.
‘But what about my mam, Doctor? Is she best upstairs? The trouble is if I nurse her in the kitchen I’ll be spending all my time running up and down the stairs. And could you write me a note for my employer, please? I don’t want to lose my job, but I can’t see myself getting away from here for the next week or two.’

Nodding, the doctor pulled out a pad of paper and began to scribble, and presently handed her three notes, two for the chemist and one for the Adelphi Hotel. ‘They’ll maybe expect you to do without your salary for a few weeks, but I’m sure they won’t dismiss you,’ he said, indicating the explanatory note destined for the hotel. He looked at her over the top of his pince-nez. ‘Have you had whooping cough, m’dear? I remember you and your brothers getting the measles but I can’t recall any of you whooping when I came round. Because if you haven’t had it, you might become infected yourself – and they’re contagious diseases so no hotel will want you back until the three weeks’ quarantine is over.’