The Girl From Seaforth Sands (5 page)

‘Glad to hear it,’ Bill said, going over and sitting down at the table. Isobel placed a brimming plateful
of Irish stew before him and he picked up his spoon and began to eat. ‘This is grand, queen,’ he said appreciatively presently, reaching for a thick slice of home-baked bread and dipping it into the gravy. ‘I’m a lucky feller, so I am.’

Isobel, seating herself opposite him, smiled. ‘Aye, you’re right,’ she agreed. ‘I’m a good cook, though I say it as shouldn’t. And I’m not doing so badly myself, for there’s many a worse husband in these parts.’

As Bill had predicted, no sooner had the King recovered from his operation than the date for the coronation was fixed once more, this time for 9 August. Isobel read pieces out of the paper to the children as they sat peeling shrimps, telling them all about preparations for the celebration. There had been the great feast the King had given thousands of Londoners the previous month and, though his bounty had not stretched as far as Liverpool, everyone agreed it was a generous gesture. Then there were the decorations. Wonderful arches which spanned the widest of roads, monuments decorated with artificial flowers and brilliant illuminations, while enormous bouquets and garlands of real flowers wreathed the major buildings. Amy, Mary and Albert listened to these tales of wonder, and envied Londoners and anyone else fortunate enough to be going to the capital city for the great event. In fact, the children all knew that there were people in Seaforth who would go up to London, not perhaps for the coronation but to see the decorations, which would remain in place for several days after the King and Queen were crowned. Seaforth was home to several families who, while not as rich as the Muspratts, were still very well-to-do. The Grimshaws, for instance, went to St Thomas’s and were very rich indeed. During the summer holidays and
usually at Christmas, too, they had their grandchildren to stay. Philip was fourteen and Laura twelve; the children knew that much since Isobel sometimes sold fish at the big house on Crosby Road, but they scarcely saw the Grimshaws during the services, for the Grimshaws had a closed-in pew with high wooden walls, which hid the occupants from ordinary worshippers. Laura was not allowed much freedom, not nearly as much as Amy, but Philip, being a boy and also older, frequently made his way down to the shore to fish. A couple of times he had begged an illicit ride in the shrimp boat, and both Bill Logan and Amy’s brothers said he was a decent young chap and not a bad fisherman either.

However, Amy was not particularly interested right now in the Grimshaws or, indeed, in the coronation itself. She considered it thoughtless, if not downright selfish, of the King to rearrange his coronation so that it was during the school holidays instead of in term-time, but no one was perfect. Isobel was a keen royalist, knowing every detail about the royal family and she was a great admirer of Queen Alexandra, so when the papers reported the great event Isobel would be in her element. Indeed, she would be too busy reading all about it to worry overmuch what her daughters were up to. But Coronation Day having dawned at last, Amy and Mary had obtained permission to take their midday meal down to the sands and to spend their time on the beach, digging for cockles if they felt inclined but otherwise having a lazy day. So now she and Mary skirted Seaforth Hall and made their way past the Grimshaws’ big house, heading for the particular spot where they had decided to spend their holiday. ‘For it is a holiday,’ Mary told her sister as they
left the house, their carry-out in the string bag that swung from Mary’s hand. ‘It isn’t often our mam lets us off for a whole day, let alone gives us a picnic.’

‘It’s not often the King and Queen get crowned,’ Amy pointed out, skipping along beside her sister. ‘Oh, but isn’t it a lovely day, our Mary? I wonder what Albert’s doing – something he shouldn’t ought to, I reckon.’

‘He’s not a bad lad,’ Mary objected. ‘Not like Paddy Keagan. He leads our Albert into more mischief than a cartload of organ-grinders’ monkeys. But there’s no real harm in him, our Dad says. And he offered to carry my basket last time I did the messages for our mam.’

‘I think there’s harm in that Paddy. And anyway, Albert needn’t do as he says,’ Amy pointed out righteously. ‘Mammy would say he could choose the good road or the bad, same as the rest of us. I say, Mary,’ she added as a thought struck her, ‘why don’t we call Albert Bertie, same as Paddy does? Come to that, Mam always uses full names, even for Augustus. Everyone else calls him Gus.’

‘Mam doesn’t like nicknames,’ Mary said as they reached the sand and began to walk along it, scuffing their bare feet in the warm, golden grains. ‘She’d call Dad William, if she could, only he told her when they were first married that he wouldn’t stand for it. That’s why we girls have short names which you can’t muck about with. You can’t shorten Amy or Mary, can you, chuck?’

‘No-o-o,’ Amy admitted after some thought. ‘But why choose Augustus or Albert? They are names which everyone shortens, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Dad chose ’em,’ Mary said briefly. She plonked
herself down in the sand and pushed the straw hat she was wearing to the back of her head. ‘Phew, isn’t it hot, though? And it can’t be more than ten o’clock, if that. Shall we start on our drink? Just a sip or two each, mind.’

‘That’s fine by me.’ Amy rooted for the bottle in the string bag. ‘Oh, Mam put in a bottle of water and one of ginger beer. Shall we start on the water and save the ginger beer till later?’

‘Yes, that’ll be best,’ Mary agreed, taking the bottle of water from Amy’s hand, uncorking it and lifting it to her lips. She took several thirsty gulps, then replaced the cork and handed the bottle back to her sister. ‘Do you want a drink, Amy?’

Amy took a mouthful, but she was not particularly thirsty, and quickly replaced the cork and carried both bottles down to the edge of the waves. Here she dug a hole with her hands as a dog might and, when the water had crept halfway up the sides, she put both bottles in it, knowing that the sea would keep the drink cool. Then she kilted up her skirt and waded into the water. Mary, after a moment’s hesitation, followed suit and for some time the two children simply revelled in the water, splashing backwards and forwards and trying to spot shells, seaweed and tiny crabs, which they could see through the waves but could not pick up without getting soaked.

After half an hour of this rather frustrating game, Amy went ashore and took off her white cotton apron, her long grey skirt and the two petticoats beneath it. Then she rolled up the legs of her frilled
drawers and took off her blue blouse. While Mary was still gaping at her, wide-eyed with horror, she marched back into the water until it was up to her chest, gasping at the cold but thoroughly enjoying the sense of freedom that her near-nudity gave her.

‘Amy!’ Mary squeaked. ‘Whatever are you doing? Mam would half kill you if she saw you now! You should know better, indeed you should. Mam would say no decently brought-up girl would kilt her skirts up, let alone take them right off. Remember we’re on a public beach, our Amy, and though it’s early still, folk are going to start coming on to the sands any minute now. Why, anyone might come along and see you and think you a nasty, common sort of kid. Come out of that at once, do you hear me?’

‘No, I shan’t,’ Amy said defiantly, splashing with her arms and pretending to swim. Indeed, when each of the little waves came inshore it lifted her up and carried her with it, making her feel as though she really was swimming. ‘I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss, anyhow, because no one’s here yet. Besides, ever such smart ladies and gentlemen go swimming these days, you know they do! Don’t you remember the pictures in that old copy of the
Sketch
, which Mam brought home from the Grimshaw place? I’m sure what they were wearing wasn’t nearly as respectable as my drawers and chemmy.’

‘The folk who go swimming have proper costumes and . . . oh, Amy, someone
is
coming, honest to God they are! Now will you come out and stop shaming me? I do declare, if I were to tell our mam . . .’

‘But you won’t,’ Amy pointed out. Mary might disapprove, but she wouldn’t go tale-clatting to Mam, not she. Nevertheless, she glanced along the beach and saw that someone really was approaching. Two – no, three – figures, one of which held
what she took to be a fishing rod in one hand and a basket of some sort in the other. ‘Oh, damn,’ Amy muttered. But she knew her sister was right. Seaforth Sands was a popular venue with half Liverpool when the weather was fine and today was to be a holiday for a good many people, though schoolkids, already on holiday, were missing out. Accordingly she began to wade out of the sea, though her tilted chin and defiant glare would tell her sister, she hoped, that she was coming because she wanted to do so and not because she was afraid of the consequences.

Indeed, the little wavelets were no more than lapping at her ankles when she took another glance along the beach and realised, with considerable dismay, that she recognised at least one of the small advancing group. The detestable Paddy Keagan, hair on end, ragged jersey tied round his waist, kicking a round pebble before him and singing what was probably a very rude sea shanty, was approaching, thankfully at a saunter. And it stands to reason, Amy told herself, hastily splashing ashore, that if Paddy’s here, Albert’s with him and that could mean . . . oh, all sorts of trouble.

The far worse trouble, that of being soaked with salt water and without so much as a handkerchief with which to dry herself, did not occur to poor Amy until she was approaching their bag of food. Then, glancing down at herself, she saw how far from glamorous one looked in a sodden chemise with drawers which had managed to trap, in their one plain frill, a quantity of grey-looking sand. ‘Oh, God love me, I’m in a pickle this time,’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Oh, oh, they’re getting awfully close, so they are, and that pig of a Paddy is starting to
grin like . . . like an ape!’ She seized her skirt and pulled it on all anyhow, then began to struggle into her blouse, which was too small for her anyway. Her long hair was dripping down her back, soaking her all over again, and Mary was expostulating, telling her that she couldn’t possibly put dry clothes over soaking underwear and wasn’t she the stupidest, naughtiest kid ever to disobey her elders, now.

But Amy was past caring what Mary might say. What worries me is what that bleedin’ Paddy would put about if he sees me in my drawers, Amy told herself, continuing to struggle into her – by now – damp clothing. Oh, he would jeer at her, he would scoff, he would . . .

A great guffaw of laughter interrupted her thoughts. Paddy stood not six yards distant, grimy hands on hips, his belongings cast down, a grin from ear to ear splitting his horrible, dirt-smeared face. ‘Ooh, look at ole sainted Shrimpy, Mammy’s good little darlin’, a-wearin’ of frilly kecks an’ soaked right through to her miserable speckled skin,’ he shouted. ‘And she’s been a-swimmin’ in her bare skin just like us fellers does, only she can’t swim for toffee-nuts, bein’ a stupid, brainless
girl
, acourse.’

The three boys were grinning but the eldest of them, who must be Philip Grimshaw, Amy supposed, suddenly stopped simling and said, ‘Oh, come on, Paddy, there’s no need to be rude, is there?’

‘I’s always rude to her,’ Paddy said airily. ‘She’s a tale-clat an’ a nuisance; she thinks she’s someone special. She’s rude to me so I’s rude to her.’

‘Fellers shouldn’t be rude to girls,’ the boy, Philip, pointed out. Not self-righteously, Amy thought, but rather as a matter of course. ‘And you can’t blame her for taking a swim on such a grand day. I wouldn’t mind a swim myself.’

Amy, having struggled at last into her clothing, turned to face the boys. She glanced rather shyly up at Philip, thinking him handsome and much older than he looked, for she knew from Albert that he could not be more than fourteen or fifteen. He was a good deal taller than either of his companions, however, with crisp, taffy-brown hair and matching eyes, a firm chin and a mouth with a good deal of humour in its swift, curling smile. Accordingly, she gave him a quick grin, to show she appreciated his championship, then faced up to her old enemy. ‘I can swim then, Paddy Keagan, I taught myself just this minute, so I did! And I may be freckled, but I’m not clarted up with dirt like you are.’

‘Swim! All you did was flap like a stranded plaice an’ come in on a wave – I saw you wi’ me own eyes. Aw, you’re a great ole fool, Amy Logan, to think you can swim the first time you try.’

If it had not been for Mary’s restraining hand, Amy would have hurled herself back in the water, clothes and all, just to prove to Paddy Keagan that she could indeed swim, but Mary hung grimly on to her and Amy realised that this was a good thing, since she knew, in her heart, that Paddy was right. She could not really swim at all; it was the sea which had been kind and lifted her up just for a moment. Had she been out of her depth, however, she suspected that she would have gone straight down into Davy Jones’s locker no matter how she might flail around.

‘Paddy, do leave off,’ Mary said, as she clung to Amy’s arm. ‘As for you, our Amy, just you ignore him. He’s out to annoy you, that’s all, and don’t you
rise like a fish to a fly? I told you it was very wrong to go right into the water and now you know for why. Oh, and look up the beach, girl! There’s a heap of folk walking along the sand, so maybe our Albert and Paddy and their pal just about saved you from making a real cake of yourself.’ She turned to the boys. ‘Do you have a carry-out?’ she enquired. ‘If so, why don’t we all sit down and have it right now, and forget our differences? It’s a special holiday, after all, our mam won’t expect us back until this evening.’

‘I’ve gorra bit of food,’ Paddy said gruffly. He could never argue with Mary, Amy knew that very well. ‘And some water in a bottle. You’ve gorra stack of stuff, though, haven’t you, Albert?’

‘Same’s the girls, I guess,’ Albert said. ‘Phil?’

‘In the basket,’ Philip told him. ‘The housekeeper packed it so I don’t know what it is, but she said it’d stop me from starving until dinner time. Oh, and there’s a bottle of raspberry syrup. We can all share.’