The Mersey Girls (22 page)

Oh, well. Butchering wasn’t that bad, and he was able to meet Linnet out of work two or three times a week, he took her home, dancing on a Saturday night, to the flicks, even to New Brighton to hang around the amusement arcades and paddle in the water.

And an office girl wasn’t such a marvellous job, after all. It was a bit better than being Mrs Cobble’s gofer, perhaps, but it wasn’t as though she was a proper secretary. Roddy turned in under the brick arch, crossed the paving in a couple of strides, and pushed open the front door.

‘I’m home, Mam,’ he called. ‘Gorrany tea on the go?’

Linnet got the job as office girl and found, to her delight, that it paid better than the job at Mrs Cobble’s and finished earlier, too.

‘And I’m also teaching a beginners’ evening class in typewriting and they pay me a bob a session, and I can manage four sessions a week,’ she told Roddy triumphantly as he walked her back to Lawrence Street when she finished at Mrs Cobble’s for the last time. ‘And I may be getting a room of me own! I like Mrs Brinton, she’s awful nice, but . . . oh, Roddy, a room of me own! D’you want to come and see it with me? It’s on the Boulevard-you know, that big, wide street with the trees and the grass. Do come, then you can tell your mam what it’s like.’

Roddy, secretly thrilled to be asked, pretended reluctance but allowed himself to be persuaded, so next evening found the two of them mounting the stairs at number 8, The Boulevard, Roddy cautiously, Linnet eagerly, whilst ahead of them a young woman with a couple of kids clinging to her skirt led the way, calling remarks back over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs.

‘It’s ri’ at the perishin’ top, Miss Murphy,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Still, your legs is younger than mine . . . an’ you ain’t carryin’, either.’

‘Carryin’ what?’ Linnet hissed and Roddy, grinning, tapped his own stomach significantly.

‘She’s ’avin’ another kid,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘I tell you what, our Linnet, a week of livin’ ’ere an’ you’ll think Havelock Street’s flat as St George’s Plain!’

‘It’s a long way up,’ Linnet agreed, ‘but think of the view, our Roddy! Ah, we’re there.’

The young woman pushed open a lopsided, creaking door and gestured them to go ahead of her. The reason was soon clear; the room was so tiny that a narrow bed, Linnet and Roddy filled it completely. An expectant mother would have had great difficulty in simply getting through the doorway.

‘It ain’t a room, it’s a bleedin’ cupboard,’ Roddy announced, looking round him. ‘You’ll ’ave to undress on the landing, queen, or you’ll skin your elbows on the walls.’

‘It’s very nice, really,’ Linnet murmured. ‘It is a bit small, but I’m not very big myself.’

A bell sounded below them and the young woman’s large and untidy head appeared in the doorway. ‘Gorra go,’ she said cheerfully. ‘That’s the doorbell. Look all you want, then come down an’ tell me if you’re takin’ it.’

She lumbered down the stairs and Linnet turned to Roddy. ‘Don’t say it, I know it’s tiny, but there’s a bed and a window . . . and she said I could use the kitchen to cook me meals. She said all the rooms are small, Roddy, and it is cheap, honest.’

‘And you like this better than me Aunt Brinton’s? Well, I can see you might,’ Roddy said handsomely. ‘It looks clean an’ at least you won’t ’ave to share a bed wi’ Bessie. Wharrabout visitors?’ he leered at her. ‘You’ve gorra be really pally to ’ave a visitor in ’ere. I mean you go to scratch your – your elbow and you’ll find yourself scratchin’ someone else’s kneecap.’

‘Oh, ha ha,’ Linnet said crossly. ‘She’s only asking eight bob, Roddy, and that’s about what I can afford, so I’m going to take it.’

‘Who’s next door?’ Roddy asked suddenly. He tapped on the wall; the sound echoed hollowly back at them. ‘This ain’t a wall, Linnet, it’s a partition, just a piece o’ wood. Dear Gawd, you could get through it wi’ a tooth-pick . . . you could wake up one mornin’ an’ find an eye glarin’ down at you through an ’ole in the wall!’

Linnet giggled. ‘It’s all girls so what would it matter? There’s a married couple with two little boys but all the rest of us are girls. That’s another reason why I like it,’ she added honestly, ‘because we’re all about the same age and none of us will have much money. I’m going to take it, so I just hope you’ll give Auntie Sullivan a good report about it.’

‘She’ll be up ’ere inspectin’ the day you move in,’ Roddy assured her. ‘You know me mam – she worries about you, queen.’

‘Yes, I know. But – but Roddy . . . it’s me own place!’

‘Yeah, I know. An’ it’s a decent little room,’ Roddy said, suddenly magnanimous. It was the thought of a houseful of girls, Linnet imagined. ‘You’ll be awright ’ere, our Linnie, though you’ve a powerful trek to work.’

‘I’ll catch a tram; or leave early,’ Linnet assured him. ‘Let’s go down and tell the lady “yes” then, shall we? Oh, Roddy, a place of me own!’

Mrs Sullivan was at the low stone sink, up to her elbows in suds, when Roddy came into the kitchen with a bounce in his step and a sparkle in his eye. He had taken pains over his appearance that morning and felt very much the young man about town, with his hair Brylcreemed and a clean white shirt on under his best suit. And at this precise moment he was so happy it was all he could do not to burst into song. He was carrying a big, newspaper-wrapped parcel which he put down on the kitchen table with a thump.

‘Present for you, Mam,’ he said laconically and then, unable to contain himself a moment longer: ‘I got the job, they told me straight off I’d gorrit.’

‘The job? You got the job? Well, son, I won’t pretend I’m not glad because we could do wi’ the money, but we’ll miss you, me an’ your dad.’ Mrs Sullivan turned impulsively from the sink and gave her son a kiss on the cheek, her pink, water-wrinkled hands held carefully clear of the suit. ‘When d’you start?’

‘It’s sail, Mam, you should say, when do you sail? And it’s Tuesday morning, wi’ the tide.’ He heaved a sigh and a grin spread slowly across his face. ‘Eh, it’s good to be doing a proper job again and it’ll be good to ’ave money in me pocket, an’ all. First t’ing I did once I knew was go round to the market an’ give in me notice to old Sampson an’ he let me ’ave a leg o’ pork, cheap.’ He unwrapped the newspaper and displayed the meat. ‘See? That’ll mek a meal or two, eh?’

‘It’s a grand piece o’ meat,’ Mrs Sullivan said, turning back to the sink and plunging her arms into the suds once more. ‘It’ll do us for the best part of a week, hot an’ cold. I tell you someone who won’t be too pleased that you’re goin’ to sea, though, an’ that’s young Linnet. She’s rare fond o’ you, lad, for all she pretends otherwise. She’ll miss you turble bad.’

‘I wish I believed that,’ Roddy said gloomily. ‘She’s that keen on ’er bloomin’ job, she talks about nothin’ else when we go out. I met ’er out of work the other day an’ she were talkin’ to a feller.’ He snorted disdainfully. ‘A bleedin’ insurance clerk, whatever that may be – not quite like a seaman on the SS
Mary Rose
.’

‘Well, I hope you haven’t signed on because of the things Linnie said about butchering,’ Mrs Sullivan said absently, pulling a sheet out of the water and beginning to wring it viciously. She had lost her job at the bakery on Derby Road when they started to cut down on staff and now she took in washing, a miserable, badly-paid business much hated by her family. ‘She only said butcherin’ were a low business to get a rise out of you, son. She knew it were a decent trade, really. Only the money weren’t so good, I’m bound to admit that.’

‘The money went down as soon as jobs began to get scarce,’ her son pointed out. He crossed the kitchen and opened the back door into the noisome little yard in which the mangle stood. ‘Old Sampson weren’t a bad boss, but when folk start askin’ for smaller and smaller parcels of meat something’s gorra go. And I’d been there a good while. Lemme give you an ‘and with them sheets, Mam, they’re too ’eavy for you.’

‘Oh go on wi’ you – not that I’m not grateful for your young arms,’ Mrs Sullivan said breathlessly, heaving the sheet out of the cooling water. ‘Grab a hold o’ this, then!’

‘You go on wi’ the washing, whilst I mangle,’ Roddy advised her. He went into the yard, dunked the sheet in the big rainwater barrel which his mother used as a rinse and then fed it through the mangle twice to get the last drop of water out. Then he shook it, pegged it on a section of the washing line and returned to the kitchen. ‘I wonder what Linnie’s doin’ tonight? I might pop round, later.’

‘Go sooner,’ Mrs Sullivan advised, wringing a second sheet over the suds and then handing it to her son. ‘No point in not tellin’ her as soon as you can. Get yourself some bread an’ scrape an’ a cuppa – you can make me one, as well – then go round to Exchange Flags. They don’t finish till six, you’ve plenty of time.’

‘Right, I will.’ Roddy rinsed the next sheet, mangled it, pegged it on the line, then rubbed a hand thoughtfully across his chin and heard the resultant rasp with mixed feelings. Seamen could have beards, and it would be grand not to have to shave each day, but Linnet liked a feller to be tidy. Perhaps he’d have a shave before he left, dazzle her with a smooth chin as well as with the news that he had joined the merchant service as a deckhand and would be off the following week.

‘All done?’ Mrs Sullivan appeared in the doorway with an armful of pillowcases. ‘My, I’ll be glad when these are done, that Mrs Pedham from the Angel on Dale Street believes in gettin’ value for money – still, once they’re ironed young Jack delivers ’em and she pays up prompt, I’ll give ’er that.’

‘I wish you didn’t have to do it, though,’ Roddy said. ‘When I send my allotment home, perhaps you’ll be able to ease off a bit. Or you might get another cleaning job.’

‘Aye, an’ pigs might fly,’ Mrs Sullivan said. She wiped sweat off her forehead with the back of her arm and decorated herself with soapsuds. ‘Never mind, eh? You don’t hear me complainin’.’

‘Oh you, you never moan,’ Roddy said affectionately. He went over to the fire and pulled the kettle over the flame, then went to the cupboard and got out a screw of tea, a tin of condensed milk, a half loaf of bread and a packet of margarine. ‘What d’you want on your bread and scrape? Can we spare some conny onny?’

‘There’s nothin’ I like better on a buttie than conny onny,’ Mrs Sullivan admitted. ‘But will there be enough to wet the tea? I don’t fancy me tea black an’ I’ve no fresh milk.’

Her son peered into the opened tin of condensed milk.

‘Aye, plenty for both,’ he decided, standing the tin to one side and beginning to saw at the loaf with the ancient bread-knife. ‘Soon have a feast ready, our Mam. Then I’ll be off to see Linnet.’

Linnet was finishing off a letter for Mr Cowan, typing away as fast as she could, when he came into the pool and looked around in the rather helpless way men often did when they found themselves amongst so many women – and all working away like mad things, of course, since there were many more shorthand typists in the city than there were jobs. She smiled at him, then waved a hand.

‘If it’s the letter to General Accident you’re after, Mr Cowan, it’s over here,’ she called. ‘I’ve all but finished it . . . just got the last para to go.’

Mr Cowan looked relieved. He was a bespectacled, dark-haired man in his forties who prided himself, Linnet imagined, on always being spotlessly turned out. He had patent-leather hair – well, it shone like patent-leather – an impeccable dark suit, a severe navy-blue tie with tiny red dots on it and a pencil-line moustache. He was also one of the shy ones.

Linnet had realised soon after starting her first job that the men in the office could be divided into two types: those who were shy with girls and those who felt it obligatory on all occasions to flirt with everything female, even the likes of stout Miss Harper and stringy Miss Elphinstone, who ran the typing pool between them. On the whole, she preferred the shy ones. Rude jokes whispered in one’s ear were bad enough, but a squeeze in the confines of the jerky old lift or a hand lingering too long on shoulder or hip could lead to all sorts of trouble. Or so she believed, for she had not been with the Eagle and General Life Insurance Company long enough to be sure how her superiors would behave towards a girl who forgot herself sufficiently to allow a young man to take liberties.

But Mr Cowan was definitely diffident, which was strange because he was married, with a child, and married men, in Linnet’s experience, were not generally shy with girls.

But now Mr Cowan was making his way through the desks to Linnet’s side and Linnet, with great panache, was finishing off the letter, checking it with a swift glance, and ripping all four copies out of the machine. The top copy was to be sent to the customer, in this case to another insurance company, the second would be added to the fat file, the third would go back with Mr Cowan for his personal file and the fourth, the pink one, would go in Linnet’s desk drawer so that any errors, discovered later, could be traced back to her.

‘Nearly ready, sir,’ Linnet said cheerfully as Mr Cowan bent over her desk and began to read the letter across the top of her head. ‘I’ll just do you an envelope.’

She took a suitably sized envelope out of her desk drawer, typed the name and address swiftly onto the front of it, and slid the envelope into place. She dealt quickly with the flimsies, then turned to Mr Cowan, who seemed to have finished reading and was fiddling in his pocket, no doubt for the fountain pen with which to add his impressively curly signature at the end of the page.

‘Is it all right, sir? Only if so, it can be sent straight down with the rest of our post rather than going back to your office for checking and signature and then coming back here.’

‘It seems to be correct,’ Mr Cowan said rather stiffly. Linnet was just thinking that he was a bit mean with his praise when he added, ‘You type very nicely, Miss er . . . er. I’ve yet to find an erasure on a letter sent up by you.’

He could tell who had typed each letter by the initials at the top of the page, of course. LM for Linnet Murphy and AC for . . . well, for Mr Cowan was the best she could do since she had no idea what his first name was. So now she turned in her chair and smiled up at him, glad to feel that she was a little bit appreciated in this huge firm she had so recently joined.