The September Girls (22 page)

Years ago, when Daniel Vaizey had so suddenly and mysteriously left, Mr Allardyce had advertised in the
Echo
for a replacement. By some other mysterious means, a copy of the paper had ended up in New York and the advertisement was read by Mrs Louella Fisk, who wrote stating that she’d learned to sign when she’d married her late husband who had been deaf from birth, that she was a trained teacher and very interested in the vacancy, providing accommodation was supplied.

Within a matter of weeks, Mrs Fisk had settled in Nurse Hutton’s old room. Fergus and Anthony liked her straight away, far more than they’d ever liked Daniel Vaizey. She claimed to be forty-five, but winked when she said it so they weren’t sure if it was true or not, although why anyone would want to lie about their age was quite beyond them. Tall and as thin as a broomstick, her lips were painted dark red and she smoked black cigarettes in a silver holder. She taught them how to play all sorts of card games and, on Saturdays, under the guise of going to the pictures, she sometimes took them to the dog track and gave them sixpence each to bet with, impressing on them to keep the visits secret.

Fergus had always enjoyed the weekends he spent with Anthony and the arrival of Mrs Fisk made them even better but, in a few months, both she and Anthony would depart for a foreign country millions of miles away. Although he would miss Mrs Fisk, he didn’t know how he’d live without Anthony who was as close to him as a brother - in fact, he got on with him much better than he did Tyrone.

He had guessed something was going on. Lately, Mrs Fisk had been making long, transatlantic phone calls. The words ‘university’ ‘genius’ and ‘remarkable young man’ had been mentioned. Tonight, Mrs Fisk had been ensconced with Mr Allardyce in his study for ages and Fergus and Anthony had sat on the floor outside the door listening - at least Fergus had listened and conveyed the gist of the conversation to his friend.

Apparently, Mrs Fisk thought Anthony would benefit from a proper education in a school established especially for the deaf, and such a school - ‘The best in the world, Mr Allardyce, I can assure you’ - was situated in a place called Florida in the United States. ‘It’s called the Gaudulet College for the Deaf. I would live close by and provide him with a home.’ When Anthony was eighteen, he would transfer to Gaudulet University and Mrs Fisk would then consider her role in his life was over. ‘I thought it wise to contact the college before approaching you, and they are willing to take him. The next term starts in January. This is a marvellous opportunity. Your son’s talent as an artist is amazing, but it’s not just his art that will benefit from expert tuition. He has a brilliant brain that will respond to the expert tuition that I, or any other tutor you might hire, could not possibly provide. What do you say, Mr Allardyce?’

Fergus had told Anthony everything Mrs Fisk had said with his fingers. As he did so, Anthony got more and more excited and Fergus felt sicker and sicker. Mrs Fisk hadn’t mentioned his name once. He’d outlived his usefulness,
his
role in Anthony’s life was over.

Mr Allardyce hadn’t said much so far, just responded with the occasional grunt. Now he said, ‘I think we’d better get Anthony in here, see what he thinks.’

Fergus dragged Anthony to his feet and they raced upstairs. Mrs Fisk shouted, ‘Fergus, will you ask Anthony to come down to his father’s study, please?’

When Fergus heard the study door shut, he went down and listened again. For a long time, there was silence: Mrs Fisk was telling Anthony in sign language about the wonders of the college in Florida, then Anthony said in his strange voice, ‘I want to go.’

‘What was that?’ Mr Allardyce asked.

‘He wants to go,’ Mrs Fisk translated.

‘Then he shall.’

Later Fergus had asked his friend, ‘Won’t I ever see you again?’

‘Of course you will,’ Anthony had replied. ‘When I finish university, I shall come back and marry your Cara.’

That would be years and years off, and what made things worse was that in January Fergus would turn fourteen and have to start work. As yet, he had no idea what he would do, but expected he would become an errand boy and deliver things like bread and stuff on a bike. After a few years, he would be promoted to behind the counter of whatever shop it was, and probably stay there for the rest of his life. He wasn’t looking forward to it, not a bit, but at least it was better than working in a factory or for a chimney sweep as one lad he knew had done.

Fergus turned over in bed for the umpteenth time and seriously wondered if he’d be better off dead.

 

Eleanor was furious when she discovered plans had been made for her son’s future and she hadn’t been consulted, although had to concede that Anthony would be better off in an educational establishment that catered solely for the needs of deaf children.

On New Year’s Day, she, Brenna and Nancy went to Princes landing stage to wave Anthony and Mrs Fisk off. The icy wind felt as sharp as knives, making their eyes water and their noses run. It had been deemed too cold to bring the children. Jonathan and Cara had been left with Colm, who had stayed at home to catch up on some paperwork, and Sybil was with Phyllis, the maid, whom she loathed. The feeling was mutual.

They stood in the very spot where the Caffreys had first waited for Paddy when they’d arrived from Ireland seven and a half years before. Marcus stood alone, a dark, brooding figure, hands in pockets, the brim of his black trilby hiding his eyes.

‘Where’s Fergus?’ Eleanor asked. ‘I’d’ve thought he, of all people, would want to see Anthony off. They were such tremendous friends.’

‘He couldn’t come, he started work today,’ Brenna said a trifle shortly. She was only there to keep Eleanor company. So far as she was concerned, Anthony Allardyce could go and jump in a lake. He’d proved anything but a friend over the last few months. Fergus had been useful enough while he’d lasted, but cast aside like an old rag when his usefulness had come to an end. Now Anthony had other fish to fry and, while a flurry of arrangements were being made for his future, Fergus had been sidelined or ignored, even told not to bother coming some weekends. He’d been deeply hurt, she could tell. ‘I hope we’re not going to wait until the boat sails,’ she said. ‘Any minute now and I’ll freeze to the spot.’

‘Let’s just wait until they appear on deck and we’ll give them a wave and leave,’ Nancy suggested. ‘They won’t want to hang around either.’

‘I’ll go along with that,’ agreed a shivering Eleanor. ‘Oh, there they are now.’ She waved energetically. ‘Bye, Anthony. Bye, darling.’

Before the women left, Brenna approached Marcus Allardyce. ‘Thank you for giving Fergus a job in your office,’ she said shyly. ‘It’s much appreciated.’

Marcus smiled bleakly. ‘He’s a bright boy, Fergus. He seemed to think he was destined to be an errand boy, but he’s capable of much better than that. Let’s say the job is in return for all he did for Anthony. That was much appreciated too, Mrs Caffrey.’

He was ever such a strange man, Brenna thought when they were on their way home on the tram: kind one minute, horrible the next. Years ago, Eleanor had told her the reason she’d been thrown out into the rain and, while there was no excuse for such monstrous behaviour, a man couldn’t be blamed for losing his temper when he discovered his wife was expecting another man’s child.

‘If you’d like to come back to Parliament Terrace,’ Nancy said, ‘there’s some freshly made pea and ham soup that’ll warm the cockles of your heart.’

‘That’s just what I need,’ Eleanor cried. ‘How about you, Brenna?’

‘I can’t wait.’ Brenna forgot about Marcus Allardyce, but he didn’t forget her. For weeks afterwards, he savoured their short conversation and the recollection of her wondrous smile. Then she shifted back to the corner of his mind where she had always been and where she always would be.

1939

‘Sybil!’ someone shouted. ‘Sybil Allardyce!’

Sybil winced. She didn’t recognize the voice, but it couldn’t be one of her friends as none would shout so loudly in a public place, even though the noise was deafening. She and, it seemed, several hundred other women were in Renshaw Hall registering for military service in the war that was about to start at almost any minute. There were at least a dozen desks where particulars were being taken and a long queue at every one.

All of a sudden, a pair of thin arms grasped her shoulders. ‘Sybil! It’s me, Cara Caffrey. Are you joining up too? Oh, isn’t it exciting!’

‘Yes,’ Sybil muttered, shaking off the arms. The last time she’d seen Cara was nearly three years ago when they’d both been sixteen. She’d been tall enough then, but had grown even more and her head, with its thick mass of red-gold hair, could be seen above that of every other woman in the hall.

‘I’d like to be a Wren,’ Cara said, ‘but I don’t think we’ll be given a choice. We could end up in the Air Force or the Army.’

Sybil also fancied becoming a Wren. ‘That’s right,’ she said in a clipped voice, wishing Cara would go away. Her friend, Betsy Billington-Clarke, had gone to look for the Ladies and she didn’t want her to come back and find her in the company of someone as common as Cara Caffrey whose accent was a mixture of Liverpudlian and Irish and who was hatless, gloveless and wearing a startling red frock that clashed violently with her hair. She was conscious of her own neat blue rayon frock spotted with daisies and little pillbox hat to match, both from Harrods. To her dismay, at that very moment, Betsy appeared at her side, mopping her brow with a lace-trimmed handkerchief.

‘Phew! It’s hot in here. Sorry I was so long, Sybil, there was a queue for the Ladies a mile long.’ She smiled at Cara. ‘Hello. I’m Betsy Clarke.’

‘And I’m Cara Caffrey. Nice to meet you, Betsy.’ Cara’s answering smile stretched from ear to ear as she shook hands. ‘Look, I’d better run. Me friend, Sheila, is keeping me place in the queue over there and she’s nearly reached the front. Tara, Sybil. Tara, Betsy.’

‘Isn’t she lovely?’ Betsy enthused when Cara had gone. ‘I noticed her before, she’s outstanding. Such gorgeous hair and, unlike so many tall women, she looks quite comfortable with her height. Is she a friend of yours?’

‘No!’ Sybil shuddered at the thought, rather resenting Betsy being so taken with Cara. ‘Her mother knows mine, that’s all.’ She turned on her friend. ‘What happened to the “Billington”? Since when have you been just Betsy Clarke?’

Betsy laughed. ‘Since I entered this hall. Billington is my mother’s maiden name and Daddy added it to Clarke when they got married. I’ve always hated having a double-barrelled name, it’s frightfully snobbish, and today’s my chance of getting rid of it.’

‘I always wanted one,’ Sybil confessed, ‘but Wallace-Allardyce is a terrible mouthful.’

‘Terrible,’ Betsy agreed. She fanned her face with her hand. ‘Didn’t anyone think to open a window in the middle of June? You know, I don’t think this queue has grown any shorter since I went to the Ladies. I never dreamt there’d be such a crowd wanting to join up. The women of Liverpool must be extremely patriotic.’

 

‘If she comes home and ses she’s joined up, I’ll kill her,’ Brenna promised the empty parlour. ‘War’s men’s work, women should take no part in it, least not in the fighting. I already told her that but young people today, they just won’t listen.’

She noticed an overflowing ashtray on the floor beside an armchair and tut-tutted loudly. The local branch of the Labour Party had held a meeting in the room the night before and always left the place a mess, although she couldn’t very well expect them to take home their spent fags and bring their own cups and saucers so she wouldn’t have to use her own when she made them a drink. They were quite a nice crowd, but next time she’d provide more ashtrays.

She flicked a duster over the room, plumped up the cushions on the grey moquette three-piece of which she was so proud, breathed on the mirror and polished it, then, giving the room a final glance, went upstairs to make the beds, singing along to the wireless as she went. ‘Smoke gets in your eyes . . .’ she warbled tunefully.

They hadn’t moved to a bigger house as she’d always wanted. When it came right down to it, Colm couldn’t bring himself to leave. The house was his brother’s legacy and he didn’t want to part with it. ‘Our Paddy
died
for this house,’ he said emotionally.

When Brenna suggested they let it and use the money towards the rent on somewhere nicer, he’d looked at her if she’d proposed he rob a bank or join the Conservative Party. ‘I’m not going to become a
landlord
, Bren,’ he gasped, horrified.

Brenna hadn’t minded too much. She was also fond of the house and would have found leaving a wrench, remembering how thrilled they’d been to get it. She was quite happy to settle for improving the place, decorating it from top to bottom - the entire family had mucked in and helped - and there’d been money enough to buy decent, if not new, furniture once Fergus, then Tyrone, had gone out to work, followed four years later by Cara who worked in Boots’ Cash Chemists with a very nice crowd of girls. By then, Brenna had given up her job in the Cocoa Rooms, feeling the family were flush enough. They’d had electricity installed, a bath put in the washhouse and a gas cooker in the kitchen, and had been contemplating having the range removed and replaced with a nice cream-and-brown tiled fireplace, when Tyrone left home and married Maria Murphy. Not only did it mean there was one less wage coming in, but they found themselves having to buy things for the baby that arrived about six months later, making Brenna a grandmother at the age of thirty-nine.

She stroked the pillow on Tyrone’s bed, hardly used for almost five years. She was still convinced it had all been a set-up. Tyrone was too soft-hearted by a mile.

These days, the house in Shaw Street was as busy as a station with meetings of one sort or another held in the parlour two or three nights a week. Hardly a day would pass without people coming to see Colm on Labour Party business, and Cara often had her friends around. Brenna and Eleanor had been elected to the committee of the Townswomen’s Guild and they took turns meeting in each other’s houses. She’d had to buy a little notebook and enter the dates of all the various gatherings so they wouldn’t clash.