Читать книгу Child of the Mersey - Annie Groves, Annie Groves - Страница 6

‘Mam?’ Eleven-year-old Kitty Callaghan edged further into her mother’s bedroom. Unusually, the clean but faded curtains were not yet open, and in the dim light Kitty could just make out her mother lying on the bed. Ellen’s head was to one side, as if looking down at something, and a small, barely perceptible sound was coming from her direction.

It had gone noon but there was no dinner ready. When Kitty and her brothers, fifteen-year-old Jack and ten-year-old Danny, came home from school and the shipyard there was always something hot to eat, even in the summer. Kitty did not know where her dad was. Maybe he was out looking for work – if he had not got a start on the dock that morning.

‘Mam? Mam, are you all right? Are you sick?’ Rising panic caught Kitty’s throat as she inched towards the bed. When her mother did not answer, fear made Kitty’s heart beat faster.

If she opened the curtains, Mam would wake with a fright, which Kitty knew would make her cross, but Kitty could not see properly in this gloom. Her attention struck by an unfamiliar sound, she made up her mind.

Unhooking the wire that threaded through the top hem, Kitty drew back the faded curtains. They slipped along the wire with ease, and then she placed the wire back onto the nail so they did not sag in the middle. Her mam liked everything tidy and said saggy curtains had a poverty-stricken look about them.

‘I’ll get you a nice cup of tea, Mam,’ Kitty said brightly. ‘I’ll take the afternoon off school to help you out with the baking if you’re not feeling up to it.’ Her mother was not the strongest of women, Kitty knew, even though she was always on the go, taking care of everyone, especially Dad.

It would be nice for her to have a day in bed. She deserved a bit of peace and quiet. Only this morning she said her legs felt like they did not belong to her. Kitty had laughed and wondered to whom the legs did belong. Her mam said some funny things sometimes.

‘Let me wait on you for a change, Mam. I’ll fetch you that nice hot cup of tea,’ Kitty said. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Mam?’

Turning, Kitty looked again towards the bed, not used to seeing her mother lying down, doing nothing. Usually she was scrubbing out or, more often, making bread and cakes to sell, just to keep body and soul together when Dad was out of work.

A chill came over Kitty and almost without realising it she found herself inching closer towards the bed, almost drawn by an invisible force. Moving slowly, her eyes took in the motionless shape of her mother; the bloodstained bed a deep crimson and her mother’s hand that cradled a quietly mewling bundle, itself huddled into her mother’s still form.

‘Mam …?’ Kitty’s voice wavered. ‘I’m here. It’s going to be all right. I’ll get you help.’ Kitty saw her mam’s half-opened eyes fixed on the newborn baby in the crook of her arm. Quickly now, she moved towards the infant. Its tiny mouth was puckered, searching for sustenance.

Kitty reached towards her mother’s hand, taking it in her own. She let out a small cry of shock; her mother’s hand was as cold as a stone. The dawning realisation that her new sibling’s quest was futile was starting to overwhelm her and she dropped her mother’s hand, unable to bear the coldness from a hand that had once been so warm. The hand that had stroked her with such tenderness; that had held her own reassuringly thousands of times … The motion seemed to distress the child further, and even in her fear Kitty still took in the fact that the infant was a little boy, his face screwed up in frustration and whose cry was growing more strident with each breath.

‘Mam! Mam, wake up!’ Panic screamed through Kitty’s mind and body, even as she shook her head in denial. She wanted it to be five minutes ago when everything was fine. She stood rooted to the spot, her hands trapped under her arms, hugging her body, her legs refusing to move.

‘Mam?’ Kitty’s trembling voice was barely above a whisper as she began to shake uncontrollably. The thought that her beloved mam was dead was too much to take in. She would get the doctor and he could give her something to make her better, couldn’t he?

‘No …’ she groaned in despair. ‘Mam, please don’t go … Don’t go, Mam. Everything will be fine … I am here now … I’ll be good …’ Into her mind sprang the recollection of days when Dad had no work and no money, and her mam, at the end of her tether, said she felt like running miles away …

‘I’ll get the doctor … I’ll get Aunty Doll …’

Still, there was no sign of any movement in her mother’s curled-up body. As hot tears fell freely down Kitty’s cheeks, she rapidly blinked them away. It was too late and she knew it. Her beautiful, kind, hard-working mam could not hear her any more.

Kitty lifted her mother’s marble-cold hand again and curled its icy fingers around her own, she held it to her face and then gently bent down and kissed her mother’s soft cheek. Her hair around her face felt like the softest down. Desolate, Kitty knew without a doubt that her cherished, much-loved mother was beyond anyone’s help.

What was she going to do now? Mam was dead! A scream of anguish escaped her lips and drowned out the cry of the infant, whose tiny purple fists balled in fury, showing no regard for his mother who had made the ultimate sacrifice to bring him into the world.

Quickly coming to her senses, Kitty scooped the newborn babe from her mother’s lifeless arms and wrapped him in a threadbare sheet she retrieved from the dresser drawer. Scurrying from the room, Kitty headed towards the stairs, almost tripping in her haste to be out of the house.

‘Aunty Doll! Aunty Doll!’ she cried. ‘Please help me!’

Frank Feeny, hands in pockets, flat cap pushed to the back of his dark brown hair, whistled a happy tune as he turned the corner of Empire Street. At fourteen years old, he had just received his first pay packet from the Co-op, where he had worked for the past two weeks, and was looking forward to handing it over to his mam.

‘Kitty? Kitty!’ When he saw the distress on the face of the young girl whom he treated like his own kid sister, he broke into a run. She was clearly crying as she banged her front door shut.

‘Kit?’ Frank called again. ‘What’s the matter? What have you got there?’

Empire Street contained only ten houses, five on each side. From the dock road corner, there was the Sailor’s Rest public house opposite a disused warehouse, and at the ‘top’ end, opposite the stable where Frank’s dad kept his horses, was Winnie Kennedy’s general shop, next door to the happy home he shared with his family and where Kitty was now heading.

Everybody knew everybody around here – you couldn’t scratch your nose without somebody commenting on it – and some of the country’s richest men walked the same street as the poorest. Ship owners were only a stone’s throw from the working class and the families who lived hand to mouth.

The ships, the factories, the warehouses were proof of a thriving port; the noisy clang of dockside machinery, the rattle of trains taking goods to every part of the country, and beyond. The overhead railway at the bottom of Empire Street carried dockers, clerks, businessmen and everyone in between. Like any other port, it knew villainy, roguery, had sinners and saints; and everyone looked out for each other because that is what they had to do.

The kids stopped playing their games of hopscotch in the midday heat, while their mothers, sitting on the little walls that separated each doorstep, ceased fanning their faces with newspapers, to gawp at young Kitty darting across the street, carrying a bundle of sheets in her arms.

Kitty needed help. Frank’s legs, normally whippet-fast, felt as if he were wading through mud to get to her.

‘What you got there, girl?’ He lowered his handsome face to look inside Kitty’s bundle.

‘Frank! Get your mam, quick!’

Horrified, he saw the bundle Kitty was carrying was bloodstained, but he could not voice the terrible questions that were racing through his head. Thankfully, his mother, Dolly, had seen Kitty’s approach and was now hurrying out to her, wiping her wet hands on her full-length flowered pinny.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ Dolly cried when she saw the infant in Kitty’s arms. From her forehead to her ample bosom and over each shoulder, she made the sign of the Cross. ‘Whose is this?’

‘It’s me mam’s. What am I going to do, Aunty Doll?’ Kitty’s dark eyes, stricken with horrified shock, looked to the woman who was as familiar as her own mam. She could always run to Aunty Doll, her mother’s best friend.

‘Where is she, Kit? Where’s your mam?’ Dolly said the words slowly, as if dreading the answer.

‘Aunty Doll, you’ve got to help me.’ Kitty felt her stomach heave; she was going to throw up right there on the street. ‘Me poor mam’s dead!’

The world of women and babies was a closed book to Frank but all he knew was that Kitty needed him, so he gathered her and the baby into his arms. There was something about Kitty; it was often said about her that she was an old head on young shoulders but Kitty was still only a child and he was determined to offer what comfort he could.

Dolly shuddered, horrified to think of her best friend, Ellen, suffering on her own as she must have done. The babe hadn’t been due for some weeks yet, so Ellen’s labours must have come over her very quickly – too quickly even for her to cry out and for one of the neighbours in these cramped back-to-back houses to hear her. As Dolly eyed the screaming infant and the quiet, grave face of young Kitty, she reminded herself that death was no stranger to these parts. Folk were poor, and doctors and medicine were for those that could afford them, which wasn’t many in Empire Street. A mother of five children herself, Dolly took the struggling child from Frank’s nervous arms, holding the infant boy to her breast. Her ease and experience must have been felt by the child because he stilled immediately.

‘Poor little mite,’ she observed. ‘You couldn’t have had a worse start. But we’ll make it right, won’t we, Kitty?’ And she took Kitty’s shaking hand and led her back to the house. ‘I’ll look after them, Ellen.’ She raised her eyes to heaven and knew the time had come for her to keep the pact she and Ellen made all those years ago.

Dolly vowed to do all she could to help Kitty and her family. It would be difficult enough for any woman in a family of men, who were not used to fending for themselves, but Kitty was only a slip of a girl, despite being mature for her years.

The day after Ellen’s death Dolly rose early, full of resolve to help her best friend’s only daughter. She lifted the newborn from the dresser drawer that rested on two straight-backed chairs, where he had slept in blissful ignorance, waking only to be fed.

Poor Ellen – Dolly made her usual sign of the Cross – God rest her weary soul, she would want her family kept together. However, that would not happen if it were left up to that feckless waster Sonny Callaghan …

Dolly had no compassion for Sonny Callaghan. He had been bad for Ellen from the day he met her. He was a dreamer who made gossamer promises. Beautiful but totally insubstantial and impossible to keep. He was more likely to be found in the pub squandering what he had earned rather than looking after his family. Ellen had ended up charring and taking in washing to supplement her meagre housekeeping, which more often than not never made it back from the pub on a Friday night.

‘Bah,’ Dolly told the sleeping infant, whose sooty lashes rested on peachy cheeks, ‘he’s a fool and your darlin’ mam paid the biggest price for loving him.’ She walked over to her bedroom window and looked out across the street where women huddled together, talking. Most likely discussing the future of the Callaghan children, thought Dolly.

‘It’s little Kitty who needs my help,’ Dolly told the sleeping child in the soft soothing tones of her Celtic homeland, ‘for it’s she who has it all to do now.’ Ellen had taught the young girl everything there was to know about keeping a clean house and making good, cheap, wholesome food, but Kitty, skinny little snapper that she was, could not manage a feckless father, two growing brothers, and a newborn babe all on her own. Furthermore, there were things that men knew nothing about. Dolly took a deep breath.

‘But I have it all in hand, Ellen,’ she said to the cerulean sky, as white cotton wool clouds ambled by. ‘I will make sure Kitty will not have to shoulder the burden on her own. There are plenty here to help her.’ The women of Empire Street coped because they had to. Their men were seafarers, away for long stretches, and it was up to the women to keep body and soul together, and maintain hearth, home and family. These women, however, were a lot older than this poor eleven-year-old girl.

Sonny Callaghan walked with a sombre, somewhat rolling gait to stand behind the horse-drawn hearse bearing his wife’s coffin, accompanied on either side by his young sons, Jack and Danny. Dolly suspected that Sonny Callaghan had taken more than a little Dutch courage to get him this far. Kitty followed a few steps behind, holding on to Dolly’s arm for support. Dolly handed the youngest of the Callaghan children to her daughter Rita. The small dockside street was filled with friends and neighbours, as well as a smattering of family from the little Irish village of Cashalree, ‘over the water’, where Sonny had married the beautiful and much-missed Ellen.

As the grieving procession moved off, Rita took the baby indoors out of the way. She was going to look after him until the chief mourners returned from burying his mother at Ford Cemetery. The boy did not have a name yet.

‘Everyone came out to support them,’ Dolly said later when the mourners had all gone home and she was back in her own house. She sighed and looked around the table to her loving family, all seated and quiet for once.

Pop, her husband of seventeen years, nodded in agreement. Rita, their eldest, was a good girl; unbidden she rose now and went to make a pot of tea. Then there were the two boys, fourteen-year-old Frank, handsome like Pop, and twelve-year-old Eddy – the quiet one; she did not know who he took after considering that most of the family could talk the hind legs off a donkey. The youngest were ten-year-old dance-mad Nancy, followed by Sarah, who at six had a wise head on young shoulders. Now, Dolly thought, her family would grow even bigger because of the pact she and Ellen had made all those years ago.

‘I’ll look out for yours if you look out for mine,’ they had promised each other, and Dolly would do it gladly; anything to stop Ellen’s family from being split up and the children put into a home. She would not let that happen for all the ships on the Mersey. Her family were the beat of her huge, generous heart. There was always room for a few more.

‘The whole street turned out except the widow, Mrs Delaney, I noticed,’ said Dolly, ‘and who would wonder?’ She nodded at nobody in particular. ‘Ellen’s death will surely take the shine off the professional widow now.’

‘Do you think so, Doll?’ Pop, always the peacemaker, smiled at his wife.

‘I’ve never seen a woman more eager to get into widow’s weeds – her husband’s been dead donkey’s years, and that woman is still parading around in her black. She reminds me of old Queen Victoria.’ There was a small silence, everybody still touched by the sadness of the funeral earlier. Pop thought of how he would feel if it was his own beloved Dolly that he’d had to bury that morning. He pushed the thought away, and was glad of the distraction when Rita brought in a tray of cups, saucers, a pot of tea and a huge plate of freshly made ham sandwiches.

‘Aunty Ellen will know she left her family in good hands with us,’ Rita said, patting her mother’s shoulder. Dolly nodded. Rita always knew the right thing to say; she was going to make a smashing nurse. ‘But,’ Rita added with a half-smile, ‘calling Mrs Delaney names won’t bring her back.’

‘I know, and I’m sorry, but I can’t believe that old crow didn’t come to pay her respects. Just makes me mad, that’s all.’ Dolly sniffed into her handkerchief. ‘Poor Ellen didn’t deserve to go the way she did.’ She got up from the table. ‘The one thing I can do for her now is look after her family, and I will.’

‘We know.’ Pop rose, too, put his arm around his wife’s shoulders and gave a sad smile.

‘I will make sure her little ones know they can come here anytime.’

‘They know that already, Mam.’ Rita passed her mother a cup of tea. ‘I’ve put a little drop of something in that to help you sleep.’

‘We will not be starting that caper,’ Dolly said indignantly. ‘Strong drink has never passed my lips before, except at Christmas, and it won’t do now.’ Rita took the cup from her mam while, out of Dolly’s sight, Pop passed his daughter the bottle of whiskey, surmising what the eye did not see the heart could never grieve over. Unbeknown to Dolly, she had drunk umpteen cups of tea today laced with a slosh of the old country.

‘Poor Kitty,’ Dolly lamented. ‘She’s tied to that house as sure as any married woman – and she’s not even old enough to leave school.’