Читать книгу Josephine Cox Sunday Times Bestsellers Collection - Josephine Cox - Страница 16

THE SUMMER OF 1930 was proving to be one of the most glorious on record, as if to compensate in some way for the misery of mass unemployment on Merseyside. Today, 25 May, the docklands were almost deserted but the narrow, meandering backstreets were as busy as ever. Young children played; scabby dogs lounged in cool, shadowy corners; floral-pinnied women in turbans busied themselves white-stoning their front doorsteps, pausing only for a snippet of gossip as a neighbour passed by; and having emptied gallons of milk from churn to jug, the milkman was on his lazy way home, the wheels of his cart clattering a tune on the cobbles … clickety-clack, clickety clack, drink your milk and I’ll be back … the children made up the song and as he passed by, they ran after him chanting the words, skipping away once he’d turned the corner.

Back down in the docks, sailors disembarked, glad to come ashore after being at sea for many months. Placards everywhere gave out the news: British Aviator Amy Johnson flies from London to Australia in nineteen and a half days.

‘There you go, boyo.’ The tall, bony man with the unkempt beard had been at sea for too long, and now at last, he was done with it. ‘While we’ve been conquering the seven seas, that brave lady’s been conquering the skies.’

‘Hmh!’ The younger man was rough in looks and rough in nature. ‘I’d rather her than me, up there all alone. I never have been able to stand my own company.’

The older man laughed. ‘That’s because you’re a miserable bugger, and I should know, being the unfortunate that had the next bunk to you.’

‘What d’you mean? We got on all right, didn’t we?’

‘That’s true – but only because when you’re on a ship in the middle of the ocean, you’ve either to get on with your shipmates, or jump off the ship. And I for one didn’t fancy being the sharks’ next meal.’

‘So where are you off to now?’

‘Home to South Wales, thank God. What about you? Where might you be headed?’

A crafty smile flickered over the younger man’s features. ‘I’ve a woman to see.’

‘A woman, eh?’ The other man knew of Edward Trent’s liking for the ladies, because he’d witnessed it many a time in port. ‘So, she’s another one you left behind, is she?’

‘Whether I left her behind or not, she’ll still be waiting for me.’

‘You’re an arrogant devil, I’ll give you that.’

‘I might stay this time … make an honest woman of her,’ Trent boasted.

The older man laughed out loud at the idea. ‘Never!’

‘Ah, but this one’s different. She’s full of fun, a real stunner. Moreover, she’ll do anything for me.’ He preened himself. ‘A man could do worse than settle down with a woman like Lucy Baker.’

‘Well, good luck to you then, boyo. As for me, I’m away to my beloved Wales. No more sailing the world’s oceans for me. I’m finished with all that.’

‘So, what will you do? There’s mass unemployment, you know. It may not be much of a picnic in your part of the world, matey.’

‘That won’t bother me.’ The older man took a deep, gratifying breath, and when he released it, the answer came with it. ‘I’ve not made up my mind yet, but what I do know is this: I’ll spend my days as I please, tending my bit of land and fishing, and not be driven by money and command. I’ve worked hard and saved my wages, and God willing, you’ll not see me again.’ With that he threw his kitbag over his shoulder and strode off, with never a look back.

Watching him go, the other man laughed under his breath. ‘That’s what they all say,’ he sneered, ‘and you’re no different from the rest.’ Dark-haired, dark-eyed and with a heart to match, Edward Trent was a regular Jack the Lad who fancied he should please every woman he came across, and he had done just that, in every port across the world.

We’re both going fishing, he thought as he walked on. I’ll leave you to catch the ones with the tails, Taffy Evans, while I settle for the others – the ones that pretend to fight you off when all they really want is for you to catch ’em and show ’em a good time.

As he left the docks and headed towards the nearest lodging-house, he had only one woman on his mind: a young and spritely thing, with long flowing hair and a smile that could melt a man’s heart from a mile off. ‘You’re a lucky girl, Lucy Baker!’ he chuckled. He hoped she’d kept her looks and taken care of herself, because Eddie boy was on his way!

He called her up in his mind and smiled. Even after two years away and countless other women, he’d still got a soft spot for her. She’d been a virgin when they’d met, a hardworking shop girl, still living with her parents, and she’d fallen for him hook, line and sinker. Who knows, if she treated him right, he might even consider putting a ring on her finger. Somehow, she had got to him, where the others hadn’t. Maybe it was her innocence and loyalty – things in short supply among the women he usually had dealings with.

He squared his shoulders and marched on. That doesn’t mean to say I’ll be staying for sure, he thought. Oh no! Like the man said, there are plenty of fish in the sea, and half the fun is catching them, then throwing them back for another day.

An hour and a half later, he had drunk a pint, had a strip-down wash and bedded the landlord’s daughter, twice. And now he was on a bus, headed for Kitchener Street, a mile or so from the docklands – number 14. He checked his notebook and scanned the many names there. Yes, that was it – Lucy Baker at number 14, Kitchener Street, Liverpool.

‘Will that be a return ticket, or one way?’ The conductor had his ticket-machine at the ready.

‘I might be coming back, or I might not.’ Edward liked to hedge his bets, especially as he didn’t quite know what awaited him. ‘I’ll have a return ticket, if you please.’

‘Return it is.’ Turning the handle on his machine, the conductor ran the ticket off. ‘That’ll be tuppence ha’penny.’

Twenty minutes later, the arrogant young seaman was strolling down Kitchener Street, checking the door numbers as he went. ‘Here we are!’ He had remembered the street as being long, with every house looking the same; narrow doors and white-stoned steps, and netted curtains up at the windows. But yes, this was the one – halfway down and looking exactly as he remembered. He rapped hard with the knocker.

After a couple of minutes, a plump, red-faced woman flung open the door. ‘What the devil d’you think you’re playing at?’ she demanded angrily. ‘I’m not deaf but I will be if you keep rattling the door like that?’

‘I’m looking for Lucy Baker.’ He’d forgotten that familiar lilt of the Liverpudlian tongue; it was a comforting sound to a man who had travelled a hostile world.

‘The Bakers don’t live here no more.’ Leaning forward, the red-faced woman looked up and down the street. Content that she would not be overheard, she confided, ‘There was a bit of a to-do in the family, if you know what I mean.’ And seeing that he did not know, she went on, ‘Ted Baker – Lucy’s father – he took another woman to his bed, d’yer see? Then his poor missus chucked him out, and rightly so if you ask me!’

‘I don’t need to know all the ins and outs,’ he told her irritably. ‘I just need to find Lucy.’

‘I’m coming to that. When Lucy’s dad was thrown out, he moved in with his new woman – went to live on York Street, they did – and good riddance to ’em! This house became vacant, and me an’ my Eric moved in. Been here a while now.’

‘So Lucy went with her father, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Did I say that?’ She liked to tell her story properly, and wasn’t finished yet. ‘Well, soon after she gave him the old heave-ho, his missus upped sticks and buggered off and nobody knows where she went.’

‘So where is Lucy?’ Frustration rose in him. ‘What happened to her?’

‘Oh, aye, you might well ask!’

‘I am asking, and I’d be obliged if you’d give me an answer.’ Trent had no patience with folks like this, especially after the travelling. He’d come a long way to get here, and no doubt he’d be going a long way back, sooner or later. So, there was no time to be wasting.

‘All I can say is, it’s a good job Lucy was the only child.’ Folding her fat little sausage arms, the woman rattled on: ‘Y’see, her mam had such terrible trouble bearing a child. Lost four of ’em over the years, she did, an’ as if that isn’t enough to be putting up with, ’er scoundrel of a husband ends up in some other woman’s bed. Shame on him, that’s what I say!’

‘That’s enough o’ the chatter, lady! All I want is the whereabouts of Lucy.’ Another minute and he might end up strangling the old biddy.

Not one to be bullied, she declared sharply, ‘Hold yer ’orses. I were just getting to that!’

‘For Chrissake, woman, get on with it, then! Where the bloody hell is she?’ When he now took a step forward, the red-faced woman took a step back.

‘She’s moved in wi’ Bridget.’

‘Who the hell’s Bridget?’

The fat little woman gave a wicked grin. ‘Everybody knows Bridget!’

‘Well, here’s one who doesn’t.’ When he took another step forward, she took another step back. ‘I couldn’t give a toss about Bridget. Just tell me where my girlfriend is, and I’ll trouble you no more.’

‘All right! All right! There’s no need to get aeryated. I already told you, I were coming to that.’

When he glared at her, she nervously cleared her throat and hurriedly explained, ‘Bridget is a woman well-known in these parts … particularly by the men, do you get my drift? Oh yes, she might be generous with her favours, but she charges well enough, and so do her girls, though o’ course we ain’t supposed to know about what goes on in that place. The bizzies’ll put her away if she’s found out, an’ none of us would want to be responsible for putting Bridget away, nor any of her girls neither.’

She took a well-deserved breath. ‘For all her wrongdoings, she’s gorra good heart, has Bridget, and she’ll help anybody in trouble. Lives along Viaduct Street, number twenty-three. You’ll find Lucy there.’

On seeing the question in his eyes, she quickly assured him, ‘No, she’s not one of Bridget’s girls. Lucy Baker is a stray lamb. She met up with a no-good fella who promised her the world then cleared off to sea, and then she had nowhere to go when her mam and dad split up, so Bridget took her in. Y’see, as I told you … Bridget’s gorra soft heart and likes to help such folks.’

As he hurried away, she called after him. ‘Hey! There’s summat I forgot to tell you!’

Edward was not in the mood for listening, however. ‘Silly old fool!’ he muttered, and ignoring her, he walked on.

Seeing him march away all the quicker, the woman shrugged her fat little shoulders. ‘Don’t listen then,’ she told his back. ‘It won’t matter to me. Anyway, I expect you’ll find out soon enough.’ The thought of him being caught unawares made her smile – until she recalled how he had nearly banged her door down and then stared at her so threateningly. Her hackles were up.

Shaking her fist after him, she yelled, ‘And don’t come bothering me again, Sonny Jim! I were busy at the wash-tub when you came pounding on my door with your damned questions. It’s no fun washing blankets, but you wouldn’t know about that, would you, eh? Oh no! You men with your damned questions. Go on! Bugger off and don’t come back!’

When he turned to scowl at her, she slammed shut the door and scampered back to her wash-tub, grumbling as she went. ‘If Lucy Baker gives that fella so much as the time o’ day, she wants her head examining!’ she muttered to herself.

When Edward Trent reached Bridget’s house, he knocked on the door with the same force that he had used in Kitchener Street. ‘You don’t need to knock.’ The woman who opened the door was in her late twenties, tall and slender, with a shock of dark hair and over-painted features. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here.’ She ushered him inside. ‘It’s down the passage and first left.’

He went first and she followed at a quickening pace. It wasn’t often the younger men came to visit, and this one was handsome into the bargain, if a bit surly.

As she came into the room she quietly closed the door behind her. ‘The other girls are out,’ she confided. ‘Mandy’s having her hair done and Sandra’s got a day off. So I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me. I’m Lynette.’

His frown became a smile. ‘You think I’m a client, is that it?’

The young woman shrugged. ‘I hope you are,’ she replied. Giving him a knowing wink, she went on in silken tones, ‘You make a nice change. We normally get the older men here – the blokes who don’t get treated right by their own women … at least, that’s what they tell us.’ She chuckled. ‘So, what’s your reason for being here? Wifey kicked you out, has she?’

Thinking that here was too good a chance to miss, he led her on. ‘And what if she has?’

‘Well, I dare say I’d have to cheer you up then, wouldn’t I?’ As she spoke, she walked over to him and slowly, tantalisingly, began to undo the flies on his trousers.

‘Did I say you could do that?’ He was enjoying every minute.

‘I’m sorry. Was I supposed to ask?’

‘Not now.’ Taking her blouse by the shoulders he ripped it clean off her back. ‘It’s too late to turn back now.’ Leaning forward he kissed her neck, then wiped his tongue along her throat. ‘If you’re game, then so am I.’

For the next fifteen minutes they played and touched and he took her without feeling or shame, with an insatiable hunger, and in the same aggressive manner that he might sink his teeth into a fat lamb chop or swill back a tankard of ale.

Afterwards, while she was dressing, he threw a few coins on the bed. ‘That’s for your trouble.’ He threw down another. ‘And that’s for what you’re about to do.’

‘And what might that be?’ This time, Lynette was not so sure of herself. He had been unexpectedly rough and slightly cruel, and she was right to be wary.

‘Fetch Lucy Baker to me.’ He wagged a finger in warning. ‘One word to her about what we’ve just done, though, and your pretty face won’t be so pretty any more.’

Astonished that Lucy would know such a man, she told him, ‘Lucy isn’t here.’

She had hardly finished when he caught her by the throat. ‘You’d best not be lying to me!’ he hissed.

‘I’m not lying.’ Fearful, she began to struggle. ‘She skivvies at the squire’s house, Haskell Hall – all the way over in Comberton village. She’s there now. Let me go, please. I’m telling you the truth.’

Throwing her on to the bed, he stood over her. ‘What time will she be back?’

‘I’m not sure. Five, maybe six o’clock. She likes to work long hours. She needs the money for—’

‘Shut your mouth!’ Taking hold of her he yanked her up and held her close, kissing her mouth, her hair, her eyelids. ‘How do I get there?’ His voice resembled the soft, deadly hiss of a snake.

Cringing at his touch, she told him, ‘Across the fields at the end of this road towards the water-tower.’

‘How far?’

‘Take the bridle-path, alongside the brook, towards the village of Comberton-by-Weir. It’s signposted. Head for the hilltop, and you won’t go wrong. Once past Overhill Farm, go down the other side and you’ll find the squire’s house half a mile on. It’s called Haskell Hall. You can’t miss it – a big old house with great trees lining the way up to the entrance. It’s about a mile and a half in all.’

Throwing her aside he scowled. ‘Ah, well. I suppose I’ve come this far, another mile or two will seem like nothing.’

Before he left he warned her again. ‘We had our fun and that’s an end to it. But one word to anybody, especially to Lucy, and you’ll rue the day. D’you understand me?’

Fearing for her life, Lynette nodded. ‘I won’t say anything.’

‘Good girl.’ For an unbearable moment he stared her out. ‘I expect I’ll see you when we get back.’ Grabbing her hair in a bunch between his thick strong fingers, he drew her head back and kissed her throat. ‘Oh look, you’re starting to bruise.’ With a devious grin, he screwed a straightened finger into her forehead until she winced. ‘Not a word!’ he whispered. Then he went on his way, whistling merrily as he strode briskly down the pavement.

So far it had been a good day, he thought smugly.

Seeing Lucy would be the icing on the cake.

Back at Bridget’s house, the woman herself had arrived; large-boned, with her mass of fiery hair and eyes green as a cat’s in the dark, she was as Irish as the Blarney Stone, filling the front parlour with her presence. She was astonished to find one of her young people in tears. ‘Hey now!’ She dropped her bag into the nearest chair.

‘Aw, will ye look at that!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’ll have eyes like split walnuts if you don’t stop the bawling, so ye will.’ Sensing a man was involved, she demanded to know, ‘Who was he? What did the swine do to you?’ She banged her fist on the dresser. ‘Sure, I’ll have the bloody head off his shoulders if he’s messed you up.’ And by the ample size of her, she was well capable of carrying out her threat.

‘It’s got nothing to do with any bloke.’ Afraid to reveal the truth, the young woman lied convincingly. ‘It’s just that I’ve had this awful toothache all day and it’s giving me some gyp.’

Bridget relaxed. ‘If that’s all, you’d best get yourself a drop of the hard stuff out of the dresser. That should see you through the night, and if you’re no better in the morning, you can take yourself off to the dentist. All right?’

‘All right.’ Lynette gave a sigh of relief. ‘Oh, and there was a man here … not a client or anything like that,’ she added quickly.

Bridget was disappointed. ‘Pity. So what did he want?’

‘He was looking for Lucy.’

‘Was he now? And did you tell him where to find her?’

‘Yes. I told him she was working over at the squire’s house. He’s gone there now, to meet up with her.’

‘Mmm.’ Bridget did not like the sound of it. ‘And what did he look like, this fella?’

The young woman shrugged, her bottom lip turning down as she pretended to recall his features; while in truth she would never forget them. ‘Rough-looking, I suppose, but handsome all the same.’

‘That doesn’t tell me much, does it? A description like that could fit anybody.’ Bridget threw herself into the chair opposite. ‘Come on, Lynette – what else?’

‘Well, he had a weathered face as though he’d been in the sun a lot, and he was carrying a kitbag.’ As the images burned deeper into her mind, her speech quickened, as though she wanted it all said and done with as swiftly as possible. ‘He was dark-haired and he had this look about him – a real mean, peevish kind of look. I tell you what, Bridget, I wouldn’t like to be Lucy if she’s got deep in with that kinda fella. No, I certainly would not!’

Bridget was curious. ‘For someone who’s got a bad toothache, you seem to have found enough time to get a real good look at him.’

‘Well, o’ course I did, because he stood on the doorstep and wouldn’t go until I told him where Lucy was.’

‘What, you mean he got nasty?’

‘No, I don’t mean that at all.’ She had not forgotten his parting threat. ‘He wanted to know where she was, and at first I wasn’t sure whether to tell him, then he stood his ground and I had no choice.’

‘So you told him, and he went?’

‘That’s right. I had to get rid of him. To tell you the truth, I didn’t like the look of him.’ Involuntarily, she shuddered.

‘I see.’ Bridget detected a great deal of fear in Lynette’s manner. ‘He sounds like a nasty piece of work,’ she said quietly. ‘You sure that’s not why you were crying just now?’

‘No!’ Leaping out of the chair, Lynette laid the palm of her hand over her mouth. ‘It’s this damned tooth. It’s driving me crazy.’

Bridget got out of her chair and wrapped her arms about the girl. ‘You’re to fetch a drop of whisky out of the cupboard, then get yourself off to bed. Come down later, when you’re feeling better. A good night’s sleep, then it’s the dentist for you first thing in the morning.’

Before Lynette left the room, Bridget had one more question. ‘This man … was he a sailor, d’you think?’

‘He could well have been a matelot,’ the girl said. ‘He did have a tattoo – oh, and sailors do have kitbags, don’t they?’

Bridget was quiet for a minute, as though she had just remembered who he was. ‘Dark, with a mean kind of a look, you say. Mmm.’ Then, her tone brisk, she told the young woman, ‘All right, darlin’, don’t worry. Get off and take care of yourself. I’m sure Lucy will tell me all about it when she gets back.’

A few minutes later, with Lynette off to her bed, and the other girls not yet back, Bridget went through to the kitchen, where the young housekeeper, Tillie, having heard her come in earlier, was already pouring Bridget a cup of tea. ‘Thought you might be ready for this,’ she said, pushing it along the table to where Bridget had pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘Had a good shopping trip?’

Having been thrown out of house and home by a violent stepfather these four years past, Tillie Salter had found a welcome at Bridget’s house of pleasure. At seventeen, innocent and plain-looking as the day was long, there was never any intention to recruit her into the ‘business’; so she was given a roof over her head and paid a wage to cook and clean and generally look after number 23, Viaduct Street, leaving Bridget free to keep a tight rein on her business, count her money, take care of her girls, and shop to her heart’s content.

During the four years she had been there, Tillie Salter had loved every minute, and had come to look on Bridget as a surrogate mother. Bridget was her idol – her hero and her friend. She might run a brothel, but she was discreet in her dealings, she looked after her girls well, and had a heart of gold. So those who knew of her business said nothing, and those who thought she was a woman who had come into money legitimately, chatted with her in the street, and saw her as a kind soul, with a happy personality.

Moreover, she seemed ever ready to listen to their problems when others would not.

Bridget thanked her for the tea. She removed her light jacket and fanned her rosy face. ‘You’ve no idea of the crowds,’ she groaned. ‘Pushing you this way and that … treading on your toes and thinking it’s your fault and not theirs. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What is it about shopping that makes martyrs of us poor women?’

Bringing her own tea, Tillie sat at the other side of the table. ‘But you love it, don’t you?’ she said shyly. ‘You love the noise and bustle, and spending your money across the counter. And I bet you went down the docks, dreaming of your homeland across the water.’

Bridget squeezed her hand. ‘Ah, you know me too well, so ye do.’ She gave a deep-down sigh. ‘Aw, Tillie, there are times when I really do miss my Ireland.’

Tillie loved to hear the stories of Bridget’s upbringing in Kilkenny. ‘Tell me again, what do you miss most?’ she asked eagerly.

Bridget was pleased to answer. ‘I miss the rolling valleys and the way the sun goes down behind the hills of an evening. I miss my folks and I miss other people – like the old fella that used to sit outside the pub of an evening and play his accordion, so the people would throw a generous handful of coins into his cap as they sauntered by.’

‘What else, Bridget?’ Tillie persisted. ‘Tell me what else.’

Bridget laughed. ‘How many times must I tell you, before you’re satisfied? I shall have to be careful, so I will, or you’ll be up and off and across the water one of these foine days, so ye will!’

‘Just tell me about the music, and the dancing,’ Tillie urged, her grey eyes bright with anticipation in her homely young face.

‘Ah, the dancing!’ Rolling her eyes, Bridget leaned back in her chair; she could see and hear the festivities in her mind and her heart ached. ‘I remember the fair in Appleby, when the horsemen would come from all over Ireland and even across the Atlantic from ’Merica, just to show their horses and traps and watch the goings-on. And if somebody took a liking to one of their best horses, they’d offer a price and when the haggling was done, they’d do the spitting of the handshake and the deal was agreed.’

Tillie cringed. ‘Ugh! I don’t think I’d want anybody spitting on my hand!’ She hid her hands behind her back as if to protect them.

Bridget roared with laughter. ‘It’s the way things are done, so it is,’ she said. ‘Sure it’s been that way for a hundred years and more, and likely it’ll be that way for many more years to come!’

Caught up in the housekeeper’s excitement, Bridget continued, ‘When the deals are all done, the men go down to the pub and celebrate, drinking and singing and dancing, too – and oh, the good crack they have!’ She threw out her arms with sheer joy. ‘I’m telling you, Tillie me darlin’, it is pure magic, so it is.’

‘And what about the dancing, Bridget? Tell me about that!’

Bridget leaned forward. ‘Sometimes it would be one couple on the floor and everybody watching, and when their feet got a-tapping and their hands got a-clapping and they couldn’t watch no longer, they’d all link arms, so they would. Then they would all dance in a line, every one of them in tune with the other – feet crossing and jumping, and going high in the air as though they were one, and the tapping and the rhythm, and the noise against the boards …’

Her voice rose higher and higher and soon her own feet were a-tapping and her hands a-clapping, and, ‘Sure, there’s no magic in the world like an Irish jig!’

Suddenly she was calling for Tillie to clap a tune, and when the girl started, Bridget leaped to her feet and holding her skirt high, she began kicking out to the sound of the clapping. And soon the clapping got faster and faster and Bridget danced and laughed and it wasn’t long before she fell into the chair, face bright red and aglow with delight. ‘Come on!’ she told Tillie. ‘Get up and I’ll show you how to do it.’

But before Tillie could do so, the sound of a child crying brought the laughter to an end. ‘Oh, the poor little divil, we’ve woke him, so we have!’

Quickly now she ran through to the cot and took the child out – a healthy-looking little chap with a chubby face, startled from his afternoon nap by all the tapping and the clapping and the laughter that rang through the house.

‘Ah, sure he’s a bonny little fella, so he is,’ Bridget cooed, and soon he was quiet on her lap, his mouth open like a fish at feeding time and his small hand stroking her blouse as he woke up properly.

‘Will ye look at him,’ she laughed tenderly. She handed the child to Tillie. ‘Best get his supper ready, me darling,’ she suggested. ‘Then you might take him upstairs for his bath. It’ll soon be his bedtime, so it will.’

Tillie put him in his high chair and there he sat, quiet as a mouse, chewing on his knuckles and watching Bridget as she gazed down on him. ‘I can’t believe how he’s grown,’ she declared. ‘How old is he exactly?’ She was never a one for figures – unless it was a strong man with a gorgeous arse and broad shoulders.

Tillie looked round from buttering his fingers of freshly-baked bread. She added some little squares of cheese for Jamie to nibble on while she cooked his soft-boiled egg. ‘He’s a year and six months old,’ she enlightened Bridget. ‘A real little boy now, no longer a baby.’ She chuckled girlishly. ‘He walked along the sofa-edge yesterday, and his fat little legs went all bandy.’

Bridget laughed. ‘If he keeps on like that, it won’t be long before he’s off to work with his pack on his back,’ she teased.

The women were tender with the little lad, as he had been born with one of his legs shorter than the other, and found it hard to balance. Bridget studied the child’s features. Unlike his mammy, whose eyes were golden-brown, he had the darkest eyes; his hair, though, was the same colour as hers – the shiny rich brown of ripe chestnuts.

Like his mammy, the child had that same quick smile and infectious laughter; though these last two years Lucy had not laughed overmuch, because she was lonely and sad, though as with every deep emotion, she tried hard not to show it. But Bridget knew, and she wondered now about the man who had come to her door. ‘There was a man here today,’ she told Tillie, who had returned with the egg-cup and spoon, and a small beaker of milk for the child.

‘I know.’ Tillie was as discreet as ever. ‘I heard him knocking the door down. He was determined to be heard.’

‘Lynette answered the door, didn’t she?’ Bridget wondered if Tillie knew more than she was saying.

‘Yes, I was changing this one’s napkin. The others were out. They’re still out, as far as I know.’ She held the beaker-lip to Jamie’s mouth again, cautioning him when he snatched at it and almost sent it flying. ‘Why?’

Bridget thought a moment, then in a quiet voice she told Tillie, ‘Lynette described him to me.’

‘Did she?’ The girl wiped the child’s mouth and put the beaker to the floor. ‘I didn’t see him.’ But she had heard him. She had heard them. Yet she never spoke of what she heard in this house. Bridget had given her a roof over her head and she never questioned or judged what went on here.

Bridget was quiet for a time, then she spoke, again in a quiet voice as though she was deep in thought. ‘I’ve a feeling it’s him!’

Tillie had spooned a helping of yolk into the child’s mouth, but it was now all over his face, so she was wiping him with the flannel she had in her pocket. She looked up at Bridget’s statement. ‘Who?’

‘Edward Trent – the baby’s father. I think Lucy told you how things started with him. He followed her home from Wavertree Park one day and was all over her, the bad bugger. Had his way with her, promised the earth then cleared off about three months later. After that, her parents split up and she lost her home. Fat lot of good her so-called boyfriend was then, eh?’

Having finished the feeding, Tillie lifted the child out onto her lap. ‘Crikey!’ Her eyes grew wide as saucers. ‘I thought he’d upped and gone to sea. Got fed up wi’ working on the docks, didn’t he? An’ he ain’t never been in touch since.’

‘That’s right – and good shuts to him. But bad pennies have a way of turning up again. And he was a bad penny if ever there was one – though she never saw it.’

‘She loved him, that’s why.’ Lucy had spoken long and deep to Tillie about her sweetheart, the father of her child. ‘He was good to her, wasn’t he?’

‘Not all the time.’ Bridget’s expression hardened. ‘I reckon he used to hit her – oh, not so’s you’d notice from the outside, but he hurt her all the same. Even her mam an’ dad warned her against him. She couldn’t see what he was truly like, though. She loved him, y’see? She still loves him, even after he buggered off and left her with child.’

Bridget was afraid for Lucy. Afraid of why Edward Trent had come back. What was he after? As far as she was concerned, the man was no good, and never would be.

‘He never even wrote to her, did he?’ Tillie had not forgiven him for doing that to her friend. Poor Lucy had been frantic for a long while, not knowing which way to turn, wanting to tell him about his son once Jamie was born, but with no idea how to contact him.

Bridget didn’t answer because her thoughts were miles away. What’s he up to? she mused silently. Why is he here after all this time?

It seemed the very same question was crossing young Tillie’s mind. ‘Why do you think he’s come back?’ she said apprehensively.

Her employer shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ She recalled what Lynette had told her. ‘He came looking for her, that’s for sure. And he’s gone to find her as we speak.’

She sighed. ‘I only hope Lucy has enough sense not to be taken in by him a second time.’