The White Empress (2 page)

‘Eamon?’ he repeated.

‘Didn’t me Pa name him after the President!’ she shot back. Why was it this Joe Calligan had the knack of increasing her irritation
with every word he uttered? Then a fleeting smile crossed her face as she thought of her young brother. Didn’t he have her
poor mother banjaxed with his antics and any similarity between him and Eamon de Valera ended with the name. Young Eamon Cleary
hardly ever went to school so there was little chance he’d end up as president of anything!

‘An’ what grand plans ’ave yer got fer yer new life?’

‘I’m sixteen! I can get a job! I can read and write and add up in me head!’

He laughed. She was a pert one. She’d already forgotten her narrow escape from drowning. All his questions had been intended
to divert her mind and the ploy had worked.

She rounded on him. ‘Aren’t you the quick one to be poking fun and laughing at the likes of me! I’ll get a job, you wait and
see and so will Pa and our Shelagh!’

‘Yer name suits yer alright! Proper little cat, aren’t yer! All sharp claws an’ spittin’ temper! Come on, I’ll take yer up
to the bow, yer might as well gerra look at the place yer all goin’ ter get so rich in!’

He was treating her like a six-year-old child and she was about to tell him she didn’t want him to show her anything. Then
her instinctive curiosity got the better of her. Besides, he was smiling without mockery now and had taken her arm and placed
it protectively in his and
no one had ever done that before. In fact no one had ever shown anything but a cursory interest in her. She was sixteen and
had never had a boy to ‘walk out’ with.

The deck of the
Leinster
was crowded with people, mainly emigrants like herself, huddled in family groups. But here and there were groups of well-dressed
people. She caught sight of her sister leaning against the rail, simpering up at an uncouth-looking man in the shabby clothes
of a labourer. Cat grinned to herself as she saw Shelagh’s eyes widen and her mouth gape as she caught sight of her younger
sister, arm in arm with a ‘company employee’ and a young, handsome one at that! Cat looked up at Joe and, for the first time
since her ordeal, smiled. He was handsome and, despite her initial belligerence, she realised that she quite liked him.

The crowd parted as the young seaman shouldered his way through. He cleared a space for her at the bow end and with the breeze
bringing a blush of colour to her cheeks, the sun picking out the coppery tints in her hair and her eyes sparkling, he felt
a stirring of affection towards her. They had long since passed the bar light, where they had taken on the bowler-hatted pilot,
who would guide them through the treacherous shoals that were forever shifting, and into the deep water of the Crosby Channel,
between the line of restless buoys. On the starboard bow he pointed out a low sandbar that ran four miles parallel with the
Wirral coastline.

‘That’s Mockbeggar Wharf an’ the seabirds come from miles to rest up an’ feed on the spits. In the owld days ships were wrecked
there by men who purrout the light on Perch Rock. There’s an owld sayin’:

He turned and pointed over the port bow. ‘That’s Crosby, yer can just see the big, owld ’ouses. An’ just down there is the
new dock, the Gladstone Dock. The docks start there an’ run for miles along the coast to Dingle an’ there’s a railway that
runs overhead all the way.’

She was not sure if he was joking. ‘Go on! Is it a fool you take me for, Joe Calligan?’

‘It’s the truth, it’s the longest in the world!’

‘Will you take me for a ride on it, then?’ she teased, still not fully believing him.

‘I might, one day.’

She shaded her eyes from the strong sunlight as the outline of the buildings in the hazy distance became clearer. It was a
grand sight to be sure. Surely in such a fine city there would be plenty of work for everyone? She tried to count the docks
but lost count after eight, her attention drawn to the number of ships that were either in dock or standing out in the river.
She watched, mesmerised, as with alarming accuracy the dredgers, barges and the ferry boats criss-crossed between cargo ships
at anchor and the towering double-and triple-funnelled liners.

‘I’ve never seen so many bo— ships! Where do they all come from and don’t they ever bump into the little ones?’

He laughed at her childlike questions. ‘The little ones don’t run on clockwork, they ’ave captains as well! They’re the ferries,
takin’ people an’ cargo backwards an’ forwards to Seacombe, Wallasey, Birkenhead an’ New Brighton. The big ones, the liners
. . .’

Cat waited for him to continue but he just stared ahead of him, lost in some private dream. She tugged at his sleeve. ‘Where
do they come from?’

‘All over the world. America. Australia, China, an’ one day I’m goin’ to gerra job on one! That’s a “real” job. A safe job
fer life an’ yer get paid for seein’ all the places yer’ve only dreamed of. Yer ’ave a proper uniform, norra second-’and jersey!’

She looked at him with renewed interest. ‘How are you going to get a job like that?’

His dark eyes clouded and he shrugged. ‘Yer gerra job like that if yer lucky or if yer ’ave the right qualifications an’ know
the “right” people!’

‘What are quali . . . quali . . .?’

‘Qualifications. Yer take examinations, a lorra writin’ an’ things like that, then yer get qualifications.’

She thought she understood. She had once met a boy who had gone to a proper school and worked at his books day and night and
had passed what he had called an examination and was going on to be a priest. She supposed it was something like that. ‘Well,
how do you know who the “right” people are?’

‘Yer’ve gorra lot t’ learn, Cat Cleary, especially when it comes ter people!’

‘You’re laughing at me again!’

‘No, I’m not! I bet yer already know a lorrabout
people. Girl like you must be used ter livin’ off yer wits an’ that’s what I mean about “knowing” people! If yer nothin’ else,
Cat, yer streetwise!’

She completely misunderstood him. A scarlet flush arose from the base of her throat as anger swept over her and raising her
arm she struck him hard across the cheek. ‘Don’t you be calling me names like that! I’m no street girl! I’d starve before
. . . I’d do anything like that, so I would!’ She stood facing him, her thin body shaking with indignation, her eyes flashing
green fire.

‘If yer wasn’t a girl I’d belt yer for that! I didn’t mean anythin’ like that, what d’ yer take me for? I only meant that
yer can probably look after yerself!’ He rubbed his cheek ruefully. ‘Bloody little wildcat! Good job yer norra lad!’

Vituperative words sprang to her tongue but he silenced her by grabbing her by the shoulders and turning her to face port.
‘Now there’s a sight yer’ll never ’ave seen before an’ probably won’t see again!’

As quickly as it had risen her anger died. ‘What?’

‘There, tied up at the landing stage!’

‘I can only see those big buildings with those birds on top. Are they real birds, won’t they fly away?’

He became exasperated. ‘Don’t yer know nothin’ Cat Cleary? Those are the Liver Birds! ’Aven’t yer ’eard of them, even?’

Her eyes narrowed. Of course she’d heard of them. Everyone had. They were not real birds, she’d heard them called ‘mythical’
but what that meant only the good Lord knew, she didn’t. But she wasn’t about to let him know that. ‘Sure, I have! They’re
my— mythical.’

‘Sailors all over the world know the Liver Birds, an’ Liverpool is the biggest port in the world!’

She cast him a sceptical glance. He was certainly prone to boasting. First he had boasted that he was going to get a job on
a liner, now he obviously thought his native city was the biggest port in the world. And that she knew to be untrue. Hadn’t
her mother’s brother gone to New York and hadn’t he written that that was the biggest port in the world?

‘My Uncle Pat says New York is the biggest port in the world!’

‘Aye, I ’ear it’s big, but I’ll see it fer meself when I gerra job on the
Mauretania
or the
Aquitania
. They ’ave ballrooms an’ swimmin’ pools an’ restaurants an’ whole suites of rooms fer first class. You see, I’ll gerroff
these “cattle boats” someday!’

She scowled. She resented being referred to as ‘cattle’. ‘They’d need hundreds of people to work on them if they’re all that
big!’ The note of disbelief was obvious.

‘They do ’ave ’undreds, from the captain down ter the deck ’ands. ’An they are that big, an’ yer ’ave ter ’ave ’undreds of
pounds to go luxury class!’

An idea took hold of her. If he could boast, then so could she. ‘One day I’m going to be rich! Very rich!’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Yer’ll never be rich enough fer that! It’s only the likes of millionaires an’ royalty
that are
that
rich! Yer might get ter be a stewardess, though,’ he joked as an afterthought.

‘What’s a stewardess?’

‘A girl who looks after the women passengers.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Usually makin’ beds, cleanin’ cabins an’ bathrooms an’ generally ’elpin out.’

‘Is that all?’

‘That’s what most of them do. Only the chief stewardess an’ the first-class stewardesses look after the “real” ladies, an’
yer don’t stand a cat in ’ell’s chance of ever doin’ that!’

‘Not even if I get “qualifications” and get to know the “right” people?’

His demeanour changed. All the laughter had gone from his eyes for he had been quick to perceive the ray of hope that lit
up her face. Talk like this could only hurt her. ‘Look, Cat, forget I ever said anythin’ about stewardesses. It’s not fer
the likes of you! Bloody ’ell, I’m sorry I even mentioned it, it was a joke!’

‘Why?’ she demanded, stubbornly. If all you had to do was clean cabins, she could surely manage that.

‘Just look at yerself! Yer an Irish emigrant, norra penny ter yer name. Yer can’t speak properly. The only life yer’ve known
is the slums. Yer’ve no education, an’ I don’t mean just bein’ able ter read an’ write an’ add up in yer ’ead! Yer’ve gorra
’ave
real
education, know ’ow ter dress, talk proper, deal with people. Oh, forgerrit! Gerra job in a factory, the pays good, yer’ll
be ’appier there, amongst . . .’

‘Amongst me own kind, is that it? I can’t help how I dress and speak but I’m no fool, Joe Calligan! I can learn and I can
learn quickly!’

‘Cat, forgerrit! Everythin’s against yer! Yer’ll soon find out ’ow ’ard life is without fillin’ yer ’ead with dreams that
can’t ever come true!’

‘I can’t see that it would be so hard if all they do is make beds and clean? You don’t need an “education” for that!’

He began to lose patience with her and guilt stirred in him. ‘I said forgerrit! It’s not fer the likes of you!’

‘But you think its alright for you? Just what makes you so different from me? You don’t speak “properly”, you haven’t got
any better education than I have or else you wouldn’t be working on this “cattle boat”! You’d be working on one of those fancy
liners now, not just dreaming about it! You’re no better than me and if you can dream, then so can I!’

He drew away from her and stood scowling at her. She had touched his Achilles heel. She had made him face the reality. His,
too, was a dream. A dream nurtured by hours of watching the stately liners, fully laden with passengers and crew, pull away
from the Princes Landing Stage, nudged and guided by their accompanying tugs. To sail majestically down the Mersey to the
Bar, the Irish Sea and the Atlantic beyond. Hours of watching and listening to the captain and mate on the Dublin to Liverpool
ferry and dreaming that one day he would rise to the dizzy heights of captain of a liner such as the
Aquitania
. Now this sharp-featured, sharp-tongued, little Irish slummy had forced him to see that it was just a dream and he was furious.
Furious with her and for allowing himself to become so vulnerable.

‘We’ll be dockin’ soon. I’d berra get ter me station! Yer’d berra go an’ find yer family. It’s everyone fer ’imself down the
gangway!’

She brushed back a tendril of hair. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll see you again?’

He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Reckon not.’

She turned away, feeling strangely lonely and slighted. ‘Oh, thanks for pulling me up!’ she called over her shoulder.

He watched her push her way through the crowd that was gathering on the port side and shrugged his broad shoulders. Soon she’d
disappear into the warren of slums and he probably wouldn’t see her again. But she wasn’t a girl who would easily be forgotten,
he mused darkly.

S
HELAGH CLEARY WAS STRUGGLING
with a battered suitcase, made of thick cardboard, tied up with string, and a bundle of assorted clothes, tied in an old
blanket. Both items contained all her worldly goods and entire wardrobe. She resembled Cat closely except that her hair was
less curly and had been cut short and she was possessed of a more ample figure, of which she was extremely proud.

‘Where’ve you been and who was he?’ she snapped.

‘Mind your own business! Here, Ma, give me that sack and that big bundle,
they’re too heavy for you!’ She took the objects that were weighing down Ellen Cleary’s thin, rounded shoulders. Cat forgot
Joe Calligan and her sister as she watched her mother wrap the old black shawl around her gaunt body. She was shivering even
though the sun was warm. Her face was ashen. ‘Aren’t you feeling well, Ma?’

‘I’m fine, Cat, ’tis only this boat swayin’ under me.’

‘Where’s Pa and our Eamon?’

Ellen Cleary shrugged helplessly, biting her lower lip from habit.

‘I’ll give you two guesses!’ Shelagh fulminated.

Cat’s heart sank. ‘But the bar’s shut and anyway Pa’s got no money for drink!’

‘And when has that ever stopped him?’ Shelagh retorted. ‘He could wheedle a drink from a temperance society, that he could!’

‘Don’t talk like that about your Pa, he tries . . .’ Ellen Cleary half-heartedly defended her husband but her tone lacked
any conviction. Years watching the strong young lad she had married turn into a desperate, drink-sodden man had drained the
colour from her cheeks, the laughter from her eyes and the hope from her heart.

‘Well, where’s Eamon? We’ll be docking soon?’

‘God knows! Probably trying to pick a pocket or beg a copper or two, little sod!’

‘Shelagh, that’s enough!’

Shelagh ignored her mother’s warning. ‘He’ll turn out a right bad one!’

‘You’re no angel yourself!’

Shelagh glared at her sister. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Before Cat could reply a grubby, ten-year-old lad tugged at her skirt. He had a shock of unruly brown hair and was clad in
a pair of cut-down trousers and an old shirt. On his feet were a pair of patched boots, a size too big for him.

‘Where’ve you been? I hope you’ve not had your hand in anyone’s pocket or Pa will take his belt to you!’ Shelagh scolded.

He stuck out his tongue then dodged behind Cat to avoid the swipe his elder sister aimed at his head.

‘Have you seen Pa?’ Cat questioned him.

‘Sure, he’s sittin’ over there, drunk as a fiddler’s bitch!’

This time it was Cat’s hand that shot out and boxed his ears. Anger, disappointment and disillusionment adding strength to
her action. He’d promised! He’d sworn on everything he held sacred that he was finished with the drink for good! Oh, he’d
promised them all a better life and it had been such a rosy future he’d enthralled them all with! He’d get a job and stick
at it. He’d bring his wages home and they’d have good food on the table, decent clothes and a real home with a fire in the
hearth all winter long! Oh, she should have known! How could she have been such a fool to have trusted him, believed him .
. . But they all had because they desperately wanted to. And now the reality had been forced on her. She was stuck on this
crowded ship with a sick mother, a petulant, selfish sister, a young tearaway and a drunken father. And he had probably spent
every last halfpenny they had all struggled to hoard to start this wonderful new life! Tears of anger pricked her eyes and
her mouth felt dry. Dropping the things she held, she snatched the suitcase and bundle from the hands of her startled sister
and thrust them at the lad.

‘Here, you’ll have to carry these!’ She turned to Shelagh. ‘And you’ll have to go and get Pa and you’ll have to manage him
as best you can! Ma can’t and you’ve always been his favourite!’

Shelagh uttered a yell. ‘Give me back me things! He’ll lose them and they’re all me clothes!’

Cat ignored her protests and gave her a sharp push. ‘Shut up and go and get him! I’ll watch your things! Go on or we’ll never
get off!’

Disconsolately she watched her sister push her way through the throng. How they were going to manage she didn’t know. She
only hoped Pa hadn’t lost the scrap of paper with the precious address on it, if he had . . . she couldn’t think of that now.
They had to get off the ferry first.

She was too preoccupied with their dilemma to take much notice of what was going on around her until there was a thump and
the ship shuddered, causing people to lose their balance. They had docked alongside the half-mile long Princes Landing Stage
that floated on the River Mersey itself. Already figures on the dockside below were dragging the heavy hausers cast down from
the
Leinster
and were winding them around the bollards to hold the ship fast. Then there was the grating rattle of the chains that held
the gangway, accumulating in a clanking crash as the gangway hit the cobbles of the landing stage.

Immediately the crowd surged forward. Cat tried to turn to see if there was any sign of her sister and father, but movement
was impossible as she was caught up in the press of bodies.

‘Try to hang on to my skirt but if you can’t then just wait at the bottom for me!’ she yelled to Eamon who had been behind
her before the crowd closed in. She herself kept her eyes fixed on her mother’s black-clad
form, surrounded and crushed by the solid, moving mass. There was no way on earth that she could get to her and she prayed
she wouldn’t stumble and fall.

At the top of the gangway the jostling crowd was halted by three burly deck hands who had linked arms and were forceably holding
the passengers back while an officer in shirt sleeves was shouting ‘Only a dozen at a time, if you please! Then no one will
get hurt! You’ll all get off if you’ll just be patient!’

She felt herself being dragged to one side and out of the crowd. Looking up she saw, with a flood of relief, the figure of
Joe Calligan towering above the heads of the crowd.

‘Where’s the rest of them? Your Ma and Pa?’ he yelled.

‘Ma’s just over there, is our Eamon behind me?’

‘If you mean the little lad with the bundle and the case, I’ve got him! It’s always the same every trip, like a bloody stampede!
No wonder they’re called the “cattle” boats! Where’s your Pa?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t much care! Shelagh went to find him, he’s drunk!’

‘So are half the men aboard, its nothing new!’

‘But he promised! He promised . . .’

‘He probably meant it at the time, they all do, until they have the next drink!’

‘But we all believed him! And now . . .’

He could see she was near to tears and he remembered their conversation not an hour since. Poor little sod. For her the dream
had ended abruptly. It hadn’t slowly disintegrated, it had been instantly
shattered. ‘Cheer up. It’ll all come out in the wash, as our Mam says! Here, lad, give me those things and get hold of your
sister’s skirt, I’ll get you off safe and sound.’

She felt Eamon’s hand grasp her skirt tightly as Joe hoisted both the case and the bundle on to one shoulder and with the
other arm gripped her securely round the waist. Some of her trepidation fell away as she was pressed against his broad shoulder
and she began to relax within the circle of his arm. Then he was guiding them towards the steep, wooden gangway that rose
and fell gently as the waters of the Mersey ebbed against the landing stage, buoying it up on the tide. He shouted cheerfully
back to his mates who yelled ribald comments and then they were ashore.

The crowd still milled around but was thinning rapidly as people moved off in groups, some towards the Riverside Station but
most trudging towards the floating roadway that led to the city itself. Cat gazed around her, her eyes wide, her fear and
anxiety forgotten temporarily. There were people everywhere and carts drawn by huge horses. There were some cars and vans
and she could just glimpse, at the top of the floating roadway, the outline of the green and cream tramcars. Joe’s arm was
still around her and he was guiding her towards the northern end of the stage.

‘Wait! Where’s Ma?’

He stopped and released her and twisting round she caught sight of her mother’s forlorn figure, the expression on her face
vague and confused.

‘She’s there! Oh, Joe, she is terrified, please go and get her!’

She watched as he tapped her mother gently on the shoulder, spoke a few words to her and pointed in their direction. Relief
replaced confusion in her mother’s eyes.

‘It’s alright, Ma! We’re safe! Eamon’s with me. This is Joe. Joe Calligan, he helped us get off.’

Mrs Cleary nodded her thanks to the tall young lad. ‘Have you seen your Pa, Cat?’

‘No and I don’t want to! I hope he falls in the dock and takes our Shelagh with him!’

‘That’s a bit hard, ain’t it! He is your Pa,’ Joe admonished. ‘Do you want me to see if I can find them, Mrs Cleary?’

Ellen Cleary nodded wearily. She had already realised that life was not going to be much different but she was too tired and
too ill to care very deeply about it. If this pleasant lad could just get them all together it would be a small blessing.

With strict instructions to them all to ‘stay put’ he was off and before long was back, grinning widely as he supported her
staggering father and followed by a glowering Shelagh.

‘Here he is, safe and sound and at least he’s not paralytic drunk!’

‘He’s not far off it! I’ve had the divil’s own job with him, that I have! Trust you, Cat, to go dashing off and leaving me
with him!’ Shelagh was perspiring and her thin dress was sticking to her body. Cat noticed that Joe’s eyes strayed to the
thrusting breasts, outlined by the damp cotton, and she felt embarrassed and annoyed. He was her friend and he had no right
to look at her sister like that!

‘Well, now what are we going to do? Have you still got that address Paddy O’Dwyer gave you, Pa?’

‘It’s no use asking him, you’ll get no sense out of him! I’ll look in his pockets.’ Shelagh made a thorough search of the
pockets of the greasy old jacket. They revealed nothing but a torn rag that sufficed as a handkerchief. And a few pennies.
At the sight of the coins Cat’s heart sank further. Obviously this was all that was left of the money he had had when they
sailed.

‘Nothing there, you hold him still while I try his trouser pockets,’ Shelagh instructed Joe.

Apart from a few obscure articles, the first pocket revealed no piece of paper, but with a small cry of triumph Shelagh drew
out of the second pocket a creased, dirty scrap of paper on which handwriting was just visible. She scrutinised it closely
then shoved it towards Cat in disgust.

‘I can’t read it, the paper’s too creased and dirty. You try!’

Cat took it from her. Her sister’s protest was just an excuse. Shelagh couldn’t read. She screwed up her eyes for the writing
was very small and almost obliterated by greasy fingermarks.

‘Here, give it to me! At least I know the names of the streets round here!’ Unceremoniously Joe dumped the sagging figure
of Mick Cleary down on the cobbles. He studied the scrap of paper. ‘It looks like Eldon Street.’

‘Where’s that? How far is it?’ Cat questioned.

‘Just off Vauxhall Road, but it’s a fair walk up Chapel Street, Tithebarn Street and past Exchange Station. It’s almost opposite
Tate and Lyle’s Sugar Refinery.’

Her gaze rested on the sprawling figure of her father. Joe read her thoughts.

‘You won’t get far with him in that state, the scuffers will chuck him in the battle-taxi – drunk and incapable!’

The look she returned him was confused and he laughed. ‘It’s “scouse” for the police and the prison van. You’ll have to get
the tram, if they’ll let him on!’

‘And what are we going to use for tram fare?’

‘Its only tuppence, how much did he have in his pockets?’ The question was directed at Shelagh.

She looked at the coins in her hand. ‘Fourpence ha’penny.’

‘That will pay for Ma and Pa.’ Cat said resolutely.

‘How’s Ma going to manage him? If he starts yelling they’ll both get thrown off.’ Shelagh retorted hotly.

Cat glared at her, she knew her sister of old. She would never walk anywhere if she could help it. ‘Well, Ma’s not walking,
she’s not well enough!’

‘Hell! This is turning into Fred Carno’s circus! Here, take this!’ Joe held out a silver shilling. ‘You’ll have enough left
over to get your Ma a cup of tea, she looks as though she could do with one! Go on, take it!’

Before Cat had a chance to tell him that she wanted none of his charity, Shelagh had grabbed the shilling. Cat could cheerfully
have slapped her face.

‘Now go up the floating roadway, there’s a tea stall up there, get your Ma a cup and take meladdo here with you, I can’t keep
my eye on you all!’ He pushed young Eamon gently in Shelagh’s direction, then turned to Mrs Cleary. ‘You sit yourself down
here, Ma, on this box, and rest. He’ll be alright.’ He nodded in the direction of her
husband who was now snoring loudly through flaccid lips, his back against a lamppost. ‘There’s something I want to show Cat.’