She stacked the dishes on the single narrow shelf and spread the tea towel to dry across the draining board that Emily had scrubbed down. ‘When do you think her own good time will be then?’
Emily shrugged. ‘Maybe tonight. Maybe tomorrow. Get your coat. You can come down to the bag-wash with me. I don’t want you harping on at Mam while I’m out. And not another word about it. Anything you’ve got to say can be said later when you’ve had time to calm down. When we’ve both had time to take it in properly.’
Phoebe-Ann assented. She didn’t want to stay in with Mam, knowing her imagination would run riot and she was bound to say something that would upset Mam. The way she felt it was as certain as night follows day. Then Emily would get mad and there would be a slanging match. Besides, it was Saturday afternoon and very likely the last one she’d have to herself. When the washing was done she would persuade one of the neighbours to keep an eye on it and she and Emily could go into town. Then there was another matter she wanted to discuss with her sister. One that had been pushed to the back of her mind by her Mam’s news.
She gave her sister a thin smile and Emily grinned back. Phoebe-Ann’s ill humour never lasted long. Neither could she keep her mind on one subject for more than an hour or two. ‘A head full of butterflies’ was how Mam put it.
When the scullery door had slammed shut Lily Parkinson had dropped her head on her hands. She had dreaded telling them all, but telling the girls had worried her most. Especially Phoebe-Ann. She’d been prepared for the look of stunned disbelief that had crept over both their faces. It was only what she’d expected. She hadn’t been foolish enough to believe that they would be over the moon with delight. Then she’d seen the softening of Emily’s expression and understanding dawning in her pale eyes.
In her heart she’d known that Emily wouldn’t get too upset but Phoebe-Ann was another matter. She’d opened and closed her mouth like a codfish and she knew the questions and protests were forming. Before they could be uttered, Emily had dragged her sister into the scullery and slammed the door. She could still hear the buzz of voices.
Was what she was doing really so terrible? That was a question she’d asked herself time and again over the past week. The final answer had been no. Oh, she knew people called him names but they didn’t know him as well as she did.
He’d moved into Lonsdale Street two years after Joe had died and he’d kept himself to himself which hadn’t suited some of the neighbours. What’s more he had his own business, in a small way. More self-employed really. He had a wagon and two horses and hired himself out as an independent carter. It had been rumoured that he’d owned the house for the last couple of years but she’d refused to be drawn into speculation about that.
Being on the corner of Lonsdale Street and Bloom Street it was a bigger house than all the others with a larger yard with a wooden lean-to where he kept the cart. The horses were stabled up behind St Nathaniel’s church. Yes, he was careful with his money, but she saw that as a virtue and one she approved of. At least he wasn’t in the pub every night wasting it, or down a back jigger playing pitch and toss or in debt to the bookie. She began to smooth out imaginary creases in the faded and threadbare chenille cloth. It was a virtue she, too, had cultivated. Born of necessity. There hadn’t been much choice about it. Circumstances had forced her to watch every farthing.
She got up slowly, placing her hands in the small of her back and grimacing. She caught sight of herself in the mirror that stood on the shelf above the range. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman, she thought, her hand patting her tidily pinned-up hair. There was more silver than gold in it now though but what could she expect at fifty-two and after a lifetime of hard work?
She poured herself a cup of strong tea from the pot that sat on the hob beside the range and sat down in the battered old chair from which the horsehair was leaking. ‘Oh, Joe. Am I doing the right thing?’ she said softly. Twelve years was a long time to be alone. A young widow with a family of six to bring up by herself and God knows that hadn’t been easy. She’d never been afraid of hard work but after that terrible day when they’d come to tell her that he’d fallen from a hatch cover into an empty hold and had broken his neck, she’d known she would have to work even harder. The neighbours had all rallied round and somehow she’d muddled through until the day came when she had finally faced the fact that only by her efforts alone could the family be kept together. She’d sworn she’d work until she dropped before she’d let them take the children and put them into a home.
She’d had four cleaning jobs. All in India Buildings. Two early in the morning, the other two in the evenings when the office staff had gone home. In between she had cleaned, washed, shopped and cooked, then once a week she had joined the army of cleaners who converged on the Cunard liners and worked like furies so the ship would be ready to sail again the following day. Twelve or fourteen hours at a stretch they worked and she often wondered how she’d found the energy to crawl home, but the money was good and she desperately needed it.
A smile hovered around her lips. Even from an early age Emily had been a great help. She always had the kettle on, the table set, the kitchen tidy. Lily sipped her tea and glanced towards the still tightly shut door from behind which voices still rose and fell and pots rattled.
It had been back-breaking work and she’d been weighed down with worries. Trying to make her meagre wages stretch to often impossible lengths. Fighting to keep poverty and destitution at bay and to keep up some standards. To make sure her home was clean, her step whitened, her children neat even though the clothes they wore were second and even third hand and their boots often had pieces of cardboard pushed inside to cover the holes until she could afford to have them patched.
For twelve long years she’d struggled on. Oh, things were not so grim now. Money wasn’t so tight. These days she didn’t have to beg bones from the butcher or ‘fades’ from the greengrocer to make a thin stew – often the only meal of the day. But she was desperately tired of battling with fate. She’d had to be strong and she’d managed to be so but the deaths of first Harry and then Rob at just seventeen had fatally sapped that strength. She was drained and empty. All the fight had gone out of her in the days that followed the arrival of those telegrams. Two in two days. Oh, they’d been dark days but she hadn’t been alone in her grief. There wasn’t a woman in the entire street who hadn’t lost someone. Their sons, husbands and fathers had been in the same regiment, the ‘Liverpool Pals’ and street after street had been plunged into mourning.
The scullery door opened and Emily smiled at her.
‘We’re going down the bag-wash, Mam.’
‘And we might go into town for an hour,’ Phoebe-Ann added, ignoring the look her sister shot at her.
‘Get my purse, Em, it’s on the mantel.’ Lily felt too tired to even get up and her head had begun to ache.
Emily took down the battered old purse and handed it to her mother. ‘You look worn out.’
‘No more than usual. Here, take this and get yourselves something. Have a bit of a treat to celebrate.’ She handed out two silver shillings.
Emily shook her head. ‘No, Mam, you might need it and I’ve got a few bob left from my wages.’
Lily felt annoyed. Was this Emily’s way of showing her disapproval? ‘Take it, girl. I’ve never been able to hand out coppers for treats since . . . well, not for a long time anyway.’
Emily took the coin. She’d buy Mam something. She looked so drawn and tired. Phoebe-Ann would spend hers on bits of finery; she thought of little else but her appearance. Mam never had anything for herself. She looked closely at her mother and then looked away for there were tears on Lily’s lashes.
Lily followed them into the lobby, kissed them both and then went into the parlour to watch them from the window. They were good girls, she thought. The room smelled musty. The grate hadn’t seen a fire in it for years. She shivered and the pain behind her eyes increased in severity. She sighed deeply. Albert Davies was a good man but who’d have thought that when he’d gone down with the influenza and she’d gone in to make up his fire, clean up a bit and get some food down him that it would lead to this? When he’d recovered she’d gone in a couple of times a week to clean, ignoring the avid curiosity and barbed remarks of her neighbours and she’d got to know him better. He was a quiet, reserved man, simple in his tastes and she’d come to like and respect him.
She’d realized in a short time that he was lonely. He had no close family, just a cousin who still lived in the pit village in a green, Welsh valley, as he’d described it when she’d asked. Gradually, he had told her more about himself and she’d divulged her background. She had found it easy to talk to him, to confide in him, to make him laugh at the antics and escapades of her family and her daily life. And then a week ago he’d said, ‘It’s not been much of a life, Lil, has it – for us both?’
She’d just smiled thinking how comforting it was to have someone who listened, someone who cared.
‘I know this will come as a shock, it’s shocked me, the realization that . . . Well, would you consider marrying me, Lily? You’d have no more worries. No need for you to work yourself to death and we do . . . get on well, like?’
She’d been too stunned to utter a word.
‘No need to rush. Take your time, like I said “consider”.’ He’d looked bashful and suddenly very vulnerable and tears had sprung to her eyes.
‘I’ll take good care of you, Lil! I promise!’
‘I’ll . . . I’ll consider it, Albert,’ she’d managed to stammer.
In the days and nights that had followed she’d thought of it to the exclusion of everything else. She’d been distant and preoccupied when people spoke to her. She’d weighed all the ‘pros’ and ‘cons’. She was fond of him but would it be enough? Could she give herself to a man after all these years? Would he be happy with her and her family? And what about the family? In the end she’d become so confused that she felt she couldn’t go on in such a state. They had discussed a few things and then she’d given him her answer. Yes. When she’d said it she felt so relieved. The fog of confusion had lifted. She’d felt almost elated.
She turned from the window and reached out for the framed photo of Joe that stood on the mantel. Her hand hovered hesitantly for a second before she picked it up. ‘I don’t want to have to slave for ever, Joe. I’m middle-aged and the kids are grown up.’
The smiling features of the young man stared silently back.
‘I’m worn out. You understand, Joe, don’t you? I’m fond of him. I don’t love him the way I loved you, but he’s offering me peace of mind, company, and I don’t want to be left on my own. The kids have got their own lives to lead. You do understand, don’t you, Joe?’
She raised the photograph to her lips and kissed the image, then she replaced it. An army of small men with hammers was pounding away inside her head. She’d go and lie down for an hour to see if it would lift. The lines in her forehead eased and she smiled ruefully. Never in her entire life had she taken to her bed with a headache, no matter how bad it had been. That was what marrying Albert Davies meant. She could take the time. Time for herself.
It was Emily who broached the subject at tea time. Jack and Jimmy Parkinson had had their own discussion about Lily’s news on their way to work that morning. Indeed they’d discussed it all the way down Upper Parliament Street, on the tram to the Pierhead, and on the overhead railway to the Bramley Moor Dock. Back and forth it had been tossed. Opinions had been expressed, arguments for and against presented and finally they had decided that if it was what Lily wanted they wouldn’t put up any objections.
As Emily placed the teapot with its knitted cosy on the circle of cork, she looked around at the assembled family. She wondered what her brothers were thinking and hoped that what she was about to say wouldn’t start off an almighty row. She’d bought a big bunch of flowers from the flower ladies in Clayton Square and they reposed in two jam jars on the dresser, their colours brightening up the dingy room. Phoebe-Ann had refused to be drawn on the subject. In fact she seemed to have forgotten her outburst and had spent hours at the counters in Woolworth’s in Church Street. But Emily was suspicious of her sister and hoped she wasn’t going to start acting up again. ‘Mam . . .’ she began.
Lily looked at her apprehensively. ‘Well, spit it out, Emily?’
‘Where will we . . . ? I mean he . . . Mr Davies. Where will . . . ?’
Lily put her out of her misery. ‘Where will he sleep?’
Emily nodded.
Phoebe-Ann fidgeted with a spoon. She didn’t want to think about this at all.
Jack and Jimmy looked down at their hands.
‘I had thought I would move in with him. On my own.’
‘Oh, Mam, you can’t do that!’ Phoebe-Ann cried, dropping the spoon which fell into her cup and splashed tea on the table.
Lily was contrite. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease.’
Emily and Jack exchanged glances of relief.
‘I discussed it all with Albert, before I gave him my answer. I wanted it sorted out I told him, just in case I did accept.’
Jimmy stirred his tea slowly. He’d agreed with Jack in the end that Mam deserved something better out of life, but he didn’t really approve.
‘He has a much bigger house than this one,’ Lily went on.
‘Nearly everyone has a bigger house than this one,’ Phoebe-Ann muttered to herself.
Lily ignored her. ‘There are three bedrooms, a parlour, a kitchen, a back kitchen and a scullery. There’s more room in the yard and a wash-house, so it makes sense all round for us all to move in there.’ She stopped and held her breath, wondering how this decision would be received.
‘Makes no difference to us, Mam. Does it Jim? One house is much like another.’