The Liverpool Trilogy (127 page)

Sean ate everything apart from the glaze on his plate, while Don watched these three marvellous people closely. Sean was always hungry, but he worked hard, had an instinct for motors and a
liking for beer and company. Anne-Marie was brilliant, another worker with a capacity for fun. She did look like a panda, and she didn’t care, because she would see her mother today.

‘Eat up, Mr C,’ the chef ordered.

Don did as he was told.

By visiting time, they were all clean-ish and almost respectable. Panda was looking human, her boyfriend had lost his overnight beard, and most of the oil had been scraped from Sean’s
fingernails. Don was wearing his best suit. Tess deserved the best suit.

But as they entered the ward, he noticed an open door. His eyes travelled into the tiny, single bedroom. His Tess was in the bed, white-faced and unconscious. Was she so ill that she needed to
be isolated because she required so much attention? This room was very near the sister’s office.

A hand rested on Don’s arm. ‘It’s all right, Mr Compton. We’ve all noticed the similarity. Come and see your wife; she’s doing very well.’

He staggered on. The children were already at their mother’s bedside, and they stepped aside for him. She looked great. Anaemia had been chased away by transfusions, and she could no
longer bleed internally, because the offending aggressors had been removed. ‘Hello, love,’ he said.

Anne-Marie, busy placing nightdresses, underwear and toiletries in her mother’s locker, was dangerously near to tears of happiness. Mark ordered her to calm down, as he was not prepared to
be seen in the company of a panda for a second time that day.

Anne-Marie straightened, turned, and faced him. ‘Listen, king of the road,’ she said. ‘Pandas look cute, but they kill. So watch it, or I’ll squeeze the living daylights
out of you.’

Tess groaned. ‘Shut up. It hurts when I laugh.’

Don glanced over his shoulder. The door to the single room was closed. Tess noticed the direction of his gaze.

‘She does look like me, then. Everybody’s been saying so. Even you think she looks like me. Well, her name’s Rosh, and rumour has it that some less than human creature’s
interfered with her. There’s been a little Irishwoman leaping about in the corridor shouting gibberish, and their neighbour’s been arrested. So they say, anyway. Poor girl was in
theatre during the night.’

Sean wandered off to look through a different window. Mark, in search of a vase for Tess’s flowers, was chatting to a pretty nurse. Anne-Marie marched in his direction, pulled him away
from the girl and muttered to him, a finger wagging under his nose.

‘Just like you,’ Don said. Then he bent, placed his head on the pillow and whispered, telling Tess about the planned boudoir and all that would happen within its walls.

When he sat up, she was staring into his eyes. ‘Promises,’ she said.

He smiled. It was enough.

Rosh had kept her promise about seeking work, though she could afford to be choosy, since she had the windfall from Phil’s policy. Not that she intended to depend on it,
but she did have the luxury of time in which to make up her mind about the future. She was head of the household now, though her mother thought differently. But Anna Riley had always imagined
herself to be in charge no matter what the circumstance, and argument was futile.

Rosh’s main aim was to use the money to educate her children to cope in a cruel world, and a plan to make them safe was taking root in her mind. But first, there was something she
particularly wanted to do, something that had needed doing for seven years, at least. She was doing it for her annoying, wonderful mother, who would take care of house and children while Rosh made
a living. Since Phil’s death, Anna Riley had become the core of the family, almost by default, but Rosh needed to be the breadwinner.

Accordingly, Anna’s daughter had travelled by bus to Collingford’s Dye Works and was interviewed in a small office by a short man with spectacles and a permanent frown. The furrows
changed shape when he spoke, and Rosh found her attention glued to the ever-mobile patterns flitting above thick, silver eyebrows. His glasses were a poor fit, as were his teeth. He was flanked by
two women, one of whom looked about ninety, while the other, all nail polish and lipstick, seemed very much aware of the competition Rosh might become. While the latter sized up the
candidate’s clothing and pretty face, the other two fired questions at a pace that few machine guns might match.

Was she a good ironer? What about folding and packing? Did she have experience of invisible darning and garment finishing? Would she be willing to work in the dry-cleaning department? Was she
quick to learn, because there was an art to most of the jobs in the dye works. How did she feel about manning the reception desk and telephones? Would she be flexible enough to learn several
disciplines and fill in when workers were ill?

Outwardly unfazed, Rosh looked from one to the other. It was clear that they had been impressed by her letter of application and that they wanted her to work here. Well, she had something to
say, but it would keep. And she intended to lay it on with a trowel if necessary. A bone to pick? A bone? She had a butcher’s yard full of bones, plus a row of skeletons and enough ham shanks
for a month’s worth of pea and ham soup.

The four of them walked through hats and gloves, through pressing and ironing, finishing, invisible darning and mending, dyeing, dry-cleaning, uncollected items due to be sold, button-matching
and packing. The dry-cleaning area stank of chemicals, while the pressing room was scarcely visible through clouds of steam. This place was massive; it looked as if it had been here for ever, like
Ayers Rock or the Grand Canyon. People who worked here probably needed a map for their first month or so. Without directions, they might end up lost or mummified in some dry, dark corner.

The older woman sang the praises of social amenities which included keep fit classes, football and netball matches, rounders, cricket, dances, and the occasional trip to Southport or Blackpool.
‘You’d be pushed to find a better employer than Collingford,’ she concluded, an expression of pride making her younger for a few seconds. ‘We look after our employees, and
their well-being is our number one concern at all times.’

Rosh coughed politely into her handkerchief. The workers would need days out after working in this place, because the chemicals seemed to close in, as if threatening to choke a person. Not since
the war’s end had she thought of gas masks as useful items. She shouldn’t have come, shouldn’t have allowed them to approve of her. They were keen; had they not been keen, this
walkabout would not have happened. Perhaps they even had big plans for her, a grand future with a thousand or more a year plus benefits. She felt nauseous, but she had travelled here for a purpose,
and she was yet to claim her pound of flesh.

When the tour was over, they returned to the office, where the two females peeled away and walked towards whatever they usually did.

The man poked at his glasses. In dire need of adjustment, they slid down his nose with monotonous frequency. ‘You seem very suitable,’ he told Rosh. ‘Intelligent, probably
quick to learn, personable. We have several openings at the present time, and you could go far if you worked hard.’ He smiled benignly, and the spectacles’ nose piece took off like a
careless skier down a very steep slope.

Rosh should not, could not like him, no matter how amusing his mannerisms were. ‘Oh, I am a hard worker,’ she answered readily. ‘I can turn my hand to most things. I got that
from my mother, I think. To this day, she’s an industrious woman. We’re all very proud of her.’

Clearly not listening to her, he shuffled some papers. ‘Then we’ll start you off in ironing.’

Rosh folded her arms. ‘Will you, now?’

‘Er . . . would you prefer some other area?’

For answer, Rosh shook her head. ‘I don’t think I would, no. You see, Mr . . . what was your name? Oh, it doesn’t matter at all. I am Catholic.’

He sputtered. Rosh half expected a set of false teeth to land on his desk, because every S he formed came out as a whistle. ‘But that rule was removed years ago,’ he managed
eventually. ‘We no longer adhere to . . . to the principles of . . . no, not principles. Er . . . things change, usually for the better. I can assure you, Mrs . . . er . . . Allen, everything
is very different now. Race and creed are not considered. We have two black men in packing, and several Chinese in various areas.’

‘No Catholics need apply,’ said the applicant who was no longer applying. ‘So my mother couldn’t work here.’ She stood up. ‘I came here for one reason only. I
came to shoot you down on behalf of every family who suffered because of your firm’s prejudice. I am very prejudiced against prejudice. Oh, you’ve custard on your tie. Take it through
to that smelly place and get it dry-cleaned.’

He was still fighting with his specs and scrutinizing his tie when the door slammed behind Rosh. The cheek of that woman! He’d better warn the night watch, because she might just find a
load of Luddites or Fenians and set fire to the whole caboodle. She was pretty, yes. And there was a look of the Irish about her, the soft, gentle facade that often hid a core of steel.

Rosh stood outside and surveyed an exterior that put her in mind of a cotton mill. About seventy windows stared down at her, and this was just one side of the building. A square tower that
reached higher than the main structure was also heavily endowed with glass. A row of vans advertising Collingford the Dyers waited for their loads. She did not belong here. If her mother
hadn’t been fit for this pile of masonry, the business was unsuitable for Rosh. Well, she’d accomplished what she’d set out to do.

So. What else did Liverpool have to offer? Biscuit factory, sugar works, jam makers, the sausage place. But who was she kidding? This kick-back on behalf of Liverpool’s Catholics had been
her sole reason for venturing this far away from her base in Waterloo. She had a job offer, and she would accept the position today. It was practically on the doorstep, an interesting shop on
College Road, and she had promised to give her answer by five o’clock. And she was meeting Roy soon, as he was going to help her make a decision.

Someone touched Rosh’s arm. She turned and was surprised to see that Lipstick and Nail Polish was standing behind her. ‘What happened?’ asked the glamour girl. ‘Did he
not give you a job? I was sure he would.’

‘He tried,’ was Rosh’s answer. ‘But I decided not to bother accepting it.’

‘Oh.’ The young woman bit down on a peach-coloured lower lip. ‘Why?’ she asked.

‘Because it stinks. I don’t want to walk round smelling like some chemistry lab. Oh, I don’t know. I feel daft now. It’s just that my mother needed work some years ago,
and they wouldn’t even let her apply because she’s a Catholic. And I wanted to let them know what they’d done to her.’

Rosh’s companion nodded. ‘I could see that our Mr Collingford liked you. So did his mother.’

Rosh’s hand flew up to her face. ‘You mean he was . . . She was . . . I thought they were just managers.‘

‘They’re Collingfords, yes. He’s a widower, and she’s his mother. And the no Catholics thing wasn’t their idea. It came from his older brother. They fought it, but
they couldn’t shift him an inch. He was nasty, and the older he got, the nastier he became. But it was just him.’

Rosh swallowed. Never again would she speak her mind to strangers. Had she listened, she might have heard their names. Roisin Allen could be blacklisted all over Liverpool after this, so
she’d better dash back home and grab the job that was on offer. ‘I have to go,’ she gasped before fleeing round the corner. A voice followed her.

‘I’m a Collingford, too. He’s my dad.’

Rosh sat on the Waterloo-bound bus. How many times had she told her own mother to keep her thoughts to herself until she was in possession of all the facts? And here sat Anna Riley’s
adviser, hands shaking as she searched for her fare, cheeks glowing partly because the day was hot, mostly because she had been nasty to people who probably didn’t deserve it. She was a sad,
hopeless case who could use a sizeable dose of her own medicine. The sins of a deceased older brother should never be blamed on a younger. Oh, she shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have
spoken with only half a brain.

She alighted from the vehicle and stood on College Road. Mam was coming out of the greengrocer’s. Backwards, of course. A great if somewhat confusing conversationalist, Anna Riley took
every opportunity to share her opinions with the world at large and now, addressing a customer or a trapped shopkeeper, she was making sure her words were registering until the very last moment.
She had been known to cause a huge human backlog in Woolworth’s, because the girl behind the counter had been Irish, engaging, and cousin to a man who had been friend of a friend of a woman
who had gone to Dublin and who had come to no good at all.

Rosh crossed the road. ‘What are you up to now?’

A startled Anna put a hand on her heart. ‘Jaysus, you’ll be the death of me, creeping up like that.’ She inhaled deeply, as if trying to illustrate the size of the damage done
to her by a dreadful daughter. ‘He’s only gone and got the mumps, hasn’t he? I said to Janet in the shop, which grown man goes out and comes back with the mumps? Mumps is
something children have, like chicken pox and measles.’

‘Mother! What a load of twaddle. You can’t blame a man for having a disease. He didn’t do it deliberately.’

‘Don’t be cheeky. If you’re going to come over all attitude and righteousness, I’m off home to sort out the dinner.’

‘I don’t think he went out and chose mumps, Mam. He didn’t go into a shop and buy it, did he? I can’t imagine anybody looking at the shelves and saying he’d have
half a pound of mumps and some mint imperials.’

It finally dawned on Anna that her daughter was looking very well groomed. ‘And where’ve you been in all the posh? Did you forget your tiara and the three rows of pearls?’

‘No. I went after a job at the Collingford dye place. They were very impressed with me. I got the distinct impression that they’d want me running the place within a fortnight. Mind,
I might have exaggerated slightly in my letter of application.’