But Flo was wide awake and it was a sin to stay in bed on such a lovely morning. She sat up carefully—the springs of the single bed creaked like blazes—and stretched her arms. The sun streamed through the thin curtains making the roses on the floorcloth seem almost real. She poked her feet out and wriggled her white toes.
As usual, the bedclothes were a mess—her sisters refused to sleep with her, claiming she fidgeted nonstop the whole night long.
Shall I get up and risk disturbing our Martha? Flo mused. She’d have to get dressed in the little space between the wardrobe and the tallboy. Since their dear dad, a railwayman, had died two years ago—struck by a train on the lines near Edge Hill station—and they’d had to take in a lodger, the girls could no longer wander round the little house in Burnett Street half dressed.
The frock Martha had worn last night when she’d gone with Albert Colquitt, their lodger, to see Bette Davis in The Little boxes was hanging outside the wardrobe. Flo glared at it. What a miserable garment, dark grey with grey buttons, more suitable for a funeral than a night out with the man you hoped to marry. She transferred her gaze to her sister’s head, which could just be seen above the green eiderdown. How on earth could she sleep with her hair screwed up in a million metal curlers? And did someone of only twenty-two really need to smear her face with layers of cold cream so she looked as if she’d been carved out of a block of lard?
Oh dear! She was having nasty thoughts about Martha again and she loved her just as much as she loved Mam and Sally and Mr Fritz who owned the laundry where she worked. But since dear Dad died, what with Mam not feeling too well, Martha seemed to think it was her job as the eldest to be In Charge and keep her sisters in line. Not that Dad had ever been strict—he’d been a soft ould thing. Flo’s eyes prickled with tears. It was still hard to get used to him not being there.
She couldn’t stand being in bed a minute longer. She eased herself out and got dressed quickly in her best pink frock with white piping on the collar and the cuffs of the short puffed sleeves. That afternoon, she and Sal were off to New Brighton on the ferry.
As she crept downstairs, she could hear Mam snoring in the front bedroom. There was no sound from the parlour. Mr Colquitt must have gone to work, poor man. Flo felt for him. As a ticket inspector on the trams, he had to work on days most people had off.
In the living room, she automatically kissed the feet of the porcelain figure of Christ on the crucifix over the mantelpiece, then skipped into the back kitchen where she washed her face and cleaned her teeth. She combed her silvery blonde hair before the mirror over the sink. As an experiment, she twisted it into two long plaits and pinned them together on top of her head with a slide.
Irene Dunne had worn her hair like that in a picture she’d seen recently. Flo had been meaning to try it ever since.
It looked dead elegant.
She made a face at herself and was about to burst into song, when she remembered the superstition, “Sing before breakfast, cry before tea.” Anyroad, everyone upstairs was still asleep. She’d make a pot of tea and take them a cup when she heard them stir. Martha and Sally enjoyed sitting up in bed, pillows tucked behind them, gossiping, on days they didn’t have to get up for work.
Unlike Flo, they both had horrible jobs: Martha was a bottle topper in Good lad’s Brewery, and Sally worked behind the counter of the butcher’s on the corner of Smithdown Road and Tunstall Street.
Oh, but it was difficult not to sing on such a glorious day. The sun must be splitting the flags outside, and the whitewashed walls in the backyard dazzled so brightly it hurt her eyes to look. Flo filled the kettle, put it on the hob over the fire in the living room, releasing the flue so the embers from the night before began to sizzle and glow, and decided to dance instead. She took a deep breath and was twirling across the room like a ballerina, when she came to a sudden halt in the arms of their lodger.
“Mr Colquitt! I thought you’d gone.” Flo felt as if she’d blushed right down to her toes. He was wearing his regulation navy blue uniform with red piping, and grinning from ear to ear.
“I’m glad I hadn’t, else I’d have missed the sight of a fairy dancing towards me to wish me good morning.”
“Good morning, Mr Colquitt,” Flo stammered, conscious of his arms still around her waist.
“And the same to you, Flo. How many times have I told you to call me Albert?”
“I can’t remember.” To her relief, he removed his hands, came into the room and sat in the easy chair that used to be Dad’s. Flo didn’t mind, because she liked Mr Colquitt—Albert—though couldn’t for the life of her understand why Martha was so keen on capturing for a husband a widower more than twice her age. Since her best friend, Elsa, had married Eugene Cameron, Martha was terrified of being left on the shelf. Like Flo, she took after Main’s side of the family, with her slim figure, pale blonde hair and unusual green eyes, but had unfortunately inherited Dad’s poor eyesight: she had worn glasses since she was nine and had never come to terms with it. She thought herself the unluckiest girl in the world, whose chances of finding a decent husband were doomed.
Martha had been setting her cap at Albert ever since he arrived on the scene. He was a tall, ungainly man with a round pot belly like a football. Although he was not handsome, his face was pleasant and his grey eyes shone with good humour. His wispy hair grew in sideboards to way below his ears, which Flo thought looked a bit daft.
The main thing wrong with Albert, though, was that he didn’t get his uniform cleaned often enough, so it ponged something dreadful, particularly in summer. It was ponging now, and she would have opened the window if it hadn’t meant climbing on his knee.
“Would you like a bite to eat?” she enquired. Breakfast and an evening meal were supposed to be included in his rent, but he usually left too early for anyone to make breakfast, so compensated by eating a thundering great tea when he came home.
“I wouldn’t say no to a couple of slices of toast, and is that water boiling for tea?”
“It is so.” Flo cut two slices of bread and managed to get both on the toasting fork. She knelt in front of the fire and toasted her arm at the same time.
“You’ve done your hair different,” Albert said suddenly.
“It’s very nice. You look like a snow princess.”
“Ta.” Flo had never mentioned it to a living soul, but she sometimes wondered if he liked her better than he did Martha, though not in a romantic way, of course. She also thought that maybe he wasn’t too keen to allow pretty, bespectacled Martha Clancy to get her claws into him. He might be twice her age and smell awful, but he didn’t want to get married again. Flo hoped Martha wouldn’t try too hard so that he’d feel obliged to leave.
His thirty bob a week made all the difference to the housekeeping nowadays. It meant they could buy scented soap and decent cuts of meat, luxuries that they could never afford otherwise. Although there were three wages coming in, women earned much less than men.
He ate his toast, drank his tea, made several more flattering remarks about her appearance, then left for work. Flo returned to the living room, poured a cup of tea, and curled up in Dad’s chair. She wanted to think about Tommy O’Mara before anyone got up. If Martha was in the room, it was impossible—her sister’s mere presence made Flo feel guilty. For a second, a shadow fell over her face. Tommy was married to Nancy, but he’d explained the strange circumstances to Flo’s satisfaction.
Next year, sooner if possible, he and Flo would be married. Her face cleared. Until the magic day occurred, it was perfectly all right to meet Tommy O’Mara twice a week outside the Mystery.
Upstairs, Mam coughed and Flo held her breath until the house was quiet again. She’d met Tommy on the Tuesday after Easter when he’d come into the laundry by the side door. Customers were supposed to use the front, which led to the office where Mr Fritz was usually behind the counter. It was a dull day, slightly chilly, but the side door was left open, except in the iciest of weather, because when all the boilers, presses and irons were working at full pelt, the laundry got hotter than a Turkish bath.
Flo was pressing sheets in the giant new electric contraption Mr Fritz had only recently bought. She was nearest to the door, wreathed in steam, only vaguely aware of someone approaching through the mist until a voice with a strong Irish accent said, “Do you do dry-cleaning, luv?”
“Sorry, no, just laundry.” As the steam cleared, she saw a young man with a brown suit over his arm. He wore a grey, collarless shirt and, despite the cold, the sleeves were rolled up to his armpits, showing off his strong, brown arms—there was a tattoo of a tiger on the right. A tweed cap was set jauntily on the back of his untidy brown curls. His waist was as slim as a girl’s, something he must have been proud of as his baggy corduroy trousers were held up with a leather belt pulled as tight as it would go. A red hanky was tied carelessly around his neck, emphasising the devil-may-care expression on his handsome, sunburnt face.
“The nearest dry-cleaner’s is Thompson’s, that’s along Gainsborough Road on the first corner,” she said. There was a peculiar feeling in the pit of her tummy as she watched him over the pressing machine. He was staring at her boldly, making no attempt to conceal the admiration in his dark eyes. She wanted to tear off her white turban and let him see she looked even prettier with her blonde hair loose.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
Flo felt as flustered as if he’d asked to borrow a pound note. “Flo Clancy,” she stammered.
Tin Tommy O’Mara.”
“Are you now!” You’d think she was the only one there the way he kept his eyes locked on hers, and seemed unaware that the other five women had stopped work for a good look—Josie Driver was leering at him provocatively over the shirts she was supposed to be ironing.
“I suppose I’d better make me way round to Thompson’s,” he said.
“I suppose you had.”
He winked. “Tara, Flo.” With a swagger, he was gone.
“Tara,” Flo whispered. Her legs felt weak and her heart was thumping madly.
“Who was that?” Josie called eagerly. “Jaysus, he could have me for sixpence!”
Before Flo could reply, Olive Knott shouted, “His name’s Tommy O’Mara. He lives in the next street to us, and before you young “uns get too excited, you might like to know he’s well and truly married.”
Flo’s thumping heart sank to her boots. Married!
Mr Fritz came out of the office to ask what all the fuss was about.
“We’ve just had Franchot Tone, Clark Gable and Ronald Colman all rolled into one asking if we did dry-cleaning,”
Olive said cuttingly.
“Why, Flo, you’ve gone all pink.” Mr Fritz beamed at her through his wire-rimmed spectacles. He was a plump, comfortable little man with a round face and lots of frizzy brown hair. He was wearing a brown coat overall, which meant he was about to go out in the van to deliver clean laundry and collect dirty items in return.
Olive, who’d been there the longest and was vaguely considered next in command, would take over the office and answer the telephone.
“I didn’t mean to,” Flo said stupidly.
“It must be nice to be young and impressionable.” He sighed gloomily, as if he already had one foot in the grave though he wasn’t quite forty. For some reason, Mr Fritz was forever trying to make out he was dead miserable, when everyone knew he was the happiest man alive and the nicest, kindest employer in the whole wide world. His surname was Austrian, a bit of a mouthful and difficult to spell, so everyone called him by his first name, Fritz, and referred to his equally plump little Irish wife, Stella, as Mrs Fritz, and their eight children—three girls and five boys—as the little Fritzes.
He departed, and the women returned to their work, happy in the knowledge that on Tuesdays he called at Sinclair’s, the confectioner’s, to collect the overalls and would bring them back a cream cake each.
Try as she might, Flo was unable to get Tommy O’Mara out of her mind. Twice before, she’d thought she was in love, the first time with Frank McGee, then Kevin Kelly—she’d actually let Kevin kiss her on the way home from the Rialto where they’d been to a St Patrick’s Day dance—but the feelings she had for them paled to nothing when she thought about the man who’d looked at her so boldly. Was it possible she was properly in love with someone she’d exchanged scarcely more than half a dozen words with?
When they were having their tea that night Martha asked sharply, “What’s the matter with you?”
Flo emerged from the daydream in which an unmarried Tommy O’Mara had just proposed. “Nowt!” she answered, just as sharply.
“I’ve asked three times if you want pudding. It’s apple pie.”
“For goodness sake, Martha, leave the girl alone.” Mam was having one of her good days, which meant she resented Martha acting as if she owned the place. At other times she was too worn out and listless to open her mouth. More and more often, Flo found her in bed when she arrived home from work. Mam patted her youngest daughter’s arm. “She was in a lovely little world of her own, weren’t you, luv? I could tell. Your eyes were sparkling as if you were thinking of something dead nice.”
“I was so.” Flo stuck out her tongue at Martha as she disappeared into the back kitchen.
“Can I borrow your pink frock tonight, Flo?” Sally enquired. “I’m going to the Grand with Brian Maloney.”
“Isn’t he a Protestant?” Martha shouted from the kitchen.
“I’ve no idea,” Sally yelled back.
Martha appeared, grim-faced, in the doorway. “I’d sooner you didn’t go out with Protestants, Sal.”
“It’s none of your bloody business,” Flo said indignantly.
Mam shook her head. “Don’t swear, luv.”
Sally wriggled uncomfortably in the chair. “We’re only going to the pictures.”
“You can never tell how things develop with a feller.
It’s best not to get involved with a Protestant from the start.”
“I’ll tell him I won’t see him again after tonight.”
“In that case, you won’t need our Flo’s best frock. Go in something old. He might get ideas if you arrive all dolled up.”