Flo felt cross with both her sisters, one for being so bossy and the other for allowing herself to be bossed.
“What are you doing with yourself tonight, luv?” Mam asked.
“I thought I’d stay in and read a book—but I’ll play cards with you if you like.” When Dad was alive, the two of them used to play cards for hours.
“No, ta, luv. I feel a bit tired. I might go to bed after I’ve had a cup of tea. I’ll not bother with the apple pie, Martha.”
“I wish you’d go to the doctor’s, Mam,” Flo said worriedly. Kate Clancy had never been a strong woman, and since the sudden, violent death of her beloved husband, she seemed to have lost the will to live, becoming thinner and more frail by the day.
“So do I.” Martha stroked Mam’s hair, which had changed from ash-blonde to genuine silver almost overnight.
The,
too,” echoed Sally.
But Mam screwed her thin face into the stubborn expression they’d seen many times before. “Now, don’t you girls start on that again,” she said tightly. “I’ve told you, I’m not seeing a doctor. He might find something wrong with me, and there’s no way I’m letting them cut me open. I’m just run down, that’s all. I’ll feel better when the warm weather comes.”
“Are you taking the bile beans I bought?” Martha demanded.
“They’re beside me bed and I take them every morning.”
The girls glanced at each other with concern. If Mam died so soon after Dad, they didn’t think they could bear it.
Mam went to bed and Sally got ready to meet Brian Maloney. Martha made her remove her earrings before she left, as if sixpenny pearl earrings from Woolworths would drive a man so wild with desire that he’d propose on the spot and Sally would feel obliged to accept!
It was Flo’s turn to wash and dry the dishes. She cleared the table, shook the white cloth in the yard, straightened the green chenille cloth underneath and folded one leaf of the table down, before putting the white cloth on again for when their lodger came home. A meal fit for a giant was in the oven keeping warm. Flo set his place: knife, fork and spoon, condiments to the right, mustard to the left. As soon as she’d finished, she sank into the armchair with the novel she was halfway through, Shattered Love, Shattered Dreams.
Martha came in and adjusted everything on the table as if it had been crooked. “You’ve always got your head buried in a book, Flo Clancy,” she remarked.
“You moan when I go out and you moan when I stay in.” Flo made a face at her sister. “What do you expect me to do all night? Sit and twiddle me thumbs?”
“I wasn’t moaning, I was merely stating a fact.” Martha gave the table a critical glance. “Will you look after Albert when he comes?”
“Of course.” There was nothing to be done except move the plate from the oven to the table, which Albert could no doubt manage alone if no help was available.
“I’d stay meself, but I promised to go and see Elsa Cameron. That baby’s getting her down something awful. I’m sure she smacks him, yet the little lad’s not even twelve months old.”
“Norman? He’s a lovely baby. I wouldn’t mind having him meself
“Nor I.” Martha shoved a hatpin into a little veiled cocked hat, then sighed as she adjusted her glasses in the mirror. She was smartly dressed, although she was only going around the corner, in a long grey skirt with a cardigan to inarch. The whole outfit had cost ten bob in Paddy’s Market. “Trouble is, Flo, I’m beginning to think Elsa’s not quite right in the head. She’s been acting dead peculiar since Norman arrived. The other day when I turned up she was undoing her knitting, but when I asked why, she’d no idea. She mightn’t be so bad it Eugene was there, but him being in the Merchant Navy, like, it means he’s hardly ever home.”
“It’s a terrible shame,” Flo said sincerely. Norman Cameron was Martha’s godson and the most delightful baby she’d ever known. It was terrible to think he was getting his mam down. “Can’t Eugene get a different job?”
“Not with a million men already out of work,” Martha said. “Mind you, that’ll soon change if there’s a war.”
“There won’t be a war,” Flo said quickly. She looked at her sister, scared. “Will there?”
“Oh, I don’t know, luv. According to the papers, that Hitler’s getting far too big for his boots.”
Like Mam dying, war was something best not thought about. After Martha left, Flo tried to bury herself in her book, but the man over whom the heroine was pining was a pale, insipid creature compared to Tommy O’Mara, and instead of words, she kept seeing him on the page: his dark, shameless eyes, his reckless face, the cheeky way he wore his cap. She reckoned it was a good job she wouldn’t be seeing him again. If he’d been as knocked sideways by her as she’d been by him, he might ask her out, and although a good Catholic girl should never, never go out with a married man, Flo wasn’t convinced she’d be capable of resisting Tommy O’Mara.
She did see him again, only two days later. He came into the laundry, this time bearing two white shirts that already looked perfectly clean. She looked up from the press and found him smiling at her intently as if she was the only woman in the world, never mind the laundry.
“I’d like these laundered, please.”
Flo had to swallow several times before she could answer. “You need to take them round the front and Mr Si Fritz will give you a ticket,” she said, in a voice that sounded as if it belonged to someone else.
He frowned. “Does that mean I won’t see you when I collect them?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said, still in someone else’s voice.
He flung the shirts over his shoulder, stuck his thumbs in his belt and rocked back on his heels. “In that case, I’ll not beat about the bush. Would you like to come for a walk with me one night, Flo? We can have a bevy on the way—you’re old enough to go in boozers, aren’t you?”
“I’ll be nineteen in May,” Flo said faintly. “Though I’ve never been in a booz—a pub before.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything.” He winked.
“See you tomorrer night then, eight o’clock outside the Mystery gates, the Smithdown Road end.”
“Rightio.” She watched him leave, knowing that she’d done something terribly wrong. She felt very adult and worldly wise, as if she was much older than Sally and Martha. Tomorrow night she was going out with a married man and the thing was she didn’t care!
“What did he want?” Olive Knott brought her down to earth with a sharp nudge in the ribs.
“He brought his shirts to the wrong place. I sent him round the front.”
Olive’s brow creased worriedly. “He didn’t ask you out, did he?”
For the first time in her life Flo lied. “No.”
“He’s got his eye on you, that’s plain to see. Oh, he has a way with him, there’s no denying it, but it’s best for nice girls like you to stay clear of men like Tommy O’Mara, Flo.”
But Flo was lost. She would have gone out with Tommy O’Mara if Olive had declared him to be the divil himself.
Friday was another dull day and there was drizzle on and off until early evening when a late sun appeared. It looked as soft as a jelly in the dusky blue sky, and its gentle rays filled the air with gold dust.
Flo felt very odd as she made her way to the Mystery.
Every step that took her nearer seemed of momentous significance, as if she was walking towards her destiny, and that after tonight nothing would ever be the same again. She thought of the lie she’d told at home—that she was calling on Josie Driver who’d been off sick and Mr Fritz wanted to know how she was, which had been all she could think of when Martha demanded to know where she was going.
When she arrived Tommy was already there. He was standing outside the gates, “whistling, wearing a dark blue suit that looked a bit too big, a white and blue striped shirt with a high stiff collar, and a grey tie. A slightly more respectable tweed cap was set at the same jaunty angle on the back of his curly head. The mere sight of the swaggering, audacious figure made Flo feel quite faint.
“There you are!” He smiled. “You’re late. I was worried you might have changed your mind.”
The thought had never entered her head. She smiled nervously and said, “Hello.”
“You look nice,” he said appreciatively. “Green suits you. It sets off your eyes. That was the first thing I noticed when I came into the laundry, those green eyes.
I bet you have stacks of fellers chasing after you.”
“Not exactly,” Flo mumbled.
“In that case, the fellers round here must be mad!”
When he linked her arm Flo could smell a mixture of strong tobacco and carbolic soap. She got the peculiar feeling in her tummy again as they began to stroll through the park, though the Mystery was more like a playing-field: a vast expanse of grass surrounded by trees. The Liverpool-to-London railway line ran along one side.
The trees were bursting into life, ready for summer, and pale sunlight filtered through the branches, making dappled patterns on the green grass underneath.
Without any prompting, Tommy briefly told her the story of his life. He’d been born in Ireland, in the county of Limerick, and had come to Liverpool ten years ago when he was twenty. “I’ve got fourteen brothers and sisters, half of ‘em still at home. I send me mam a few bob when I’ve got it to spare.’
Flo said she thought that very generous. She asked where he worked.
“I’m a fitter at Cammell Laird’s in Birkenhead,” he said boastfully. “You should see this ship we’re building at the moment. It’s a T-class submarine, the Thetis. Guess how much it’s costing?”
She confessed she had absolutely no idea.
“Three hundred thousand smackeroos!”
“Three hundred thousand!” Flo gasped. “Is it made of gold or something?”
He laughed and squeezed her arm. “No, but it’s the very latest design. You should see the instruments in the conning tower! And it’s got ten torpedo tubes. I don’t envy any German ships that come near the Thetis if there’s a war.”
“There won’t be a war,” Flo said stubbornly.
“That’s what women always say.” He chuckled.
She realised he’d omitted to tell her about one important aspect of his life—his wife. There was silence for a while, except for his whistling, as they strolled across the grass and the April sun began to disappear behind the trees.
Perhaps Tommy had read her thoughts, because he said suddenly, “I should have told you this before, Flo.
I’m married.”
“I know,” Flo said.
He raised his finely drawn eyebrows in surprise. “Who told you?”
“A woman at work, Olive Knott. She lives in the next street to you.”
“Does she now.” He made a face. “I’m surprised you came, knowing, like.”
Flo wasn’t in the least surprised: she’d have come even if she’d been told he had ten wives.
They’d arrived at the other side of the Mystery and emerged into Gainsborough Road. Tommy steered her inside the first pub they came to. “What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“I’ve no idea.” The only alcohol that ever crossed Flo’s lips was a small glass of sherry at Christmas.
“I’ll get you a port and lemon. That’s what women usually like.”
The pub was crowded. Flo glanced round when Tommy went to be served, worried someone might recognise her, but there were no familiar faces. She noticed that quite a few women were eyeing Tommy up and down as he waited at the bar, legs crossed nonchalantly at the ankles. Without doubt he was the best-looking man there—and he was with her! Flo gasped at the sheer magic of it all, just as Tommy turned round and winked.
Her eyes flickered as she tried to wink back, but couldn’t quite manage it. Tommy laughed at her efforts as he came over with the drinks. “You know,” he whispered, “you’re the most beautiful girl here, Flo Clancy, perhaps the most beautiful in the whole of Liverpool.
There’s something special between us, isn’t there? I recognised it the minute I set eyes on you. It’s something that doesn’t happen often between a man and a woman, but it’s happened between you and me.”
Flo felt as if she wanted to cry. She also wanted to say something meaningful, but all she could think of was, “I suppose it has.”
Tommy swallowed half his beer in one go, then returned the pint glass to the table with a thump. He took a tin of tobacco from his pocket and deftly rolled a ciggie out of the thick dark shreds that smelt of tar. He shoved the tin in Flo’s direction, but she shook her head.
“It’s time I explained about Nancy,” he said grandly.
“Nancy?”
The wife. It’s not a genuine marriage, Flo, not in any respects.” He looked at her knowingly. “I met Nancy in Spain when I was fighting in the Civil War. She’s a gypsy. I won’t deny I fell for her hook, line and sinker. I would have married her proper, given the opportunity, but “stead, I did it Nancy’s way.” The way he told it it sounded like the most romantic novel ever written. He and Nancy had “plighted their troth”, as he put it, at a gypsy ceremony in a wood near Barcelona. “It means nowt in the eyes of British law or the Roman Catholic Church,” he said contemptuously. He’d been meaning to leave for a long time, and as soon as Nancy got better he’d be off like a shot. “Then I’ll be free to marry an English girl, proper, like, this time.” He clasped Flo’s hand and gazed deep into her eyes. “And you know who that’ll be, don’t you?”
Flo felt the blood run hot through her body. She gulped. “What’s wrong with Nancy?”
Tommy sighed. “It’s a bit embarrassing to explain, luv.
It’s what’s called a woman’s complaint. She’s been to Smithdown Road ozzie and the doctors said it’ll all be cleared up in about six months. I don’t like to leave till she gets better,” he added virtuously.
The guilt that had been lurking in a little corner of Flo’s mind about going out with a married man disappeared, along with the suspicion that he’d only told her about Nancy in case someone else did. Why, he was almost single! It seemed wise, though, not to mention him and his peculiar circumstances to her family. Martha, in particular, would never understand. She’d say nothing until they got engaged.
“I trust you’ll keep what I’ve just said under your hat for now, luv,” Tommy said conspiratorially. “I don’t want people knowing me private business, like, till the time comes to tell them.”