‘I don’t like Tiddles. Let’s call him Tommy, ’cos he’s a tomcat,’ Grainne said. And though several other names were bandied about, it was finally decided that Tommy it should be, and when Pat came home he agreed that the cat would be a grand addition to the household.
‘But you’ll have to keep him in the flat for a few days to be sure he knows he lives here, for cats is independent; he’ll likely want his freedom, particularly since he’s a tom,’ he said.
Caitlin laughed. ‘Fellers is all the same,’ she remarked. ‘They all want their freedom, so long as it’s give ’em wit’ two good meals a day and a warm bed o’ nights.’
The baby was sitting with the other children and now she reached out small hands towards the cat. Caitlin gave a squeak of dismay and jumped forward, but Maeve, seeing her anxiety, waved her back. ‘It’s all right, Cait,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Catherine Mary’s been playin’ with Tommy all afternoon, and they’re fine together.
Pat turned away from the group on the hearthrug towards where his wife was prodding a fork into a large pan of potatoes. ‘Where’s me dinner, woman?’ he demanded. ‘You said yourself us fellers want two meals a day as well as our freedom, so the sooner it’s on the table, the quicker the man of the house will be satisfied.’
Chapter Seven
July 1914
‘Mum! Sorry I’s late for me dinner but I met up wi’ Wilf, so we played wi’ his pals – relievio. It were grand!’
It was a warm summer day and Sylvie was making vegetable soup for Len, patiently pushing an assortment of vegetables through a hair-sieve. She turned a hot face towards her daughter. ‘Oh, Becky love, I’m glad you’re home! And I do hope it really was relievio you were playing, and not skipping leckies. It’s not that I don’t like Wilf, but he’s been brought up to do all sorts – he thieves fruit and coal, never pays a penny to ride a tram when he can steal a lift . . .’
‘He doesn’t have any pennies,’ Becky said placidly, helping herself to one of the biscuits cooling on a wire tray beneath the open window. ‘Is Dad’s soup ready, Mam? If so, I’ll take it through to him. And we weren’t skipping leckies, honest to God.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, because it’s dangerous. I had a friend once who ended up . . . lame, because she . . .’
She stopped short, uneasily aware that she had been about to cite Maeve’s experience as a lesson to Becky, who knew nothing of her Irish life. Becky, however, was concentrating on the biscuit whilst peering at the vegetables her mother was preparing with such care.
‘Dad used to skip leckies when he were a kid,’ she said suddenly. ‘He doesn’t think it’s dangerous – he telled me so.’
Sylvie turned and stared at her daughter. ‘Told you so? Darling, he can’t talk! Or do you mean Granny Dugdale told you?’
Her daughter stared at her. ‘Course not. I
said
, Dad told me.’
‘But he . . .’
‘Oh, talking!’ Becky said contemptuously. ‘You can tell folk things without
words
, Mam! I said I’d been skipping leckies wi’ Wilf, and Dad nodded, touched his chest and grinned. If that wasn’t saying he’d skipped leckies and thought it were fun . . . well I
know
that was what he were saying!’
‘Yes, I do see . . . and you’re right, because I guess all boys skip leckies, partly for devilment and partly to get a free ride.’ She tipped the thick puréed vegetables into a pan and put it over the flame, then turned curiously to her daughter. ‘Do you and Dad often talk like that? He’s never tried that with me.’
‘I expect you’re too busy to take the time, ’cos it does take a while ’til you get used to it,’ Becky said wisely, after some thought. ‘But you ought to try, Mam. Dad does love to talk about the past. Him and me chats away of an evening, about what I’ve done, and what he did when he were a boy.’
Feeling remarkably small, Sylvie agreed that, in future, she would try to follow her daughter’s example. She did so the following evening and soon realised what a difference it made to Len’s whole attitude. She told her mother, who nodded approvingly. ‘Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,’ she said. ‘Just fancy, Len’s been making hisself understood to our Becky for ages and we never knew! Ah well, I reckon things will begin to look up from now on. He’ll be talkin’ proper before you know it.’
It was not quite as dramatic as that, but Sylvie, watching more closely now, saw that Len really was beginning to improve, and knew they had Becky to thank, though they all took the hint and talked to Len, encouraging him to mime replies or to nod or shake his head according to how he felt.
‘You’ll soon be back behind the bar, calling “Time, gentlemen, please”, Sylvie said one day, but though he smiled and made a thumbs-up sign, she saw the sad look in his eyes and knew her husband did not believe he would ever fully recover. But he might be wrong; the doctor was growing optimistic as Len became able to answer simple questions with a nod, a shake of the head, or even a shrug of the shoulders.
‘Miracles do happen,’ Dr Hislop assured the Dugdales. ‘Keep trying, and you never know – he may surprise us all yet.’
Brendan came off duty actually longing for a cold bath, because August bank holiday always meant extra work for the force and today had been no exception. Everyone had been in a holiday mood, surging to and from the ferries which would take them across the Mersey to New Brighton, where they might enjoy the funfair, or disport themselves on the long golden beach.
Brendan let himself into the house and went straight upstairs. When Constable Collins had left, Mrs Taggart she had decided not to replace him but to turn his room into a proper bathroom.
Brendan undressed, filled the tub with cold water and stepped into it, the breath hissing between his teeth as hot flesh and cold water met. He sat very still for a moment, then relaxed and slid below the water until only his head was clear of it, and very soon it was enjoyable and he could reach for the soap and begin washing. At this point, his mind turned to the Dugdales and Sylvie, since he intended to visit the Ferryman later. The last time he went, Sylvie had said that she thought Len enjoyed his company. Becky had become a useful member of the household, helping to entertain her father, doing a great many jobs about the house and accompanying her mother when she went to get the messages. She was doing well in school and frequently read the
Echo
to Len when the women of the house were too busy to do so, for the pub was flourishing and Sylvie’s job kept her busy during the daytime.
Brendan soaked his face, neck and hair and ducked right under the water to rinse himself off for one delicious, cooling moment.
Climbing out of the tub, he patted himself dry and began to dress. Every year, he returned to Ireland for his holiday, and sometimes, as his savings grew, he looked into buying a farm or smallholding of his own. He knew he was a countryman at heart, thought he could succeed on the land, yet could not bring himself to seriously consider moving so far away from Sylvie. A married woman, she was clearly beyond his reach, yet the love which had been born the night he rescued her from drowning simply refused to die. Steadfastly, that love had grown until he admitted, though only to himself, that he was unlikely to look at another woman. He had never let her see how he felt, never tried to invent excuses to be alone with her – quite the opposite in fact. Long ago, he had taken her to Southport to celebrate her getting a job in Lewis’s, and as they walked along Lord Street he had put his arm round her and, when she turned to him, had felt such a stab of desire that he had been shocked. He had known then that such proximity was dangerous and must never occur again. He knew it was hard on her to be tied to a man who could not be a proper husband to her, but she never complained. Once or twice, he had been tempted to tell her how fond he was of her, but he always stifled the impulse. It could do no good, could even do real harm, for whilst Sylvie considered him merely as a friend they could meet without embarrassment or awkwardness. If she saw love in his eyes when they met her own it would complicate both their lives, and he had no wish to do that.
He finished dressing, tidied round the bathroom, and headed for the stairs. Brendan sometimes acknowledged to himself that if Len should die, his feelings for Sylvie would surface with a vengeance, all the stronger for having been so long suppressed. The doctor, who called regularly to see Len, had once told Brendan that the man was unlikely to have a long life, for though the wounds one could see had healed, no one knew what was going on inside Len’s damaged head.
Brendan reached the head of the stairs and clattered down them. He would have his evening meal and then stroll round to the Ferryman. It was generally frowned upon for members of the constabulary to become regulars in any of the pubs on their beat, but because he visited a sick man his presence in the Ferryman was not held against him. He would go into the public bar, buy a Guinness, and then sit quietly in the corner, sipping it and yarning to the regular customers, and all the while he would be casting quick little glances at Sylvie’s delicate golden beauty. Just seeing her partially satisfied his hunger for her. After that, he would make his way into the room behind the bar, where he would sit with Len for half an hour, chatting, reading from the newspaper, and occasionally breaking off to hold a glass to Len’s lips.
Brendan descended the stairs and opened the kitchen door, thinking that his evening was all planned, and got a rude shock. Ferdy Simpson turned at the sound of the opening door. He was grinning, waving a newspaper. ‘Looks like we’re going to war wi’ Germany, old feller!’ he shouted exuberantly. ‘Well, you won’t catch me holdin’ back, ’cos this is one reason for leaving the chief constable can’t deny. A feller’s got to fight for king an’ country, an’ as far as I can see, life in the army can’t be no worse than life in the police force. Besides, they reckon it’ll all be over by Christmas, so the sooner we get to the recruitin’ office, the better off we’ll be.’ He laid the newspaper he was holding out on the table, and began jabbing a finger at the headlines. ‘Asquith won’t let the Kaiser gerraway with marchin’ into Belgium an’ threatenin’ the French. What’ll it be for you then? Army or Navy?’
‘Dunno; I’ll have to think about it,’ Brendan said guardedly, but already excitement was beginning to course through his veins. A way out, and with honour! He realised now that he had held back from leaving the force because he felt he would be letting Sylvie and the Dugdales down. But to go to war, to defend king and country, was a very different matter from simply leaving the area for more congenial work. Yes, he could join the army, which he guessed was not unlike the police force, whereas the Navy, he was sure, would be very different. He said as much and Constable Simpson clapped him on the shoulder and grinned even more widely than before.
‘That’s grand, old feller,’ he said. ‘We’ll sign on together . . . can’t do it today, of course, but we’ll do it first thing tomorrer. Eh, I can’t wait to see the sergeant’s face when he realises we’re off the hook. And it ain’t only us; there’s a dozen or more I know what’ll grab the chance of gettin’ out. As for the perishin’ Huns, they’ll soon cave in when they see we mean business.’
Mrs Taggart, dishing up what smelt like a beautiful mutton stew, sniffed loudly. ‘War isn’t a game, you know, young gentlemen,’ she said reprovingly. ‘Folk get killed in wars. Why, my brother Eddie was killed in the Boer War and them Boers weren’t nothing like as well armed and well trained as the Kaiser’s lot. Why don’t you wait a while, see what happens? If it’s really over by Christmas . . .’
‘If it’s going to be over by Christmas, then the sooner we join up the sooner we’ll be heroes what helped to defeat the Hun,’ Ferdy assured her. ‘Why, with our police experience behind us, Brendan an’ meself will be officers before we’ve finished our basic training. I can’t wait, meself.’
Mrs Taggart began to dish up the stew and both young men took their seats at the table. ‘Wherever we’re sent and whatever we do, I don’t reckon the grub we’ll be given will be up to your standard, Mrs Taggart,’ Brendan said as he finished the last delicious mouthful of meat and vegetables. He took a slice of his landlady’s homemade bread and wiped it round his plate to clear up the rest of the gravy. ‘Do you mind if I slope off now? I reckon I’d best go round to the Dugdales’, tell them they won’t be seein’ me for a while.’
‘There’s plum pie and custard for afters,’ Mrs Taggart said reproachfully. ‘Surely you aren’t going to miss that? After all, how long will it take to eat it if I dish up at once?’
She did not wait for him to reply but whipped the pie out of the oven and set it on the table, then reached for the jug of custard. Brendan, who had risen to his feet, sat down again and pulled the plate towards him. He grinned up at his landlady. ‘Thanks, Mrs Taggart. It looks lovely,’ he said. ‘And you’re right, I’ll get outside of this little lot in five minutes and feel better for it.’
Christmas came and went, and the country had accepted the grim reality that war, far from being over, was here to stay. Sylvie and her mother-in-law had joined a sewing guild, making warm clothing for the troops, and Mrs Davies, never a keen needlewoman, did her bit by knitting furiously. Scarves, mittens and gloves, thick socks and woollen caps followed each other from her needles in quick succession, and Sylvie grew used to the sight of her mother serving in the bar with her knitting tucked under one arm, for every young man worth his salt, and that included both the Ferryman’s barmen, had by this time joined one of the armed forces. Bertie, morose and self-conscious, had to stay behind, of course, but he resented his lameness and constantly complained that he could have been as good as any other man had he been allowed to join up. As the news from Europe worsened, Sylvie guessed that he must have been secretly relieved, for the casualty lists lengthened daily, and men sent home from the Front made no secret of the fact that the war was terrible, and that they longed to be out of it.
Right now, Sylvie was returning from a late shift at the munitions factory and was very glad of the thick scarf, mittens and socks which her mother had knitted for her, because the snow lay thick, even on the pavement, and everyone realised that it was going to be a struggle to get through January, for already there were shortages in the shops. It was dark too, and the gas lamps guttered fitfully in the strong wind. She shivered and thought longingly of the tram crammed with her fellow workers. Normally, at the end of her shift, she would have caught that tram, which would have taken her most of the way home, but she had forgotten to pick up her purse when she had left the Ferryman that morning. Pride had prevented her from admitting her stupidity in front of the whole queue and, telling herself that the walk would do her good, she had set off to return to the Ferryman on foot.