If it weren’t for me you could have managed on the tram,’ Mrs Prescott observed as Sara crossed the living room and headed for the back kitchen. ‘Eh, it’ll be strange not living in Snowdrop Street – I’ve been here almost fifty years, you know. Still, I’m not far from me old pals, they can come visiting if they’ve a mind. And it’s not often I ride in a taxi . . . I’ll feel like royalty!’
The move, contrary to Sara’s expectations, went like clockwork and by three that afternoon they were in their new home, and very tidy it looked, with the furniture in place, the curtains up, and the brand-new linoleum laid. Sara had suggested taking the Snowdrop Street linoleum with them but Mrs Prescott had been firm.
‘It’s been on the floors fifty years, queen, it won’t move. We’ll leave it for the new people,’ she said. ‘We’ll go down the Scottie; a couple of rolls of linoleum won’t break us and it’s nice to have a clean floor to start out.’
But they took the living-room carpet, old though it was, and it came up clean, without any fuss or bother.
‘Buy the best and you’ll not regret it,’ Mrs Prescott said now, surveying the old carpet and her decent sofa and chairs. ‘Looks right homely, don’t it?’
The girls agreed that it did and bustled about lighting a fire, getting the tea and generally making themselves at home.
‘I’m taking the
War Cry
round tonight, though,’ Sara said quietly to Clarrie as they worked. ‘Can you stay with Gran, Clarrie? Only I don’t want to leave her alone on her first evening in a new place.’
Clarrie agreed that she would stay in, so at seven o’clock Sara put on her uniform and set off for the Barracks.
The place was bustling, as usual. Adjutant Edcott, a middle-aged lady with rather unlikely black hair, came over as soon as she saw Sara.
‘Ah, Miss Cordwainer,’ she said heartily. ‘You and I are doing the local public houses this evening and it’s your first time, isn’t it? Mostly the men are pleasant to us, but one or two can use language . . . do you blush easily?’
Sara nodded, feeling her face grow hot, but Adjutant Edcott only laughed.
‘I see you do,’ she said, still chuckling. ‘Well, well, it’s a very pretty blush. My own attitude to bad language overheard in public houses is that I’m not on my own turf, so I can’t object. As you know, dear, nice women don’t frequent such places so the men feel they can blaspheme freely. Will that worry you?’
‘I hope not,’ Sara said. ‘But Adjutant, you should hear some of the children at school when they don’t know there’s a teacher about. Their language would make your hair curl, honestly it would.’
‘Well, there you are, then. You won’t mind the odd naughty word. And the men are generous, particularly those who are . . . well, a little merry, should we say? Yes, it’s amazing what they’ll put into the collecting tin. And a good job too, because we need every penny we can get in these hard times. Shall we set out?’
‘I’m ready,’ Sara said, checking the seams of her stockings by twisting round and staring down at them. ‘I like to look neat when I’m out and about, don’t you?’
‘I do. We owe it to the Army, I always think. Very well, Cordwainer; best foot foremost now!’
Together, the two women marched along the pavement and into the first public house they reached.
‘We’re doing very well,’ the adjutant said after an hour or so had passed. ‘My dear, you’re becomingly flushed, I’m sure that’s why your tin is so heavy. A critic once said to me that it was immoral, taking young girls into public houses to persuade drunken sots to part with their cash, but that’s not how I see it. It makes the men feel good to see a pretty girl, they find it easier to pay up, and giving to charity is good for one’s immortal soul. See?’
‘Considering how many people are out of work I think we’ve done well to get as much as we have,’ Sara said later, as they crossed the road, heading for another public house. ‘And people have been quite polite, too. It hasn’t been too bad at all.’
She did not add that she had enjoyed herself, because it would not have been strictly true. She had not enjoyed many of the fulsome compliments she had received, nor the hot hands on hers, nor the leers, winks and muttered comments which the speakers might have assumed – wrongly – that she did not understand. And the smell of alcohol, cheap cigarettes, sweat and dirt was not too pleasant, either. But she had enjoyed the singing in one pub, the good-natured chaff in a second, the simple friendship the men showed to one another. And the fact that some of the men, particularly the older ones, showed a great respect for the Army.
‘Your lot saved me grandad’s life, just about,’ one man said. ‘He’s in one of your eventide homes – happy as Larry, he is, now. Got other old’uns round him, see – and he ain’t in the workhouse, which he were tarble scared of.’
He put a handful of small coins in her tin and Sara, smiling, thanked him. ‘God bless you,’ she said. ‘That goes a long way towards helping others, like your grandad.’
But now, crossing the street, walking briskly with the heavy tin held protectively inside the shelter of her coat, Sara felt the glow of success. She had done well! This was her first try at taking round the
War Cry
and it had not been as bad as she had expected. I’ll do it again, she told herself, breathing in the clean night air. It’s worth a bit of hassle and embarrassment to know you’ve done so well.
‘Queen’s Arms next . . . and that’s the last,’ the adjutant said briskly, as they approached the big public house on the corner of Salop Street. ‘They’re a nice crowd in here – mostly Irish. A lot of ’em are navvies, working on the Mersey tunnel, and the rest are railmen, mostly. You want to hear ’em sing . . . eh, it can tear the heart from your breast, but don’t you tell them that – they’re all Catholics, and they don’t sing a good, rousing hymn tune, they go more for ballads, laments, that sort o’ stuff.’
‘Not
Nellie Dean
?’ Sara said mischievously. They had heard the song rendered in almost every pub they visited and were both heartily sick of it by now. ‘I’d be grateful for anything that wasn’t
Nellie Dean
, I believe.’
Adjutant Edcott was saved the necessity of replying because they reached the Queen’s Arms at that point and plunged in through the open doorway.
Immediately, Sara sensed a different atmosphere to that of the Pacific Hotel, which had been their last stop. The pub was less crowded, for a start, and the atmosphere a good deal purer, for few of the assembled men were smoking. And though most men had a pint before them they were talking quietly, playing cards, laughing . . . and singing.
‘It’s enough to tear your heartstrings,’ the adjutant beside her murmured. ‘They’re far from home and their songs say what they cannot. Still, we’ve work to do,’ and she stepped forward with her sheaf of newspapers and her collecting tin. ‘Evening, gentlemen, would any of you like a copy of the
War Cry
? We don’t charge, but if you would like to put a contribution into the tin . . .’
Sara moved forward, smiling, thanking, and would not have noticed the large, quiet man in the corner if he had not spoken to her as his money tinkled into her tin.
‘I hope you do some good wit’ me money, Miss, for I’m putting most of me pennies away so I am . . . I’m hopin’ to bring me family over come springtime, if I’ve managed to rent a decent little place by then.’
Sara glanced at him and was beginning to say she hoped he would soon find somewhere nice when she took a closer look. He was smiling up at her, an innocent, friendly smile. He had not recognised her – but why should he? She was disguised by her bonnet, but he looked no different from the way he had looked on that long-ago night when he had walked her home after her parents had abandoned her outside the church.
‘Mr O’Brady? It
is
you! Don’t you remember me? I’m Sara Cordwainer, you walked me home when I was out rather late one night. Your son Brogan was a friend of mine, but I’ve not seen him for years. Has he gone home to Ireland?’
Peader O’Brady looked at her properly for the first time, looked at the person beneath the bonnet, not just the uniform. Then he grinned delightedly, revealing big, white teeth.
‘Miss Cordwainer! Well I’m blessed! I didn’t know you belonged to the Army.’
‘I didn’t, not when we met. But I joined up quite soon afterwards and I’ve never regretted it. How – how is Brogan? And yourself, of course.’
‘Brogan’s fine, and so am I. He’s a train-driver now, for LMSR, working out of Crewe. He’s done well. And what are you doing, Miss, apart from collecting money for the Army?’
‘I’m a teacher in a small school,’ Sara said. ‘Brogan always said he’d drive the train one day – I’m very glad for him. Is he happy? Married? I suppose he could easily have children, for he must be . . . twenty-three or so by now. I’m twenty-one.’
‘Sure an’ Brogan’s twenty-five, and devil a bit is he married.’ Peader looked at her, his cheekbones reddening. ‘He went round to your place last Christmas, and the Christmas before. He – he wanted a word.’
‘I don’t think he ever arrived,’ Sara said. She frowned. ‘Now wait a minute . . . last Christmas Gran and I – and Clarrie, of course – went to stay with Clarrie’s parents, in Formby. But the Christmas before that – that would be 1931 – was my first Christmas with the Army. We were out all day, serving Christmas dinner to those who needed it. Oh dear, I am sorry I missed him.’
‘Aye. He got real down,’ Peader said. ‘He did want a word.’
‘I’m sorry. And now he’s in Crewe, you say?’
‘Aye, that’s it; Crewe. But he visits me from time to time.’
‘Well, next time he’s in Liverpool you must tell him to come and see me,’ Sara said, suddenly gay. It would be lovely to see Brogan again, to watch the slow smile dawn in his eyes, the slow smile curve his lips. ‘The only thing is –’
‘Come along, Cordwainer, don’t stand gossiping there,’ Adjutant Edcott said bracingly. ‘I’ve sold out – how have you done?’
‘Oh, I’ve two left . . .’ Sara smiled at the square-faced man sitting next to Peader. ‘Would you like a copy of the
War Cry,
sir? We don’t charge, but if you feel you can afford a contribution . . .’
The man grinned at her and stood up the better to get at his pockets.
‘Sure an’ you’re welcome to a copper or two just for de sake of your lovely smile,’ he said gallantly. ‘And Seamus here will have one too, eh Seamus?’
‘’Tis lucky to take the last,’ Seamus said, dipping into his own pocket. ‘Though we’ll be askin’ for soup from your kitchen, Miss, when de tunnel’s dug and finished.’
‘Won’t be long now,’ someone else volunteered. ’Eh, it’s been a wicked ole job – wicked. What wit’ the water running down the walls an’ the great rocks to be blasted out . . . eh, it’s been wicked.’
‘Last one gone, Adjutant,’ Sara said, smiling at the men. She leaned down and spoke directly to Peader.
‘Don’t forget, next time Brogan comes, tell him to be sure to call.’
‘I will, but Brogan said somethin’ . . . is there a feller named Boote . . .?’ Peader said, reddening still more. ‘I wouldn’t want to be after raising false hopes . . .’
‘Our lodger’s name is Boote – Miss Clarrie Boote,’ Sara said. ‘Oh, I must go, but don’t forget – tell Brogan to call.’
And then they were outside the pub once more, and above them the sky fairly hummed with stars.
Grace saw the two Salvationists come out of the pub; she was lurking in the shadows of the Queen’s Arms on Walton Road, waiting for closing time. She didn’t spend as much time as she once had outside the Mile End pub, even though Kitty now lived there. The kitten had grown into a handsome cat and after a terrible scene at home, in the course of which Kitty had been lucky to escape with his life, Grace had taken him round to the Mile End pub and asked the landlady if she would keep him.
‘Me da tried to kill ’im,’ she explained, her voice breaking. ‘They need me at ’ome, now, but me da will use Kitty to keep me in line. ’E says ’e’ll strangle Kitty if I doesn’t do what ’e says.’
The landlady’s eyes were soft and sorry; she took the cat and told Grace she could come round whenever she liked to see Kitty, and Grace availed herself of the offer whenever she could. But because she was now big enough to be useful at home, she had begun to roam more widely, trying to keep well away from the neighbourhood of their court. And since the Mile End was a pub occasionally favoured by her father, Grace tended to hang around mostly on the Walton Road. She missed Kitty and the friendly landlady, but she liked the neighbourhood – there was a prime soup kitchen quite near, she’d had many a meal from the Army people who manned it, to say nothing of free boots, the loan of an Army blanket, and once, a lovely thick jersey to see her through a patch of bad weather.
She liked the Sally Army, but she never hung around near the Barracks or the soup kitchen for too long; she didn’t want anyone to put her into the workhouse or any other institution, so she never let them know she slept rough six days out of seven. And at this time of night, she kept well out of sight. But she sighed to herself as the two women came out of the pub, smiling, talking. It would have been nice to have called out, had a word. Nice, but dangerous. But very soon now the pubs would want to close and the men would come out and she might get all manner of bits and pieces, to say nothing of coppers. She watched the bonnets bob off down the road, then went back to lean against the pub door.