It wasn’t a bad room but the Cartwrights were a rather unpleasant couple and Mrs Cartwright was an extremely poor cook. Lumpy porridge, burnt toast and tea so weak you could see the pattern on the bottom of the cup were served every morning for breakfast, and after one evening meal – a tiny piece of meat stewed to rags, unpeeled carrots and turnips, and potatoes so hard that he nearly broke his fork on one – Nicholas had decided to provide his own food. He bought a small white loaf, a pat of butter and some nice, ripe tomatoes, as well as a piece of strong cheese, and ate these in his room when he returned to it each evening. He knew this annoyed Mrs Cartwright, that she felt the implied criticism, but since the paper was paying for half board he felt she had no right to object. What Nick disliked most, however, was Mr Cartwright’s blatant curiosity. The other man cross-questioned him as to his reason for being in Liverpool whenever they met and took umbrage when Nick told him as little as possible. Nick was pretty sure that the older man had not stopped at questions, either. His room had been searched and his small possessions turned over by prying and careless fingers, but since his door had no lock and he always kept his notebook upon his person, he said nothing to the Cartwrights about this invasion of his privacy. It annoyed him, of course it did, but he was newsman enough to realise that the stringer needed to be curious in order to do his own job. Despite his understanding, however, his dislike of the Cartwrights and their ménage grew. The bathroom, shared by two lodgers and the Cartwrights themselves, was seldom cleaned. There was stubble and shaving soap in the hand basin, several rings of dirt round the tub, and before one could release one’s bath water it was necessary to hook out of the plughole the soapy wodge of matted hair which constantly blocked it.
When he arrived at his lodgings, he decided against a relaxing bath to soothe his bruises. There would be no hot water for a start, and anyway, he was too tired to go through the lengthy cleaning process which must take place before his ablutions. He would let himself in with his front door key, knowing that no matter how quietly he trod Mrs Cartwright would grumble that he had woken her when they met at breakfast, and Mr Cartwright would want to know what he had been doing out so late.
Nick’s key grated in the lock despite his best efforts to turn it quietly; he thought, crossly, that Mrs Cartwright must tip a little water into the lock each day so that the rusty squeal of his key would always give him away. He entered the house, locking the door behind him and inhaling, distastefully, the nasty smell of cooked cabbage and fatty mutton which assailed his nostrils as soon as the door closed. He climbed the stairs, already aware that the second step from the top must be avoided since its creak was similar to the shriek of a hunting dinosaur. He reminded himself that he still had not greased the hinges of his bedroom door so when he opened it that, too, added its tinny squawk to the noise he had already made. He closed the door behind him and began to undress, throwing his clothes on to the straight-backed wooden chair, donning his pyjamas and climbing between the sheets. It was a hard bed and the pillows were lumpy, but Nick was so tired that he thought he could have slept on a clothes line. Oddly enough, however, sleep did not immediately come. Before his mind’s eye floated the deliciously piquant face of Emma Grieves, and though his cracked knee and bruised elbow ached he imagined that he could still feel the soft and yielding tenderness of her body when he had rugby-tackled her and brought her crashing to the ground. Poor Emma had been the one underneath, so he could only guess, wincing, how she must be feeling now. He would buy her chocolates tomorrow and a big bunch of roses, though arnica and a mustard plaster might be more appropriate.
Smiling to himself, Nick slept at last, and dreamed of Emma, and of himself as a knight on a white horse who would rescue her from all her dragons.
Chapter Eight
Dot got back home without incident and was glad that the whole house was in darkness. She fished the key on its length of string up through the letter box and unlocked the door, letting herself into the silent house. The parlour door was tightly shut, but when she put her ear to it she could hear her uncle’s tremendous snores and guessed that he was still celebrating the fact that he was about to become father to twins. It was a pity, because for several weeks he had returned to the house, if not sober as a judge, at least no more than a little merry, and neither Aunt Myrtle nor Dot had any objection to this. But if he was sleeping in the parlour – and snoring like a pneumatic drill – it must be because he had drunk a great deal and that was bad news for everyone, since drink cost money and drunks cost Aunt Myrtle her peace of mind. However, she went through to the kitchen without incident and found her sofa bed had been made up which was, she thought, Aunt Myrtle’s way of apologising for the bad temper she had shown when she had told Dot about the twins. The fire had been banked down but the tin of cocoa stood on the table and there was still a cupful of hot water in the kettle, so she made herself a quick drink, then climbed on to the sofa and was soon fast asleep.
She was awoken next morning by the sound of her aunt riddling the fire and got out of bed at once to take the ash pan from her and to say she would empty it into the bin whilst her aunt made a cup of tea. Aunt Myrtle merely nodded, but when Dot returned to the house and slid the ash pan back into place, there were two cups of tea waiting on the table and her aunt smiled at her. ‘You’re norra bad girl, queen,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I weren’t too pleasant to you when I telled you about the twins, but honest to God, Dot, I don’t know how I’ll manage.’
‘I said I’d help,’ Dot said, rather reproachfully, fetching the oats from the cupboard and starting to make the porridge. She decided it was time that she, too, apologised, because she knew very well she had been so wrapped up in the affair of the necklace that she had not helped Aunt Myrtle nearly as much as she usually did. ‘And I did mean it, honest to God I did. I know I’ve been out an awful lot lately, but you know what it’s like in the summer, Aunt Myrtle. Me and me pals have a game goin’ . . . I can’t explain it exactly – it’s sort of cops ’n’ robbers – but I’ll tell them today that I can’t hang around with them like I’ve been doing.’
Aunt Myrtle, slicing bread, nodded briskly. ‘Right; I’ve gorra list of messages as long as me arm, so you can start by doin’ them. Then you can give me a hand in the house ’cos I means to try me hand at some proper cookin’.’ She looked rather shyly across at her niece. ‘When I were young, me mam never bought anything she could make herself – in the cookery line, I mean – and your mam was a dab hand at cakes and pies and so on. I’ve never bothered meself, but after I’d seen the doctor up at Brougham Terrace, he sent me along to see one of them interferin’ social women. I were in a fair old state, knowing it were twins, like, but she sat me down an’ gave me a cuppa tea and then she talked about money an’ that. D’you know, queen, that I can make a great slab of fruit cake for a quarter the price they charge in the shops? And it ain’t only cakes: puddens ’n’ pies – even loaves of bread – are real cheap if you make ’em yourself. She went on a bit about baby clothes, said I could make them an’ all, but I aren’t goin’ to do that, not wi’ Paddy’s market sellin’ stuff so reasonable.’
Dot, stirring porridge, smiled at her aunt. She still had a vague memory of the little house in Copley Street and the delicious smells of cooking which wafted from the kitchen on her mother’s baking days, but she felt obliged to point out that there was one large snag to her aunt’s plans. ‘Yes, I guess cooking pies and bread yourself is much cheaper and the pies and bread will be very much nicer,’ she admitted. ‘Me mam did all our baking, like you said, but she had an oven, Aunt Myrtle. I always thought she stopped cooking when we moved in with you because there was no oven.’
‘Ah, but Deerings on the corner of Abbey and Heyworth Street only charges a few pence to bake any number of cakes ’n’ pies,’ her aunt said. ‘Them social women have their uses; she telled me almost all the bakers in the city will cook for you if you prepare the food, like. It’s odd, ain’t it, Dot? I’ve seen women – kids sometimes – leaving the court with half a dozen loaves on a baking tray, but it never occurred to me to do the same.’ Again she glanced shyly at her niece. ‘They – they give me recipes at Brougham Terrace, told me how to measure flour an’ that wi’out a weighing machine, so I thought you an’ me might have a go at some grub today. You can read the recipe out to me and do some mixing an’ that and we’ll see how we go on.’
‘If we’re going to bake, why don’t you ask Li and Dick to do the messages, so we can get on with the cooking?’ Dot asked craftily, thinking that this would halve the tasks her aunt wanted her to do, but the older woman shook her head and smiled rather grimly.
‘No, that’s no use, ’cos till we’ve got the flour an’ that, we can’t do no cookin’ ’cos I’ve got nothin’ to cook with,’ she said. ‘Besides, you know what the boys are like; once you let ’em out o’ the house there’s no knowin’ when they’ll deign to saunter back in again. It could be teatime, which wouldn’t be much help, would it?’
Dot was beginning to agree when the kitchen door opened and her uncle shambled into the room. He was red-eyed and grey-faced, and groaned as he slumped into a kitchen chair. Silently, Dot made him a mug of tea and handed it to him but he shuddered and pushed it away, saying in a hoarse voice that the smell of the tea made him want to puke. ‘What I need is a hair of the dog,’ he said huskily.
Dot looked baffled, but her aunt said resignedly: ‘Awright, Rupe, but I’m warnin’ you, if you start drinkin’ heavy again, I’ll be off, twins or no twins, and then you’ll only have young Dot here to make your meals an’ wash your clothes an’ that.’
Her uncle gave a rude snort. ‘If you ever try to leave me, Myrtle Brewster, I’ll find you if you’ve gone to the ends of the earth an’ I’ll break both your bleedin’ legs an’ then your bleedin’ neck,’ he said aggressively. ‘As for Dot, she won’t be around. She’ll be in a bleedin’ orphanage where she belongs.’
‘And then you’d have nobody but yourself to make your meals and wash your perishin’ shirts,’ Dot murmured, but she kept her voice so low that neither her aunt nor her uncle heard. Aloud, she said: ‘Want some porridge, Uncle Rupe? Though I’ve heard it don’t go too well with porter,’ for her aunt was offering him a mug full of the dark, strong-smelling liquor from a bottle which she produced from one of the cupboards.
‘I don’t want no bleedin’ porridge,’ her uncle said. He reached for the dish which Dot had placed on the table and she waited for him to hurl it across the room, as was his custom when annoyed, but it seemed that her aunt’s strictures must have included a ban on chucking food about because, though he picked up the plate of porridge, he banged it back on the table, snatched the mug of porter, and drained it. Then, without another word, he lurched to his feet and shambled out of the kitchen, grabbing his cap off the hook on the back door and cramming it down over his uncombed greasy hair as he did so.
With his departure the atmosphere in the kitchen eased and when, presently, the boys hurtled into the room, demanding breakfast, Aunt Myrtle served them porridge whilst Dot poured tea into their mugs as calmly as though Uncle Rupert’s threats had never been made. After all, though Uncle Rupert might hate her, Aunt Myrtle knew her worth, knew she would have great difficulty managing without her. Dot realised that she was the cuckoo in the nest in some ways; she had been dumped on the Brewsters by her mother, overcrowding their small house and making things difficult. But she also knew that she really was useful and determined to be even more useful in the future since the thought of being sent to an orphanage truly dismayed her. So she bustled around the kitchen, telling herself that she must learn to cook, for this would make her truly indispensable.
Presently, her aunt handed her an ill-written list of messages. Dot ran an experienced eye down the list and saw that, though most of the shopping could be done on Heyworth Street, there were some things which were cheaper when bought at the stalls on the Scottie. She informed her aunt of this fact but so eager was Aunt Myrtle to try her hand at cooking that she said, airily, she would sooner Dot stuck to the Heyworth Street shops, even if it cost her a bit extra. ‘After all, we’ll be savin’ a mint by bakin’ for ourselves,’ she said righteously. ‘You go off, queen, an’ get back as soon as you can.’ She grinned at her niece. ‘I got the extra money from your uncle last night when he were too bleedin’ sozzled to know what he were givin’ me. Ah well, it’s in his own interests in the end, you might say.’
Dot agreed that this was true and hurried off, the big canvas marketing bag slung over one shoulder. She rushed round the shops buying everything on the list, though when she passed Rathbone’s and looked about her for some sign of Corky she was disappointed. She racked her brains, but she was pretty sure she had not said she would do the morning shift today, and anyway, she thought it doubtful that the conspirators would meet when the butcher’s shop was at its busiest.
She got home to find Aunt Myrtle had had to borrow a mixing bowl, a rolling pin and several baking tins from various neighbours, having realised, belatedly, that she could scarcely expect any baker to provide her with such things. She was all agog to start the work and Dot felt the same, so the two of them were soon peeling, chopping and slicing. The social lady had advised that they start with something simple yet appetising, and had suggested a meat and potato pie, which could be carried to the baker’s for cooking, and an apple pudding which could be boiled up in a pan of water on their own kitchen fire.
The pudding was simmering over the flames and Dot was gingerly rolling out her very first attempt at pastry, when someone knocked on the front door. She raised flour-covered hands, glancing towards her aunt, who was sitting in the fireside chair, watching the bubbling pan as though she expected the pudding to take a flying leap out of the water, possibly shouting
Stop that! I’m supposed to simmer gently, not boil like a bleedin’ turnip!
She thought her aunt might go to the door but this was clearly not the case, so she dusted the flour off her hands as best she could and set off rather grumpily down the hall.