The Girl From Seaforth Sands (16 page)

So Mary studied English Literature, because she had always loved reading, and the French language, since she had a hazy idea that French might be useful to her, should she ever become a lady’s maid, or seek employment in an office.

Fond though she was of Roderick, Mary had few illusions about him. He would have been astonished had he known how few. And because she was ambitious and also down-to-earth, she had never told Roderick that she was a fisherman’s daughter. She had not told him either that she knew Philip Grimshaw, because that would have meant revealing her humble origins.

When she had first come to Manchester, Mary had been walking in the square garden enjoying the spring sunshine, when a voice had hailed her.
Turning to the sound of her name, she had seen a tall young man, in a brightly striped blazer and cricketing flannels peering at her through the railings. Hesitantly, for she knew no one in Manchester apart from the other servants in the Cottlestone house, she had walked towards the young man and had been astonished to recognise Philip Grimshaw. Indeed, at first she could scarcely believe her eyes, for the last time she had seen him must have been quite two years before on the Seaforth beach. She remembered
that
Philip clearly enough, with his hair rumpled by the breeze and his trouser legs rolled above the knee, but this Philip was a young gentleman, though his smile was as friendly and unassuming as it had been on the day of the King’s coronation. In fact, so unaffected was he, so friendly and natural, that Mary had no hesitation in returning his greeting. ‘Well, if it isn’t Philip Grimshaw,’ she said, not trying to hide her astonishment. ‘Whatever are you doing here, Philip?’

‘I live here,’ Philip answered, grinning. ‘What about you though, Mary? You really
are
a long way from home.’

‘Not really; I live here as well now,’ Mary had told him and proceeded to explain all about her job with the Cottlestones. Some young men, on finding that she was a housemaid in the home of a neighbouring family, might have dropped the acquaintance forth-with, but Philip clearly never considered such a thing. In fact, he went out of his way to be kind to Mary, always greeting her in a friendly fashion when their paths crossed, and something in his glance made Mary suspect that he admired as well as liked her. Had things been different . . .

So in the back of Mary’s mind, whenever she
thought about her future, there was the tiny almost unacknowledged hope that one day, if she and Roderick did not marry, she might get to know Philip a little better.

But this was only dreaming and Mary had never mentioned to anyone that she knew Philip Grimshaw. What was more, although Philip was perfectly polite when they met, this was seldom and, in her heart of hearts, Mary knew that she was nothing to him and never would be.

‘I’m gettin’ a trifle peckish,’ Josie remarked suddenly, bringing Mary abruptly back to earth and out of her pleasant daydream. ‘Whatever were you thinkin’ about, Mary? You looked all daft and soppy for a moment.’

‘Oh, just fellers and that,’ Mary said vaguely. She sat up and began to brush bits of grass off her clean pink blouse. ‘I could do with a snack myself, now you mention it; let’s go.’

Amy was not having a good day, which was strange because the weather was lovely and Evie O’Brien had a wonderful new skipping rope, with real painted wooden handles. Of course, it could not improve one’s skipping and was really no better than an orange box rope, but there was something about the sensation of the rounded wooden handles nestling in their palms which made the girls feel as efficient as any circus performer.

Evie let everyone have a go and, because it was such a lovely day and the autumn term had only just begun, Miss Musgrove allowed the girls to stay in the playground for an extra half-hour, which was a great treat. Yet even as they played, jumped rope and sang the innumerable skipping songs, which
every girl knew as well as she knew her own name, Amy felt uneasy.

The day had not started well, of course. Mrs Keagan had been late arriving to take care of baby Becky, so Amy had had to run all the way to school and had arrived just as Miss Musgrove was calling the register. Amy had slid breathlessly into her seat beside Ruth, who had hissed, ‘Where
was
you? I waited for ages but you never come, so I had to run meself, an’ only got in ‘alf a minute before you. The Muzzle won’t ’arf give it to us!’

It was unfortunate that ‘The Muzzle’ should have looked up just as Amy was, in her turn, telling Ruth why she herself had been late. The teacher said sharply, ‘What was that, Amy Logan? Kindly give the class the benefit of your explanation as to your late arrival.’

Amy, with a hot face, had mumbled that she was very sorry, but the babyminder had been late arriving. ‘Baby is only seven months, so I can’t very well leave her alone in the house,’ she explained. ‘But I ran all the way, miss, honest to God I did.’

Miss Musgrove gave Amy a hard look over the top of her little gold-framed glasses. ‘Please don’t take the name of the Lord in vain,’ she said briskly. ‘And why didn’t you take the baby round to the childminder, miss? Wouldn’t that have solved the problem?’

It would have, of course, but Amy knew from bitter experience what happened if the baby went to the Keagans’ place. Granny Keagan promptly took over the care of the child, Suzie Keagan took herself off on any excuse and, when Amy got home, the house would be precisely as she had left it, with the breakfast things still on the table, the fire very likely dead, and no preparations for supper even begun. Naturally, however, she could not say any of this to Miss Musgrove. Instead she mumbled that in future . . . and hoped that Miss Musgrove, who was in reality a very understanding person, would let it go at that.

‘We was lucky not to get order marks,’ Ruth remarked later that morning, as they sat companion-ably on the low brick wall which divided the coke tip from the playground. ‘Old Muzzle must ha’ bin in a good mood on account o’ the sunshine. It were lucky she didn’t pick on me as well, since she’d say waitin’ for a pal was no excuse for lateness.’

‘It was the whispering which got her goat,’ Amy said wisely, ‘rather than us nearly being late. After all,
nearly
doing a thing isn’t wrong, it’s not doing it at all which they get you for. I mean, if I were to nearly tip you into the coke pile, you wouldn’t have a mark on you, whereas if I gave you a good shove . . .’

The two girls wrestled half-heartedly on the wall, then they linked arms in perfect amity and began to walk round the perimeter of the playground, chatting as they went. Amy had confided her vague discontent with the day and, even as she spoke, had suddenly known the cause. She stopped short, grabbing Ruth’s arm so hard that Ruth gave a squeak of dismay, which Amy ignored. ‘It’s the shrimps!’ she said triumphantly. ‘It’s fine weather, Dad and the fellers were out at the crack o’ dawn, so the chances are they’ll be home around three, with sacks of bleedin’ shrimps. Oh, Gawd, Ruthie, and we’ll spend the whole evening shelling the little buggers.’

Ruth, whose main knowledge of shrimps came from picking over a handful and eating them between two rounds of bread, giggled. ‘I dunno why you hates peelin’ shrimps so much,’ she observed. ‘You was sayin’ only the other day that Suzie never pinches any of the money you get for potted shrimps. You said that no one checks what you gets for loose shrimps what you sells from door to door, so you an’ Bertie can keep back a penny or two for the things your dad won’t shell out for.’ She giggled again. ‘Did you hear that, Amy, shell out! That were a joke.’

‘Oh, aye,’ Amy said gloomily. ‘Very funny I’m sure, particularly if it isn’t you who gets to shell the bloody things. Oh, Ruthie, I do hate it. Still, if I play my cards right I’ll mebbe get out of it this once. After all, I work like a perishin’ dog to keep things right. Why should I shell shrimps and all?’

Ruthie, still giggling, remarked that shelling shrimps was a regular tongue twister. ‘Like sister Susie shelling shrimps for sailors,’ she said. ‘Though why sailors should want selled shrimps . . . oh, shelled. Oh, hang it, you knows what I mean.’

This made Amy laugh and presently the bell rang and they had to go back to class, but although Amy joined with the rest of the girls in tackling the long division sums which the teacher chalked on the blackboard, her mind continued to plot how she would avoid picking the shrimps.

When school was over she and Ruthie set off briskly for home. Amy went breezily into the kitchen, where the baby was grizzling on the hearthrug and Mrs Keagan was desultorily scraping carrots, and asked if there were any messages. Suzie looked up. ‘Change the baby before you does anything else,’ she said at once. ‘I been meaning to
do it, but somehow something else always crops up. I went round to Elm Road and got some scrag end for a stew, and then I remembered your Dad said he’d likely be bringin’ fish home. Still an’ all, you can get mighty tired of fish when you’ve had a good season, and I know your dad and the boys are mortal fond of a scrag end stew.’

Amy went straight to the rag rug on the floor where the baby was struggling to sit up. At the sight of Amy she beamed broadly, showing two tiny pearly teeth, and held up her arms. Amy whisked the child off the rug, wrinkling her nose as the smell of stale urine, and worse, assailed her nostrils. There was a pile of clean nappies on the dresser and she snatched one up as she passed, then took the baby with her into the little low scullery and laid her on the shrimping table, where the shrimps were dealt with once they had been boiled. She whipped the sodden nappy off and dropped it into the wooden bucket half full of salty water kept for the purpose. Then she poured clean water into an enamel bowl, seized a worn scrap of towelling and got to work.

Ten minutes later a clean and happy baby was set down once more on the rag rug, this time with a piece of oven-dried bread in one hand. ‘That seems to have shut her up,’ Suzie said without turning round. ‘She’s bin squalling this past hour or more; enough to drive you crazy.’

‘She doesn’t cry when she’s clean,’ Amy pointed out. ‘You didn’t oughter leave her dirty, Mrs Keagan, she gets awfully sore and that makes her bad-tempered. I can’t see why you don’t change her regularly for your own sake, if not hers. She’s a good kid, but you can’t expect her to be happy when she’s in pain.’

Suzie sniffed. ‘I got all the work of this house to do,’ she said. ‘I did oughter have help wi’ the littl’un. It’s all right when it’s school holidays and you can give a hand, but what’ll I do when she’s walkin’ an’ gettin’ into everythin’? I’ll have to speak to your dad.’

Amy, who was even now considering speaking to her dad about the state the baby was getting into, sighed. Bill was proud of his little daughter and fond of her too, but knew nothing about the care of young babies. He would not understand that clean nappies, several times a day, were necessary for the baby’s comfort. I’ll have to find a way of blackmailing Suzie into doing right by the kid, Amy decided. Even as the thought crossed her mind, however, she knew she was being unfair. Suzie had many faults, but neglecting the baby was not one of them. Amy knew this to be true, but nevertheless she felt angry with the older woman. Lately Suzie had left the midday nappy change for Amy to deal with, which meant that Becky’s nappy area was usually in a bad state by the time Amy got back from school. She glanced at the clock above the mantel. Any minute now the men would return home, trundling the handcart laden with sacks of shrimps. If she was to escape, she would have to find an excuse to do so pretty quickly; she glanced at the baby and made up her mind.

She picked up Becky, settled her comfortably on her hip and made for the back door. ‘The poor little beggar’s got running sores on her little bum,’ she said as she left the house. ‘I’m takin’ her up to the pharmacy to see what Mr Keir can give me for her.’ She did not linger to give Suzie the opportunity of saddling her with other messages, but
walked briskly down Seafield Grove and turned left into Crosby Road. When she reached the corner of Elm Drive she turned into it, already aware that she had been foolish to rush out in such a hurry. Becky was getting heavier and was far easier to carry in the loop of a shawl – better still, if she had thought of it, was the ancient wooden cart which the boys used when collecting driftwood. However, that was what happened when you let your temper get the better of you and had she lingered for even a moment, Suzie would undoubtedly have added to her errands.

The pharmacist had a neat shop front on Elm Road, the window decorated by two enormous glass flagons, one filled with a brilliant red liquid and the other with green. Many a time, when her mother had been alive, Amy and Albert had played around outside the shop, while Isobel went in. If you got the right distance from the window and then slowly walked towards it, you could see strange reflections of yourself, either bright red or bright green, looming and leering in the glass. When she had been very small, Amy had thought the liquid in the flagons had some sort of magic which made a small girl appear to be hugely fat, scrawnily thin, or strangely mishapen, but Isobel had briskly disabused her of this idea. ‘It’s only coloured water in those jars,’ she had informed her children. ‘Water and glass, when they get together, act like one of those mirrors at the fair, the sort that make you die laughing at your reflection.’

Despite knowing that there was nothing wonderful in the green and red jars, Amy lingered by the window a moment, moving her head from side to side and grinning as her small nose grew as long as a duck’s bill one minute and shrank to a button the
next. She tried to interest the baby in the reflections, but Becky merely gurgled and went on clutching at a hank of Amy’s hair, wound securely and rather painfully round her small and chubby fist.

Inside the shop Mrs Keir was sitting behind the counter, knitting something in soft pink wool. She looked up and smiled when Amy entered and got to her feet. ‘What can I do for you, young Amy? Baby not well?’

Presently Amy left the shop once more, with a fat tube of cream for the baby’s sores and a rather dusty liquorice stick for herself. She liked Mrs Keir, but reflected that for some reason, liquorice bought – or given – at the pharmacy, always tasted a bit like medicine, whereas liquorice bought at the sweetshop on the other side of the road was unmistakably a treat.