‘Remember us hanging round North Park when it was dusk waiting for the Parkie to lock up? We used to have a fine ould time with the lads. We even had a bet once on which of us would be kissed first.’
‘I remember,’ Kitty said shortly.
‘You won. You were the best looking and drove the lads wild. Me and Brenda always thought you’d beat us getting married by a mile …’ Sheila paused as she turned the pram into Pearl Street, as if aware of how tactless she was being. Kitty Quigley had been stuck at home with her dad for ten whole years and denied the opportunity even of meeting a man, let alone marrying one. ‘Still,’ she finished lamely, ‘marriage isn’t the be-all and end-all of a woman’s existence, is it?’
‘I didn’t particularly want to get married, did I?’ Kitty did her best to sound cool and unperturbed. ‘I wanted to be a florist. I intended having me own shop eventually.’ She’d been working in Garlands in Stanley Road for nearly a year learning the trade, and distinctly remembered the day someone came running in to say her dad
had
been taken to Bootle hospital. Kitty left immediately to go and see him, never dreaming at the time she was leaving for good.
Sheila began to manoeuvre the pram down the back entry. ‘That’s right, so you did. You were always the artistic one at school.’
Though Kitty had assumed other things would be on the cards eventually; a husband, children, a home of her own. When they reached the Quigleys’ back door, she put her hand on the latch to go in.
‘Y’know,’ Sheila said, looking at Kitty thoughtfully, ‘I’ve often wondered what would have happened when your dad was hurt if you’d been a boy? Would you still have been expected to give up your job to look after him?’
It was something Kitty had wondered herself, lately; not at first, but when she saw the young men being called up to fight regardless of their family circumstances. If she was a man, if she was called up, Dad would have no alternative but to manage on his own.
‘I dunno,’ she muttered. ‘I had a letter this morning from the Ministry of Labour.’ She had to tell someone. ‘They want me to register next Monday for war work.’
‘That’s good – isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Our Eileen had ever such a good time when she worked in the munitions factory. The women there were an absolute scream.’
‘I know. She told me about them.’ Sheila’s sister, Eileen, had lost her husband and little boy in the raids last Christmas. She’d recently remarried and left Pearl Street to live in Melling, a small village outside Liverpool. ‘It’s just that …’ Kitty paused.
‘What, luv?’
A voice piped from the pram, ‘Mam, I’m thirsty.’
‘And I’m dying for a wee wee, Mam.’
The children were becoming impatient waiting in the entry. Sheila plucked them out and shooed them into the house next door but one. She turned back to Kitty, aware something was wrong, her good-natured face full of concern. ‘What is it, luv?’ she asked again.
‘It’s just that … that me dad’s started writing down all the things I’ve got to say on Monday to persuade them not to take me,’ Kitty said in a rush. She felt cross with herself when halfway through her voice actually broke and she felt as if she could very easily cry.
‘C’mon, luv.’ Sheila put her hand on Kitty’s arm. ‘Let’s have that cup of tea and you can tell me all about it.’
‘But I’m already late,’ Kitty said tearfully. ‘I was ages in that queue waiting for the beans.’
‘So what? It won’t hurt your dad to wait a while longer.’ Sheila took Kitty’s hand and began to pull her along the entry as if she were a recalcitrant child. ‘I refuse to take no for an answer,’ she said firmly.
The inside of Sheila’s house was more modern than most others in the street, one of the few to have electricity. It had once belonged to her sister and Sheila had lived opposite, but number 21 had been blown to smithereens in May, leaving the Reillys with nothing except the clothes they stood up in.
‘Still, we’re alive, that’s all that really matters,’ Sheila said staunchly at the time.
Everywhere was cheerfully untidy when Kitty went in. There were toys on the floor, and in front of the green-tiled fireplace stood a clothes maiden heaped with children’s underwear in a variety of sizes; vests, underpants and an assortment of petticoats, liberty vests and knickers, all of which had been provided by the WVS. The wireless had been left on, loudly, and Vera Lynn was singing ‘Yours till the stars lose their glory …’ a song Kitty particularly liked. There was a large picture of the Sacred Heart over the mantelpiece,
which
Sheila had retrieved from their old house. The glass hadn’t even been scratched.
Sheila immediately put the kettle on and Mary and Ryan went out to play. Soon, the two women were ensconced in front of the fire drinking the most insipid cup of tea Kitty had ever tasted.
Sheila apologised for its paleness. ‘That’s this morning’s, with another few leaves added. Now,’ she said sternly, ‘what’s all this about your dad writing down what you’ve got to say on Monday?’
‘He doesn’t want me to go to work,’ Kitty said in a small voice. ‘He’s terrified of being left alone.’
‘As if he’d be alone in Pearl Street!’ Sheila snorted. ‘Why, the neighbours’d pop in and do everything that’s needed. Look at the way they all looked after Tony when our Eileen went to work in that factory!’
‘Yes, but it’s me he wants, Sheil, his own flesh and blood,’ Kitty explained. ‘I understand how he feels. He was such a strong man before the accident. He doesn’t want everyone to see the way he is now.’
‘He can’t be all that bad, luv, if he can get as far as the King’s Arms most nights for a pint.’
‘But it’s only on the corner, Sheil,’ Kitty protested. ‘And he has to use his sticks.’
Sheila said casually, ‘According to me dad, once he’s there, he’s the life and soul of the party.’ Like most people, she was convinced Jimmy Quigley was taking his poor daughter for a ride. He wasn’t nearly as ill as he cracked up to be, not now. Of course, he’d been badly injured when the crate had fallen on his legs, breaking them in several places, but, as Kitty said, he was a strong man with strong bones, and strong bones mended easily. No-one minded the long drawn-out skive, but Sheila, in particular, minded the way he took advantage of her old friend’s affection and let her waste her life tending to his every need.
Kitty’s already pink cheeks flushed even pinker with
irritation
. People were forever hinting Dad wasn’t as ill as he made out, but they weren’t there when she helped him up to bed at night, they didn’t hear him groan in agony with each step. He was only putting on a brave show in the King’s Arms, trying to make out he was better than he was.
Noticing the flush, Sheila said gently, ‘I suppose you feel in a terrible pickle, wondering what to do?’
‘That’s right,’ Kitty nodded. ‘I feel torn in two sometimes. I’d love to go to work, I really would, but I feel dead selfish just thinking about it. Even when I suggest a part-time job, he gets upset. It’s not as if we need the money, though sometimes it’s hard scraping along on his pension. On the other hand …’ It would be nice to wear clothes that weren’t secondhand from Paddy’s Market. Although clothes rationing had begun earlier in the year, Kitty had never used a single coupon so far.
‘Everyone’s entitled to a life of their own, luv.’
‘Are they?’
‘Of course they are!’ Sheila affirmed heartily. ‘I mean, your dad’s only fifty, three years younger than mine. He could live another thirty years – and you’ll be nearing sixty yourself by then!’
Kitty shuddered. ‘Oh, Sheil!’
‘Of course, it’s none of my business, but even so, Kit, I hate to see you sacrifice yourself like this. I mean, you’ve never even had a proper boyfriend, have you? Those lads we used to knock around with were never serious.’ Despite the fact that Kitty’s face froze, Sheila pressed on, determined to make her friend see sense if at all possible. ‘You don’t get out to the pictures or go dancing like other girls.’
‘Well, y’see, me dad …’
Sheila interrupted with, ‘I remember when it first happened and I used to try and persuade you to come out in a foursome with our Calum and his mate, Kevin
Woods
. Your dad always seemed to take a turn for the worse when the time came to go.’
‘I wonder what happened to Kevin Woods?’ Kitty said brightly.
‘That’s a nifty way of changing the subject. If you must know, he married a girl from Browning Street and they had two kids. He went down two years ago on the
City of Benares
when it was torpedoed on the way to America.’
‘Oh, God!’ Kitty made a face. ‘I didn’t know.’ He’d seemed a nice lad, Kevin Woods, very thin, with sharp elbows and an Adam’s apple that wobbled noticeably when he spoke.
Sheila supposed she’d better take the hint and talk about something other than Jimmy Quigley and his relationship with his daughter. She began to discuss that morning’s shopping. She’d considered joining the queue for sausages, but the whole thing was too up in the air. ‘I would have done if it had been definite, but I wasn’t prepared to wait when it might have been a waste of time. Anyroad, the kids’ll be thrilled to bits when they find there’s baked beans on toast for their tea. We were dead lucky, weren’t we, eh?’
What Sheila didn’t realise was that this sort of discussion only made Kitty feel worse. People, particularly in queues, often spoke to her as if she were a housewife. They grumbled over prices, complained about the fact onions and lemons had virtually disappeared from the shops, wondered what had happened to offal – ‘Have you tried to get a bit of liver or kidney lately, luv?’ – asked her how many coupons you needed for sheets and pillowcases. No-one ever talked about hairstyles or the latest fashions. They assumed she was a married woman, as they all were.
I suppose I
am
a housewife, in a sort of way, Kitty thought miserably. I do the shopping, the cleaning, the washing, make the meals, I darn socks, mend clothes,
and
do everything housewives usually do, except I don’t have any of the advantages, such as a husband and children to make it all seem worthwhile. She began to feel guilty again, because Dad needed her every bit as much as the other women’s families did. He wouldn’t be so desperate for her to stay with him if he didn’t.
When Sheila asked if she’d washed her blackout curtains lately, Kitty decided it was time to go.
‘Well, I’d better be off. Nan Wright’s probably waiting for her ’taters. Thanks for the tea.’
‘She eats too many ’taters, that woman,’ Sheila said darkly. ‘She’s growing to look like one in her ould age.’
‘Where on earth have you been? I was getting worried about you.’
Jimmy Quigley was sitting in his chair underneath the window, listening to the wireless and reading yesterday’s
Daily Herald
for the second time. The room was neatly dull compared to the Reillys’, reflecting Jimmy’s personality rather than his daughter’s. He abhorred fuss or ornaments and distracting colours which he claimed made him feel restless and on edge, so only a small chiming clock on a plain white runner stood on the otherwise bare sideboard, and the wooden mantelpiece held merely a solitary wedding photograph. The marble-patterned oilcloth was worn right through in places, but Kitty couldn’t imagine the time ever coming when there would be enough money to replace it.
Her dad reached out eagerly for the newspaper, which he usually read from cover to cover. He wasn’t a tall man, Jimmy, but his shoulders were broad, his well-muscled arms brown from sitting outside in the yard. He looked younger than his years, with wild brown curly hair and a fresh complexion similar to his daughter’s, and appeared remarkably athletic, despite his crippled state. Jimmy had played for Everton Football Club Reserves when he was a teenager and had hoped to become a
professional
player, but although he was good, he wasn’t quite good enough.
‘There was a long queue at the grocer’s,’ Kitty explained as she handed the paper over. ‘I managed to get some baked beans.’
‘I could’ve sworn I heard your voice in the entry a while ago.’
‘That’s right, you did. I met Sheila Reilly on the way home and I went in hers for a cup of tea.’
‘And here’s me, been dying for a cuppa meself,’ he said peevishly.
‘In that case, I’ll fetch some water and put the kettle on.’
Kitty went into the back kitchen and plonked her shopping on the wooden draining board with slightly more force than was necessary. She couldn’t even do what other
housewives
did, let alone a young single woman: in other words, pop into a neighbour’s for a jangle and a cup of tea, without feeling she was neglecting him.
She filled the kettle, took it into the living room and put it on the hob over the fire to boil. Her dad had laid the paper down on his knee and was looking at her rather bemusedly. It was rare his Kitty appeared out of sorts.
‘What’s the matter, kiddo? Have you got the hump over something?’
‘No, Dad.’
‘Yes you have. Come on, spit it out. What’s up?’
‘I don’t see anything wrong with having a cup of tea with Sheila,’ Kitty burst out.
‘Of course there’s nothing wrong,’ he said, astonished. ‘Who said there was?’
Kitty felt confused. ‘The way you spoke just now, as if you were annoyed.’
‘Me, annoyed? Never! I was worried, that’s all. You can see Sheila Reilly whenever y’like, y’don’t have to
mind
me.’ He winced and rubbed his knee. ‘It’s just that me legs have been playing up a bit this morning, particularly the right one …’
‘Oh, Dad, you should have said!’ It was just like him to suffer in silence. ‘Would you like me to make a hot water bottle to put on them?’
‘It doesn’t matter, luv,’ he said stoutly. ‘It’ll pass eventually, it usually does.’
‘Are you sure now?’ Kitty began to fuss around, taking the cushion from behind his head and plumping it up before putting it back carefully.
‘I’m sure.’
‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I got you ten Woodies.’ She fished in her handbag for the cigarettes.
‘What would I do without you, kiddo! Where’s the matches? I’m dying for a smoke.’