Winnie of the Waterfront (32 page)

Peg was unable to take a long-distance view. She grew more morose, complained of vague pains in her arms and chest and that she generally felt unwell. She struggled to put in a full day at the café, and more often than not she had to leave
early
and go home because she wasn’t feeling too good.

Winnie tried to take it in her stride, but when a fortnight before Christmas 1926 she arrived home and found Peg collapsed on the floor she was almost too stunned to cope.

Even before help arrived she suspected that Peg was dead. When the ambulance men confirmed her fears she was so overcome by grief that she felt dazed. Peg had been like a mother to her, and done more for her than her own mother ever had. She couldn’t believe that she’d never again be able to confide in her or listen to her wise advice.

Winnie was so overwhelmed by her emotions that she was oblivious to the fact that they had carried Peg out to the ambulance and driven away. She knew she should have gone to the hospital with them even though it was too late, and that Peg had left them for ever.

There had been no final moment of recognition, no last kindly word. Worst of all, she was left with the grim task of breaking the news to Sandy. And she knew he’d be heartbroken because he, too, had loved Peg as if she’d been his mother.

To Winnie’s dismay, the prison authorities refused to allow Sandy out on compassionate grounds to attend Peg’s funeral so she had to organise it on her own.

Equally harrowing was visiting Sandy afterwards and seeing how devastated he was because he hadn’t been able to pay his last respects to Peg. ‘She did so much for us,’ he said over and over
again,
his eyes brimming with tears that he struggled to hold in check.

Winnie felt utterly exhausted when she arrived home after the prison visit. There were so many things still to be done and she hadn’t even had the opportunity to talk to Sandy about them.

Fortunately, there was an extra visiting day over the Christmas period. By then she’d pulled herself together. Although she had left the café closed she had sorted out all the other matters. She’d been to see the landlord who owned Peg’s house and he had agreed to transfer the tenancy to her, so at least she still had a roof over her head.

‘I’ll get myself together over the next few days and I’ll open up again on New Year’s Day,’ she promised Sandy.

‘Even with time off for good behaviour I won’t be out of this place for at least another eighteen months, so that will be early in 1928,’ he told her wryly. ‘Do you think you are going to be able to manage until then?’

‘Of course I will,’ she assured him brightly, trying not to think of the long, lonely months ahead.

She managed to hold back her tears until after she’d left the prison and wheeled herself back to Skirving Court. Once inside the house she struggled out of her chair and flung herself down on her bed, and cried until she fell into an exhausted sleep.

Chapter Thirty-four

WINNIE FELT IT
was a terrible start to 1927. She grieved for Peg as much as she would have done if she’d been her own mother. Peg had been far more generous and kind towards her than her own mam had ever been, she mused.

The house seemed so empty without Peg there, talking away while busy doing the hundred and one jobs she’d always made herself responsible for around the place.

Winnie also missed her being there in the morning to help with fastening on her leg irons. As well as this, Peg had helped her to take them off at night and afterwards she would gently rub her legs where the irons had cut into the withered flesh during the day.

In the weeks that followed, Winnie found herself working so hard that the house was little more than somewhere to sleep. Since the start of the New Year, trade had been very slow. At first she had thought it must be due to the fact that the food she served wasn’t as good as that which Peg had produced, but discreet enquiries soon proved that this was not the case.

The effects of the miners’ strike the previous May had spread like ripples from a stone tossed
into
a pool. Every part of the economy was affected. Men from many of the trades related to shipping had either lost their jobs or been forced to take a cut in their pay packets.

As a result there was less money for eating out, or even for the odd cup of tea. Children didn’t get as many ice-creams bought for them, and instead of the takings improving as the weather got better they dwindled more and more. Winnie found she had to budget carefully as well as work harder. Since she was forced to economise on staff at the café she had to put in longer hours herself.

As autumn approached and the days grew shorter she found she was arriving and leaving in the dark. Often she felt so tired that she was always grateful if anyone offered to give her chair a push as she left the Pier Head. It was so steep going up Water Street that when there was a strong wind blowing against her she often found herself rolling backwards.

At first it had worried her that she had to rely in so many ways on people who were often strangers. Over the months her viewpoint changed about that, as it had done over so many other things since Sandy had been in jail.

Her biggest worry was getting to the bank with the takings. This was the one task she refused to delegate. Pressure of time meant that she couldn’t do it as often as she liked, and because she was afraid to leave the money in the café she took it home with her each night.

Sandy constantly warned her to be careful that no one found out about this. As far as she was aware no one did know, but that didn’t save her
from
being attacked one October evening.

It was a dark, miserable night, with mist coming in from the Mersey and swirling up the streets like a fog. The pavements were slippery and she was having a hard struggle to make any progress as she wheeled herself up Water Street.

‘Want us to give you a push?’

Winnie looked up at the two young men who had made the offer with relief. ‘Thanks, just to the top. I’m all right once we get to Dale Street and onto the flat again,’ she said gratefully.

Only she never reached Dale Street. Laughing and joking, they raced her a short way up Water Street and then spun the wheelchair to the left.

‘Stop, you’re going the wrong way! I want to go straight on up to Dale Street.’

Her protest was ignored. They wheeled her into a tiny dark jigger at the back of Rumford Street, snatched the canvas bag she’d stowed away beside her in the wheelchair and made off.

She tried to give chase, but the jigger was dark and far too narrow for her to turn the wheelchair round so she had to push herself out backwards into Rumford Street. By then her assailants had vanished, and with them her takings for most of the week.

Frustrated and in tears, she stopped under a streetlamp to try and think what to do for the best. Her house key had been in the bag as well as all her money.

‘Want a push, Winnie?’

Winnie froze as a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early thirties approached and spoke to her. He was tidily dressed and not much older than her.
He’d
called her by name, and he seemed vaguely familiar, so she guessed he must be one of their customers. Sniffing back her tears, she nodded silently. Since her money had already gone there was nothing else to lose, she told herself.

‘What are you doing down here in Rumford Street? Bit off course, aren’t you?’ he commented.

He sounded so concerned that suddenly Winnie was telling him all about what had happened.

‘Bloody hell! The low-down scoundrels! Which way did they go, do you think?’

She shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea! They’d vanished by the time I’d managed to extricate myself from the jigger.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘Do you think they were local lads?’

‘They certainly sounded like it.’

‘Then they’re probably in the nearest boozer. Hang on here while I scout round. If I find them I’ll soon sort them out. Don’t move now.’

Ten minutes passed and Winnie was beginning to wonder whether yet again she’d been taken in. Then, to her immense relief, he reappeared. Much to her surprise he was carrying her canvas bag.

‘I’m not sure if everything is in it or not,’ he puffed breathlessly as he handed it over.

Eagerly, Winnie checked the contents. Her door key was there, but not all of the money.

‘I spotted this pair of young bullyboys standing drinks all round so I took a chance and accused them of pinching it from you. Shit-scared, the pair of them! They tried to run for it so I gave chase.
They
got away in the end, but not before I’d grabbed your bag.’

‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ Winnie said tremulously.

‘Well, you could come for a drink with me,’ he grinned. ‘You look as though you could do with one, and I wouldn’t say no. My scuffle with those two has left me as dry as a stick.’

Winnie hesitated for a split second then smiled her agreement. Of course she could trust him, she told herself. He’d brought her bag back. If he’d wanted to he could have made off with it and she would have been none the wiser.

‘My name’s Gregg Hibbert,’ he told her. ‘I work down on the docks as a warehouse manager. I pop into your café from time to time for a nosh, so that’s why I knew who you were.’

‘Thanks for what you’ve done, Gregg. I think it does call for a drink,’ Winnie agreed.

‘Come on, we’ll go to the Exchange, it’s not far and it’s very respectable so I can promise you we won’t meet those two tearaways in there.’

Gregg wheeled her to a table in a quiet corner before going up to the bar to order their drinks. He refused to take any money from her.

‘You’ve lost enough as it is,’ he told her firmly when he set the two whiskies down on the table. ‘I read in the paper about the trouble your husband found himself in, and of course it was all round the docks at the time. Framed, was he?’

Winnie looked at him in astonishment. ‘How did you know that?’

‘He’s not the sort to do something daft like that!
Not
when he’d worked so damned hard to get a business up and going.’

Winnie took a sip of her whisky. ‘You’re right, of course. He was set up. Two years for something he didn’t do!’

Gregg nodded. ‘I thought as much. So when is he due out?’

‘Another year, possibly less if he gets remission for good behaviour.’

Gregg nodded solemnly. ‘Pretty tough on you?’

Winnie bit her lip. The next minute she found herself pouring out all her troubles to Gregg Hibbert, even though he was virtually a stranger.

He listened in sympathetic silence, then he drained his glass and stood up. ‘Come on, Winnie, drink up and I’ll see you home.’

‘You don’t have to do that. I’ll manage!’

‘I’m sure you will … but not on your own. Come on.’

He took control of her chair, walking briskly and saying very little. When they reached Skirving Court he stopped outside her front door, held out his hand for the key, unlocked the door and then manoeuvred her chair over the threshold.

‘Take care now, Winnie. Lock the door, make yourself a hot drink, and get off to bed.’

‘Don’t you want to come in?’

‘Not tonight, some other time perhaps. I’ll drop by the café tomorrow evening and give you a push home. Don’t leave without me.’

Before she could say a word, Gregg Hibbert had closed her front door and gone.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Gregg Hibbert established a routine of dropping in to the café for a late meal, waiting until she closed for the night and then pushing her home.

For the first few weeks he completely ignored her disability. He never offered to help her in or out of the wheelchair, but once she had settled herself in it he took control. So Winnie was taken aback when one evening he said, ‘Why don’t you leave those bloody irons off and try and use your legs a bit more?’

She stared at him in annoyance. ‘Don’t you think I would if I could?’

‘Do you ever try?’

‘I need them to support my legs. I’ve been wearing them ever since I was a kid.’

‘Perhaps the time has come for you to try and do without them,’ he repeated quietly. ‘Give it a go, luv,’ he said persuasively.

She shook her head.

‘Now you stop and listen to me, Winnie. My girlfriend, Joy Pearce, is a qualified masseuse. Will you let her take a look at your legs and see if she can do something to get them working again?’

Winnie felt a rush of anger. She’d thought Gregg Hibbert was a friend she could trust, yet all the time he’d been weighing her up and talking about her. Probably him and this Joy had been laughing about her behind her back, she thought bitterly.

‘Joy works at Moorfields, treating people with limb injuries, helping them to use their arms and legs again after they’ve had an illness or an accident. Why not meet her and see what she thinks?’

Winnie stared at him in silence. He was such a big gentle giant and he’d been so kind to her that he was probably only trying to be helpful, she told herself.

She thought over what he’d said. No one had given her any advice about her legs since she’d made her last visit to the hospital when she was a kid. They’d said there was nothing else they could do. Her legs were so badly twisted, she was told, that they’d never be able to straighten them. They’d advised her to wear the irons to stop them getting any worse.

She looked at Gregg. He was watching her carefully, his open, honest face anxious, his brown eyes full of compassion.

No, of course he wasn’t laughing at her! However could she have thought such a thing! He really did want to help her. She didn’t think he could, or that this Joy person would be able to do anything about her legs, but perhaps there was no harm in finding out what she thought.

‘Maybe we could meet up and have a drink together sometime?’ she said tentatively.

Joy Pearce was a plump blonde woman in her late twenties. She was warm and friendly and Winnie liked her right away. She felt comfortable in her company, almost as if she’d known her for ever.

Joy didn’t build up her hopes, but she said she would be willing to see if she could help.