‘There you are then, now move yourself.’ Biddy squeezed past Malcolm into the hallway.
‘It’s a surprise to see both yourself and Babs out on the step this morning,’ said Eric, who didn’t often see Malcolm.
‘I can’t speak for Babs,’ said Malcolm, ‘but I’m here to stop whoever the bugger is keeps pinching my milk.’ He glanced furtively from side to side, up and down the Dock Road. ‘Three mornings this week I’ve been missing a pint of gold top. Doesn’t take the steri, only the best for my little thief.’
Biddy’s voice called down the hallway, ‘Come on, Malcolm, the kettle is on. I have to be at work soon and we need to make a list for Mary.’
Malcolm rolled his eyes. ‘I knew today was going to be a bad day,’ he said.
‘My advice is,’ said Eric, ‘just do as you’re told. It’s far easier in the long run.’
Malcolm turned to make his way down the hallway, saying, ‘She means well.’ And both men knew that if it wasn’t for Biddy, lonely Malcolm would have disappeared inside himself long ago.
*
Eric felt a sense of anticipation as they headed towards the corner of Nelson Street and the mare increased her pace; she knew what was coming next. In Nelson Street lived a customer who always had a special treat waiting for Daisy Bell. He could still hear his Gladys’s words ringing in his ears as he had left the yard: ‘Don’t you dare be giving anyone credit in the four streets, do you hear me? Especially not Peggy Nolan on Nelson Street. We sell the milk, we don’t give it away.’
Gladys had no idea that he stopped and had a cuppa every morning of his life with the war widow, Mrs Trott. It was a mystery to him that no one had ever shopped him to Gladys, although he always made sure he left Maggie Trott’s well-scrubbed front step just before the back gates began to click open and bang shut as women ran out of their homes, fastening coats and headscarves, checking pockets for change to light a penny candle to the dead and to answer the bells calling them to first mass. They left fires catching in grates and children sleeping whilst they prayed for ships to arrive, work to be had and money to be tipped into the bread bin.
Eric and Maggie had been taking a ritual cuppa together every morning since 1944, when she was already a young widow, her husband having fallen in battle. Eric, injured and invalided out, had wished every day it had been he who had taken the bullet, just to wipe the pain from Maggie Trott’s eyes. Sometimes he glanced down the road, expecting to see Gladys running towards them, waving a rolling pin and screaming abuse, and he wondered what his reaction would be if she ever told him to stop taking his break with the widow Trott.
The dairy house Eric and Gladys lived in was situated halfway along the Dock Road and that morning, Gladys had sent him off with her usual kindly words. ‘The last time that Peggy cadged a pint off you, she took four months to pay. You don’t see her round here, offering to pay, do you? Oh no, if that woman had a shred of self-respect, she would be offering to muck out or sterilise the bottler, wouldn’t she? To pay off her debts with a bit of graft. But not her, and she still owes us for eight pints. As lazy as her bloody husband, big Paddy. Thinks I’m here to pour our milk down the neck of her brats for the love of it. Well, we’re not a bleedin’ charity, Eric. Not that I’d want her round here mind, lazy ’aul bitch.’
There she was, complaining Peggy never came around to pay off her debts and then, in the next breath, saying she wouldn’t be welcome. If Eric had a pound for every time someone had told him opposites attract, he wouldn’t be on the cart today; he would pay Captain Conor to sail him away to somewhere exotic where he could sun himself and drink as much rum as he liked.
‘Steady, girl,’ he said as the excited mare almost broke into a trot. He pulled on his ciggie and turned his gaze left down towards the Mersey. The mist hugged the river like an unfurled bolt of dove-grey chiffon that was slowly sinking below the surface, but he could still make out the activity down below, though few were around. It would be another half an hour before the dockers’ klaxon rang out. He watched as the tug captains made their way into the administration huts for tea and orders, the swooping seagulls waiting for the fish to come in from further north. Tug captains were the only men who rose at the same ungodly hour as Eric.
Eric looked right and saw Kathleen, mother to Jerry Deane, who had arrived in Liverpool from the west coast of Ireland, not long after her daughter-in-law, Bernadette, had lost her life in childbirth. A woman of wisdom, who had built a reputation for reading the tea leaves, she had become a pillar of the community and, along with Maura Doherty, had held the four streets together. But now Maura had gone and Kathleen, a woman in her sixties, struggled alone. She was leaving St Saviour’s churchyard and walking with purpose towards the church itself. Funny, Eric thought, she’s early today. He guessed she had been to lay flowers at the grave of Kitty Doherty and was reminded of Gladys’s words the previous evening.
‘They got very above themselves, the Dohertys, taking off to Ireland and opening up a business like that. I suppose Tommy Doherty thought if he drank in a pub every day, that gave him all the knowledge he would need to run one. A windfall my arse. Does anyone believe that story? Relatives in America turn up from nowhere with a baby in tow and give them enough money to keep them in clover? Not flaming likely! Well, you know what they say, don’t you?’ Eric didn’t answer. He never did. ‘A fool and his money are easy parted. My money, which no one will part me from, by the way, is on them both turning back up here with their brood of brats and tails between their legs before the year is out.’
‘What makes you think they’ll be back?’ he had asked with a furrowed brow.
Gladys snorted as she placed a dish of bread-and-butter pudding next to his plate. To her credit, Gladys always served up a good evening meal, even though she did her best to ruin it with the venom that dripped from her thin pursed lips. Wiping a splash of hot custard from her hands onto her apron, she replied, ‘Everyone knows, everyone thinks it, except you, soft lad. It was the talk of the butcher’s when I called in this morning. Not one person around here thinks they’ll last five minutes.’
‘It’s been a fair few months already, though,’ said Eric. He shook his head in disbelief at having broken his own rule of silence at mealtimes, knowing it would certainly not end well.
‘What would you know? All you do is collect milk, bottle it, deliver it and clean up horseshit. No one’s interested in your opinion.’
It didn’t matter what he did to prepare himself, Eric could never stop Gladys’s words from stinging.
‘And that story about their Kitty, going to look after a relative in Ireland and just happening to drown by accident when she was there? What nonsense. What child around here can swim? Why would she even be near a river? One day, someone will get to the bottom of that story and when that day comes, we will all be the wiser for it.’
‘God rest her soul,’ said Eric and felt a genuine pain at Kitty’s name being mentioned in such a way in his home. Kitty had been the sweetest child, her da’s shadow, her mam’s little helper and to have died at the age of sixteen, at the foothills of all there was to enjoy in this life, was nothing short of a tragedy.
‘And then, to bring her body over here? Who paid for that, I ask you?’ Eric didn’t answer; Gladys wasn’t asking him at all and had never, since the day they married, shown any interest in his opinion. ‘In a carriage and a coffin and with all those flowers. None of that came cheap, I can tell you. Flown from Shannon into Speke airport like she was the queen. Well, Kitty Doherty is the only person from around here to have ever been on an aeroplane, I’ll give her that. Kitty Doherty and the Beatles, who would have thought that, eh? Shame she had to die first and can’t tell any of us about it.’
Eric had risen from the table feeling physically sick, the toxic atmosphere choking him. ‘I’m just going to check on Daisy Bell,’ he’d said as he made for the back door. ‘I thought she looked a bit lame at the end of the round today.’
‘What abou
t your pudding?’ she said to his back.
‘I’ll have it in a minute.’ He’d closed the door behind him and gulped in the damp evening air, knowing he wouldn’t be able to swallow another thing until he could erase the memory of her heartless words from his mind.
Now, on this fine morning, he raised his hand in greeting to Kathleen, who for a woman of her age walked with a youthful stride. Plump, with her white hair concealed in curlers beneath her hairnet, she looked over to Eric with a cheerful smile and, as she raised her hand in response, Eric felt washed over with shame at Gladys’s words and disappointment that he had married a woman who could think such things about a hard-working, clean-living family like the Dohertys.
Mrs Trott was Eric’s first stop on Nelson Street and she was at the door, waiting. He had no need to pull on the reins; Daisy Bell drew to a halt of her own accord.
‘Morning, Eric. Not a moment too soon, I’m spitting feathers waiting for me tea – I used the last of what I had on yours.’
Eric slipped from the seat and, dropping the reins, walked over to collect his steaming hot cup. This had been their routine since he had returned from the war. Mrs Trott took the few steps from her doorway to Daisy Bell, holding the palm of her hand out flat with a sugar lump for the mare. She patted her on the neck and ran her fingers through the long, well-combed mane.
‘There you go, good girl,’ she said and moved back into the doorway, pulling her cardigan across her chest to protect her against the breeze lifting up from the Mersey. ‘She’ll have my hand one day,’ she went on as she took a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped the sticky sugar residue from her palm. Her wire curlers protruded from the front of her headscarf and there was not a scrap of powder or paint on her face but it occurred to Eric that she was one of the few women he met on his round who, despite the early hour, still appeared glamorous at the start of the day. Her twinkling blue eyes and her full lips hinted at a generous and caring nature. ‘I don’t know why you gave that horse a cow’s name,’ she complained as Eric leant against the wall and sipped his tea.
He grinned over the rim of the cup. ‘You’re losing your marbles, you are. You said the same thing to me yesterday. Nice cuppa…’ He held the cup up in a mock salute. ‘Me losing my marbles, you say that every day, too.’
She chided him gently. ‘One day, Eric, I’ll sleep in and then maybe you might appreciate the sacrifice I make, getting up every morning to look after you two.’
Eric’s heart swelled with pleasure; Maggie always included Daisy Bell whenever she referred to him and it gave him an inordinate amount of pleasure.
‘Ah, well, that would be a sad day, I can’t imagine how Daisy Bell would feel if we took this corner and her sugar treat wasn’t waiting for her, it would break her heart, it would.’ His words caught in his throat and he could say no more. They both knew he was referring to himself, not the mare. The air between them felt heavy and still, knowing as they did that it wouldn’t be the lack of the tea that broke his heart. Maggie fractured the moment, distracted by something she sensed more than heard and he was grateful. They often did this, allowed their conversation to wander from matter of fact to flirtatious, but ending it as quickly as it began because neither had any notion where to go next.
‘Don’t look now, Eric,’ she said, ‘we’re being watched.’
Eric made to turn and stopped himself just in time. ‘Is it Peggy by any chance?’
‘Aye, Peggy,’ she said.
Eric dropped the last of his cigarette onto the pavement and stubbed it out with his toe, then took another swig of his tea. ‘Here, hold this,’ he said as he handed her the cup and then extracted a tobacco tin from his large pocket. He took out two cigarettes and passed one to Maggie. He glanced sideways up the street. ‘Since Maura and Tommy left, my life has been much harder managing the likes of Peggy,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Maura used to nip out and take an extra pint or two to give to Peggy if she thought the kids were going without. She would always say, “Put it on my bill, Eric.” And then, she would get the money from Peggy in her own time, in her own way. I would get mine on a Friday night, as normal, and there would be no grief waiting for me back at home. She was a saint, Maura was. She knew Gladys made my life hell if I gave in to Peggy.’
‘Isn’t your life always hell?’ asked Maggie, placing the cigarette between her lips. Their eyes met and held. As always, she looked away first. Despite the rumours that flew around the four streets, Eric never spoke about Gladys in a derogatory manner or confirmed what most knew of his life to be true. He flicked over her comment as if it were a page in a book he had no desire to read.
‘Maura saved me from having to make excuses, aye. Step back into the hall, Maggie, it’s too brisk for you to be stood on the step.’
Her comfort, her life, was always at the forefront of his thoughts. She did as she was told and took a step backwards as she took her petrol lighter from her pocket and, flicking the lid back, held it under the cigarette that dangled from Eric’s lips. He inhaled the fumes from the petrol before he pulled up the flame and the stray ends of tobacco sizzled in the Rizla. Their eyes met and held again, despite the best intentions of both. They lived by the rules because Eric was a married man. This morning ritual was the closest they came to intimacy and, as she leant forwards, she inhaled the earthy smell of him, the morning air and Old Spice, cigarette smoke and horse. It felt to Eric as though the world stopped spinning on its axis, as if, for those captured seconds, he was someone else, sharing a harmonious life with someone who cared. This morning their eyes lingered on each other for longer than usual before she drew on the flame herself, the lid of the lighter snapped shut and she slipped it back into her cardigan pocket. The moment was gone, over and done, until tomorrow.
‘Yes, that was Maura all over for you,’ she said. ‘She kept this street in order, she did. Just look at the state of Peggy’s nets. They were never like that when Maura was around. And I’ll tell you what, Maura did get the money back off Peggy right enough; she made sure of it. She ran that house next door as well as her own. God love them, if there was a family that deserved good luck, it was theirs. Terrible thing that, losing their Kitty. I promised Maura before she left that I’d keep an eye out for little Paddy and the others. It’s not the kids’ fault they’ve got a mam and da like Peggy and big Paddy.’
Eric agreed. ‘No, that’s why I always feel bad when she asks me for the milk. Breaks my heart it does to see a kid go hungry.’
Maggie looked up at Eric. His shoulders were broad and he was a good eight inches taller than she was, his complexion lined and cragged from spending hours of his day outdoors, his eyes dark and deep and his hair, cut into a style only just longer than when he was in the army, poked out from under his waterproof white cap. If anyone saw them together, they would say ‘there’s a good-looking couple’ and she knew it. A vainer woman than Maggie Trott would have relished such a compliment.
‘You know what? You are a big softie, Eric,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘Mind you, I’m not much better. Sometimes I think I only bake cakes every other day to make sure I can give some to little Paddy to hand them out to the kids. He loves my shortbreads, and God love him, they are so easy to make. No idea why his mother can’t do it.
‘I know Kathleen and Alice fed all the kids this Sunday; Kathleen said she had made too much and Alice had peeled too many spuds but they never did; they just knew those kids were on jam and bread all day because big Paddy, the lazy sod, barely worked last week.’ She glanced up the road. ‘Oh dear, Peggy will fall right out of that bedroom window if she leans any further forward to catch your eye, Eric! What are you going to do?’
Eric shook his head. If there was one thing he hated more in his life than anything else, it was having to say no to a woman asking him for milk he knew she couldn’t pay for. ‘What can I do? Our Gladys wants to get out on the round on Friday nights and do the collecting with me. She counts every pint out and every penny in since Peggy didn�
�t pay up last time.’
Maggie pulled hard on her ciggie and then glanced up the road. ‘If you do give her some, put it on my bill this week. It’s her lazy git of a husband that’s at fault, not her. If that man can get out of work, he will. Kathleen said yesterday, when she read my tea leaves, that Jerry was going to step in or those kids will be living on jam buttys forever more. Kathleen told me that one morning their Jerry and Tommy stormed up the stairs, dragged Paddy from his steaming pit and marched him down the steps. Now Jerry is going to try and do it on his own, before those kids get rickets – though God love them, the youngest looks like he has it already. Give her four steri, Eric, and I’ll pay it; that way, your Gladys will never know.’
He fought the urge to reach out and fold her into his arms. Maggie Trott, kind, dependable, lonely. A bit like himself, even though he had Gladys at home. Maggie flicked her ash onto the pavement and under her breath whispered to Eric, ‘Don’t look now, we really are being watched and it’s not just Peggy Nolan…’
*
Annie O’Prey never lifted the front room nets until Maggie Trott took out her cigarette lighter. That way, she and Eric never saw her as she watched their every exchange across the cobbled road. ‘One day, his Gladys will catch him at that,’ she said to her son, Callum, who had walked into the room behind her.
‘I’m leaving for work now, Mam.’
She spun around to face him. ‘What, now? The klaxon hasn’t gone yet.’ Her voice was laced with a hint of irritation at being caught spying on her neighbour but Callum couldn’t have been less interested in what was happening across the road.
‘I’m knocking on for Jerry,’ he said. ‘There’s a full load of lumber in today and I want to make sure I’m taken on because I’m going to have to miss a day when Jimmy gets out.’
Coming Home to the Four Streets Page 2
