Winnie of the Waterfront

by Rosie Harris

  Peg seemed to understand this and several times during the day she would send Winnie around the market with messages so that she could get away from the kitchen for a while. ‘I may as well take advantage of the fact that you’ve got that wheelchair,’ she cackled when she sent her to fetch supplies of vegetables and groceries. ‘Tell them to pile them up on your lap, luv, and I’ll unload them when you get back here. Easier than me lugging them back!’

  Now that Winnie was used to her new wheelchair she found that because the wheels were even bigger than those on the one she’d had in the orphanage she could get around easier and more quickly.

  Sandy gave her some leather gloves to wear so that her hands wouldn’t get sore and he regularly checked the chair over to make sure it was in good working order. As well as oiling the wheels he checked on the brakes. ‘If your brakes aren’t working then when you’re going down Water Street or James Street you could go straight on and end up in the Mersey,’ he pointed out when she told him he fussed too much.

  ‘Be grateful he cares as much as he does,’ Peg told her sagely. ‘Nice lad that Sandy,’ she added thoughtfully. ‘Everyone in the market likes him, and he seems to have taken a real shine to you!’

  ‘We were at school together a long time ago, before I went into the orphanage,’ Winnie told her. ‘He used to push me to school in my invalid carriage.’

  ‘There you are, then!’ Peg said triumphantly. ‘Like I said, he’s a good lad. He’s a couple of years older than you, isn’t he? So that would make him ten or eleven back then wouldn’t it? Now how many young boys of that age would be seen pushing a girl in a wheelchair?’

  Winnie knew Sandy was special and she was thankful that she had been fortunate enough to meet up with him again. She was grateful for the way he looked out for her, but she didn’t want him to feel that she expected him to do things for her. He spent so much time with her when he wasn’t working that he couldn’t possibly have much time left for any life of his own, Winnie thought guiltily.

  Sandy was no longer living at home but in lodgings in Back Milton Street, which wasn’t very far from where she’d been living herself before she went into the orphanage. When she asked him what his room was like he simply shrugged. She knew it would be small and scruffy, and she wondered if he had to share it with anyone else.

  ‘It’s just somewhere to sleep,’ he told her when she pressed the matter. ‘I get all my food here, don’t I, and you can’t beat Peg’s cooking! It tastes even better now that you serve it up to me!’

  ‘The market isn’t open on a Sunday, though, so what do you do for meals then?’

  ‘There’s plenty of places serving food if you know where to look. I can always manage to find a fish and chip shop open.’

  ‘Or a pub or a beer house?’

  ‘Now and again. I’m not fond of drinking on me own, though.’

  ‘You’ve got mates, haven’t you?’

  ‘No one special.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Winnie looked at him, completely puzzled. She would have thought he’d have loads of friends, including a string of girlfriends. With his shock of red hair he stood out from the crowd. Not that he needed anything like that to make people notice him. He was tall, broad-shouldered and extremely good-looking. His green eyes were keen and intelligent and he had a sharp sense of humour. He was good-natured and kind-hearted; Winnie knew this more than anyone. Working alongside Sandy had provided her with the sense of security she so badly needed. Seeing him every day made her feel stronger and more confident. Having someone like Sandy to talk to and confide in had made a great difference to how she looked at the world.

  Sometimes when she was in bed at night she found herself wondering what she would do if she ever discovered that Sandy had a girlfriend, or, even worse, if one day he told her he was going to get married.

  She tried to find out more about his private life from Peg.

  ‘Oh, he’s a loner that one,’ Peg told her. ‘Always has been, ever since the first day he started working here.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to have many friends,’ Winnie probed.

  ‘No, but he gets on well with everyone. Goes out with the lads for a bevvy now and again from what I hear tell.’

  ‘With the lads that work here?’

  ‘That’s right, luv. He doesn’t seem to bother very much with girls, although he chats them up when they come shopping and they love it. Mind you, he could charm the birds off the trees with that glib tongue of his, but he never dates any of them.’

  ‘Never?’

  Peg shook her grey head and pulled her black shawl closer round her shoulders. ‘I think something must have happened to him in the past. Perhaps he’s been jilted or spurned. He had that lost, broken-hearted look when he first started working here. He was only a lad then, of course, but now and again I’ve seen him staring into space as if his body is here but his heart is somewhere else.’

  Winnie laughed. ‘You make it sound very romantic!’

  ‘Mind you,’ Peg went on thoughtfully, ‘he hasn’t had that sort of look on his mug for quite some time now! In fact, not since you turned up here. Come to think about it, luv, he’s really changed of late. He really does seem to be far happier since you’ve been working here.’

  * * *

  By the time Christmas came closer, Winnie was well settled in to her routine of working for Peg, and still liking every minute of it. What made it so enjoyable was the fact that she never knew when, or how often, she was going to meet up with Sandy. Every day was different. His immediate boss was Reg Willard, the market inspector, and in the same way as Peg Mullins expected Winnie to do a hundred and one different jobs during the course of the day, so Sandy was in the same situation with Reg Willard.

  For the most part Reg Willard strutted around, issuing orders, allocating the stalls and checking that each trader was complying with the rules governing the market. He had a sharp eye and an even sharper tongue, but he was held in respect and his word was law. The traders all knew that if you offended him you could find yourself without a stall.

  Sandy’s job was supposed to be to report any infringements immediately to Reg Willard. More often than not, however, Sandy would quietly warn the offender about what he was doing wrong and so save a great deal of hassle and bad feeling.

  Reg Willard knew this. He was quite happy to give Sandy his head and let him run things as he saw fit, provided Sandy took the flack when there were any altercations.

  Most of the traders were aware of what was happening, and because they all liked Sandy very few of them ever flaunted the rules. When arguments arose because one trader encroached on another one’s space, Sandy used diplomacy and discreetly moved the offending boxes or goods within the given parameters. His tactful handling of matters was accepted gratefully, since such infringements were usually accidental rather than deliberate.

  As Christmas approached and there were more goods on display, as well as a great many more customers looking for good deals, everything became very hectic. Even Winnie, tucked away in the Market Hall – as they grandly called their canteen – found herself dispensing twice as many cups of tea as usual.

  Christmas Eve 1922 fell on a Sunday, so since they wouldn’t be able to open for trade then the Saturday was particularly busy as everyone scrambled for last-minute bargains. Winnie was so tired when they eventually finished at about ten o’clock on the Saturday night that she didn’t know how she was going to wheel herself back to the hostel.

  ‘Want me to give you a push, kiddo?’ Sandy asked when he appeared at the end of the day.

  ‘You must feel as tired as I do?’ Winnie prevaricated, secretly hoping he would repeat his offer.

  ‘Come on, with all the presents you’ve got to take home your chair will be so top heavy you’ll never get there,’ he grinned.

  Winnie sighed happily. He was right about the presents. She felt quite overwhelmed by the generosity of the traders. She’d been given a jumper, warm gloves, stockings
, a blanket to go over her knees on cold mornings, dates, oranges, apples, sweets, scarves, and slides for her hair. The most wonderful present of all was from Sandy. It was a bright, thick red woollen cloak with its own hood. ‘It will make you look like Little Red Riding Hood, but it will keep you snug,’ he’d told her, his face going almost as red as the cloak.

  ‘Go on,’ he told her now, when they were ready to leave, ‘put it on then. It’s freezing outside and there’s a wind coming up off the Mersey that cuts like a knife.’

  He was right. When they left the shelter of the market it was as much as he could do to keep on his feet. Winnie knew that she would never have managed to propel her wheelchair against such a gale.

  ‘Can you manage from here?’ he asked as they reached the corner of Carver Street.

  ‘Of course I can, and thank you, Sandy, for coming all this way with me. Thank you for my present, too. It’s beautiful and it really does keep me warm.’

  ‘Yeah, well mind you wear it! Happy Christmas, kiddo.’ He bent down and kissed her, a warm, fleeting brush of his lips across her own. He didn’t give her a chance to respond, but it was enough to set her pulse racing.

  By the time she’d regained her breath he was turning the corner and she wasn’t even sure he heard her when she called out ‘Happy Christmas’ to him.

  Chapter Twenty

  MATILDA HENSHAW HAD never felt so upset in all her adult life. For a woman of her age to be reprimanded by Sister Tabitha was terribly humiliating.

  What made matters even worse was that she hadn’t a leg to stand on. Sister Tabitha was fully within her rights, she had to admit that, but it didn’t make the situation any more acceptable.

  She’d been so proud of the way she’d run the hostel and felt she had justified the trust and responsibility Sister Tabitha had bestowed on her. Now it had been virtually erased and it was possible that her entire future may have been put in jeopardy. And it was all because of the newest arrival at the hostel, Winnie Malloy. It was her behaviour that had brought the reprimand.

  Full of anger and feelings of despair, Matilda Henshaw took refuge in her room, which was the main front bedroom of the double-fronted six-bedroom house that was owned by the Holy Cross Orphanage. Craven House had been turned into a hostel to accommodate girls after they left the care of the nuns, and for the past eight years she had been in sole charge.

  Matilda Henshaw lay down on her bed, closed her eyes and tried to shut out the shame she’d felt an hour ago when faced by the person she respected most in the world.

  She’d been almost fourteen when she’d been taken into the orphanage herself. She’d been pregnant, and although she knew quite well who the father of her unborn child was, she was under oath not to reveal his name. Her family, who were deeply religious, were shocked by what had happened. They were convinced that she was to blame, and both her parents agreed that they never wanted to see her again or even hear her name mentioned. As far as they were concerned she no longer existed.

  Three months later, after a long, painful labour, she’d been delivered of a daughter. The tiny dark-haired scrap of a baby had been taken from her immediately and handed over for adoption. She’d not even been allowed to hold it.

  By rights she should have left the orphanage immediately afterwards, but because her parents had disowned her the Mother Superior at that time had taken pity on her and kept her on in a menial domestic position. Heartbroken by the way her family had treated her, grieving over the loss of her child and bitter because her future was so hopeless, Matilda Henshaw had worked hard to prove to the only people who had shown her compassion that their faith in her had been justified.

  Three years later she had absorbed all that they could teach her about running an establishment and ensuring strict control on those who worked under her. She had then been assigned to the position of assistant to Mabel Thorpe, the housekeeper at Craven House.

  When Miss Thorpe died two years later Miss Henshaw had taken over. Since then she’d struggled hard to build a reputation for herself. She was now someone respected by the nuns, the clergy, and the young women who were housed at the hostel. She was proud of her responsibility and ran a tight ship. She ensured the girls behaved and that they kept strictly to the rules laid down. There had never been a single word of censure in all the time she had been in charge. There had never been any reason why there should be, not until today, she thought miserably.

  She shuddered as she went over every detail of the mortifying interrogation she’d been subjected to by Sister Tabitha. What she couldn’t understand was how they had heard at the orphanage that Winnie Malloy had been sacked from her job. If what Sister Tabitha had said was correct, then she had lasted there barely a week!

  Yet she went out of the house at the same time each morning, and usually came home at the right time each evening. So what she was doing all day?

  She handed over the money for her room on time each week. There were never any letters for her, or any visitors. Well, there had been one, but that had been only a few days after she’d arrived and that had been a red-haired chap delivering a wheelchair.

  It annoyed Matilda Henshaw that she’d never found out who he was or where the wheelchair had come from. Winnie Malloy had never told her or, as far as she knew, anyone else at Craven House whether she had bought it, or whether it had been a present. Come to think of it, she mused, Winnie Malloy had very little to do with any of the other young women there.

  Why was she so secretive and unsociable? Did it have something to do with her new job and the people she was associating with, or was it to do with where her money came from? How was she earning a living since she’d left the factory?

  Matilda Henshaw opened a cupboard and searched around until she found the bottle of gin she’d treated herself to for Christmas. True, that was a couple of days away, but her nerves were at breaking point. She needed a drink to calm them, something to clear her mind and help her decide on the right strategy.

  Pouring some into a glass she took a sip of neat gin and shuddered. Then she pulled a comfortable chair up to the window and settled down to watch the road outside and wait for Winnie Malloy to arrive home.

  Winnie was struggling to disentangle her sticks from all the presents that had been piled into her wheelchair so that she could get out and open the front door of the hostel when it was suddenly flung wide open.

  ‘So you’ve come home at last, Winnie Malloy.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Henshaw. I’m sorry if I’m rather late.’

  ‘Late!’ Melinda Henshaw ground her teeth in anger. ‘Where do you think you’ve been until now?’

  ‘I’ve been at work.’

  ‘Don’t you dare lie to me, Winnie Malloy!’

  ‘I’m not lying!’ Winnie exclaimed in surprise.

  ‘Really!’ The scorn in Miss Henshaw’s voice startled Winnie.

  ‘Can I come in, Miss Henshaw? It’s freezing cold out here!’

  ‘Not until you tell me the truth about where you’ve been. You’ve certainly not been at Johnson’s Mantles, so don’t try telling me that you have!’

  ‘Well, no,’ Winnie bit down on her lower lip. ‘I left there some time ago.’

  ‘Left! You mean you were sacked, don’t you?’

  Winnie nodded in agreement. ‘I … I didn’t fit in.’

  ‘No, I can believe that! You’re a troublemaker, Winnie Malloy! You never said a word to me about it, did you?’

  ‘I didn’t think you would want to know. I found another job, I’ve paid my rent every week …’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Matilda Henshaw cut her short. ‘You are a lying, deceitful girl! You were sacked from the perfectly good job that Sister Tabitha found for you and you told no one. How do you think I felt when Sister Tabitha turned up here today and demanded to know why I hadn’t told her about this and informed her where you were working now?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Henshaw, I really didn’t think anyone would be interested.’


  ‘Furthermore, you haven’t been attending Mass, and I don’t suppose you have been to confession either since you left the orphanage!’

  ‘I can explain, Miss Henshaw. You see …’

  Matilda Henshaw clamped her hands over her ears. ‘I don’t wish to hear your lies, Winnie Malloy. You’re a sly, cheating, ungrateful young woman. I don’t intend to have someone of your sort living in this hostel. Do you understand?’

  Winnie stared at her, dumbfounded. ‘Where am I to go then?’

  ‘That’s entirely up you! You managed to find yourself another job so now you can find yourself somewhere else to live.’

  Winnie looked bewildered. ‘Very well, Miss Henshaw,’ she said contritely. ‘I understand. I’ll start looking for somewhere else.’

  ‘Good! Well you can start doing it right away.’

  ‘You don’t mean tonight, do you?’ Winnie gasped as Miss Henshaw barred her entry. ‘It’s Christmas and it’s dark and freezing cold. All my belongings are in my room,’ she added.

  ‘Yes, you’re right about all those things, except about your belongings, Winnie Malloy,’ Miss Henshaw agreed with satisfaction. She pointed to a large bundle on the top of the step. ‘There are your things, all of them. Now take them and go!’

  Before Winnie could say a word, Matilda Henshaw retreated back into the hallway and slammed the door.

  Winnie couldn’t believe what was happening. She had been too scared to tell Miss Henshaw that she had left Johnson’s Mantles. As long as she paid her rent regularly and didn’t break the curfew hours then what had she done wrong, she asked herself.

  How on earth had Sister Tabitha found out?