by Maureen Lee
She looked doubtfully at the meat now, wondering what sort of animal it had been before being slaughtered and fed through the mincer. ‘I’d sooner not use it, Irene,’ she said. ‘I’ll make potato cakes for our tea.’
‘Oh, don’t be daft, Mollie,’ Irene said scathingly. ‘Growing kids need meat. It makes stronger bones. I’ll get the veg ready for a nice stew. I bought an onion while I was at it.’ She went into the kitchen, singing at the top of her voice.
Mollie returned to the parlour to keep an eye on the boys. Although she loved her mother-in-law, there were times when Irene set her teeth on edge. She didn’t want the children eating suspect meat; they weren’t so poor they needed to shop at Maxwell’s. They could at least afford fresh mincemeat from an identifiable animal. But, as usual, she’d given in, though it seemed cowardly to risk the family’s health rather than make an issue of it. The trouble was Irene was very touchy and there could easily have been a row, followed by a bad atmosphere for days.
She froze. A lad she’d never seen before had jumped on Joe’s back and seemed intent on dragging him to the ground, but was foiled by Tommy, who kicked his bottom with considerable force. The lad fell off and Tommy faced him, fists raised, an infant pugilist ready for a fight, but the attacker just wandered off, rubbing his behind.
Mollie smiled. Tommy wanted to be a bobby when he grew up, just like the dad he’d never known. Irene had shown her a photograph of Tom when he was a little boy and Tommy was so like him it made her want to cry. Irene made a desperate fuss of him. In her eyes, her youngest grandchild was another Tom and could do no wrong. She completely ignored the other children, except to criticize, in particular Megan, whom she didn’t appear to like. But Megan wasn’t prepared to be disliked without doing something about it. She turned against her grandma and didn’t hesitate to answer back whenever Irene said something that annoyed her. The first time this happened, Irene had slapped her and Megan had slapped her back. Mollie had given her a good telling-off, then done the same to her mother-in-law when there was no one else around.
‘You’re never, never to hit one of my children again,’ she said angrily. She was shaking inside. ‘If they need to be smacked, I’ll do it, not you.’
‘That Megan is a cheeky little madam,’ Irene said, just as angrily.
‘I know she is, but you must stop picking on her all the time, telling her to blow her nose, sit up straight, take her elbows off the table, walk not run, not speak until she’s spoken to. She’s only a little girl, Irene, an extremely irritating, arrogant little girl, but her heart’s in the right place.’
‘Mammy,’ Megan said from the door now. She came into the parlour, oozing martyrdom.
‘Yes, darlin’?’ She knew what was to come.
‘I don’t really want you to buy another bed. I know you can’t afford it and there isn’t the room. I don’t mind being kicked all night, honest.’
‘I know, love.’ Mollie held out her arms and Megan ran into them. ‘We’ll be able to afford a new bed one of these days, I promise.’
‘Why can’t Grandma turn the parlour into a bedroom? ’ Megan enquired in a slightly injured tone. ‘And she has a big bed and the biggest bedroom all to herself. It’s not fair. My friend Sheila Nelson sleeps in the parlour with her sister.’
Mollie didn’t answer. She’d often wondered the same thing herself. Perhaps Irene didn’t realize how uncomfortable they were, or she didn’t want to get rid of the over-stuffed settee that closely resembled a hippopotamus, the glass-fronted cabinet full of dishes that were never used - just like the parlour itself - or the piano that the children weren’t allowed to touch, though they did when Irene was out and Mollie didn’t stop them. They weren’t doing any harm and what was a piano for except to play?
‘Grandma’s making something really smelly in the kitchen,’ Megan whispered. ‘I hope it’s not for tea.’
Mollie groaned inwardly. ‘If it is, you must promise not to make a face when you eat it,’ she whispered back. ‘Pretend it’s really nice.’
‘Yuck!’ Megan pushed her plate away after the first mouthful. She made the most dreadful face imaginable. ‘It’s horrible.’ From his perch on the sideboard, Dandelion watched with interest, hoping for some scraps.
‘Eat it up this minute,’ Irene commanded. ‘There’s kids in this street who’d give their eye teeth for a stew like that.’
‘No, they wouldn’t.’ Megan turned away and managed to make an even worse face. ‘It tastes like worms.’
‘Megan—’ Irene began, but Mollie interrupted.
‘She’s right, Irene. It doesn’t taste very nice. What about you others, do you like it?’
Brodie and Joe shook their heads, but Tommy said, ‘I like worms,’ and shovelled a spoonful into his mouth.
‘There!’ Irene said triumphantly, as if this proved something.
Mollie removed Tommy’s plate. ‘You’re not to eat it, any of you. I’ll go and buy some fishcakes and chips.’ She couldn’t afford fish. ‘How about you, Irene? Would you like some?’
‘No, thanks. I’ll eat this.’ To Mollie’s horror, two huge tears were slowly making their way down the woman’s wrinkled cheeks. ‘I was only trying to do me best,’ she sobbed. ‘Trying to make up for the fact I don’t contribute a penny towards keeping this place going. You pay for everything, Mollie, even the rent, when you’ve already got four kids and yourself to feed. I thought it’d help if I made dead cheap meals.’ She sniffed tragically. ‘I’m a burden, aren’t I? A terrible burden. If it weren’t for you, I’d have to go on the parish.’
Mollie hastily reached for her purse and sent all four children to the chip shop. ‘Buy six of everything and be as quick as you can coming back so it won’t get cold,’ she told them.
‘I’ll have to carry them, won’t I, Mammy, because I’m the oldest?’
‘Yes, Megan, but try not to get grease on your frock.’
‘Irene,’ she said when the children had gone, ‘you’re not a burden. You’re Tom’s mother and I love you, we all do.’ She doubted if she was speaking for Megan. ‘We’re poor, but not so poor we have to buy our meat from Maxwell’s - or use leftover vegetables from St John’s Market.’ Irene often turned up with squashed tomatoes and potatoes that had rolled onto the floor, or bruised fruit.
‘I thought I was helping,’ Irene wailed.
‘You are. I don’t know what I’d do without you. How could I look after Mr Pettigrew if you weren’t here for Tommy - for all the children when they’re on holiday from school?’ But while she was away, she was worried sick what might be going on between Irene and Megan, given that she wasn’t there to act as referee.
‘I used to think meself so well off when the boys sent money.’
‘Well, they can’t now, can they?’ Brian had lost his job when the Liverpool Tool Company closed down. Mike hadn’t had a wage rise in years, and Enoch’s furniture business wasn’t doing nearly as well as it used to. There were over two million unemployed in Britain and it had become virtually impossible to get a job. Mollie, who read The Times to Mr Pettigrew every morning, knew it had all started with the Stock Market crash in America in 1929. The ripples had spread, affecting the entire Western world. She felt lucky to have a roof over her head, a pension of twelve and sixpence a week, and the ten shillings she earned from sitting with Mr Pettigrew. Agatha’s mother, Mrs Brophy - now Mrs Raymond - had put her in touch with the company she’d sewed gloves for and she earned a little extra from that. Put together, it meant they could just about scrape by. She even managed to put a few coppers aside each week to save for the children’s clothes.
‘I really appreciate you making the meals,’ she said to Irene. ‘I’d never manage to do the cooking on top of everything else.’ She would have managed, but she wasn’t going to admit it to Irene. ‘But I’d sooner you stopped buying meat in Maxwell’s.’
‘All right, luv.’ Irene looked pathetically grateful. She spent the time until the children came with the
chips bemoaning the fact that Tom was dead, yet it was almost five years since he’d gone to meet his maker. Mollie just listened, making little comforting noises when it seemed necessary. She preferred to think of Tom when he was alive, full of energy and plans for the future.
After tea, she took the family for a walk along Scotland Road. Joe and Brodie held her hands, while Megan marched confidently in front, as if she were leading a procession. Tommy trailed behind, kicking stones and making grotesque faces at himself in shop windows.
It was cooler now and the sun was slowly sinking. The salty air felt fresh and invigorating. Mollie took a huge sniff. It was a relief to get away from her mother-in-law and the tensions in the house for a while. It had been peaceful when she’d left, but she didn’t doubt another crisis would arise before the week was out.
Scotland Road was frantically busy. Trams, packed to the gills, rushed both ways, swaying unsteadily on the tracks. Cars and lorries edged more slowly along. Quite a few shops were still open. A small queue had formed outside Tanner’s bakery to buy leftover bread at half-price. There was a pub on every corner, already doing good business. Children, some little more than toddlers, hung outside in the hope of cadging a coin off any drunk who might appear, though it was a bit early for that. They’d still be there at closing time, poor little mites, in filthy, ragged clothes, their feet bare, their eyes huge in their too-old faces. Mollie thought of the stew that she’d only recently thrown away and felt guilty. Her own children were immeasurably better fed and better dressed in comparison, and her own life was more comfortable than that of most women. Those lucky enough to have a job worked for twelve hours or more in stinking factories, or laundries where it was almost too hot to breathe.
A crowd of men pushed noisily past, half on the pavement, half in the road, their heavy boots beating against the cobbled surface. Drivers sounded their horns, angry at this invasion of their territory. One of the men slowed down and began to walk alongside Mollie. She felt Joe shrink against her fearfully.
‘Hello, Moll,’ the man said with a roguish grin. He was an attractive individual of about her own age, as thin as a post, with black curly hair and smiling brown eyes. He wore a clean, threadbare shirt and corduroy trousers tied up with rope.
‘Oh, hello, Harry, I didn’t realize it was you. Where are you off to?’ More men passed, clearly in a hurry. One said, ‘Get a move on, Harry. Can’t you forget the women for five bloody minutes?’
‘The blackshirts are marching along Vauxhall Road, Moll. Me and me mates are off to tear them up for arse paper.’ His brown eyes sparkled. ‘Would you like to come along?’
‘With four kids?’
‘It’s never too early to learn about politics, Moll.’
‘Politics is one thing, fighting blackshirts is something else altogether.’ But she didn’t doubt that Megan and Tommy would have been willing to have a go.
‘Never mind, then. See you, Moll.’ He strutted away, full of himself, shoulders back ready for a fight.
‘See you, Harry. Look after yourself,’ she called.
Harry Benedict lived further down Turnpike Street and had his eye on her. He often stopped her for a little chat. Mollie didn’t mind a bit. Women chased Harry in their hordes and she was flattered that he liked her. Once a docker, he’d lost his job three years ago. He was a troublemaker, a Communist, continually stirring up strife amongst his workmates. One of his Communist friends had found him a job as an odd job man in Johnson’s Dye Factory in Bootle. ‘Just like the Freemasons,’ Irene had said disgustedly. ‘You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours.’
Irene loathed him. Not only was he of dubious character, but he’d committed the unforgivable sin of being born a Protestant. On one occasion, he’d called at the house asking for Mollie and Irene had refused to let him in. Mollie, sewing gloves in the parlour, was given no say in the matter. She’d wanted to tear her mother-in-law off a strip, but held her tongue. Anything for a quiet life.
There was always hand-written notices in the window of his house where he lived with his grandmother, a pleasant woman in her eighties who, contrary to expectations, was extremely proud of him. The notices advertised marches, demonstrations, meetings - the Communist Party met every other Monday in the Goat and Boot on Everton Brow, the Humanitarian League once a month above the Co-op Hall off London Road, the Anti-Fascists in various pubs along the Dock Road.
Mollie sometimes felt tempted to attend one of the meetings - they were free and it was somewhere to go; she hadn’t been to the pictures for years because she couldn’t afford it. Harry Benedict was bound to be there. She didn’t want to go out with him, it would be traitorous to Tom’s memory, but she quite fancied basking in his attention for a few hours, though all hell would break loose when Irene found out.
They’d arrived at the Rotunda, the theatre that Irene had used to visit on Saturdays with her friend, Ethel, now sadly dead, and where Tom had always been promising to take her, but there’d never seemed to be the time. This week, Constance Allbright and Edmund White topped the bill, a musical duo singing songs from the West End shows, according to the posters outside.
They all turned around, this was usually the limit of their walk, and Megan marched them back in the direction of Turnpike Street.
In the far distance, the shrill blast of whistles could be heard, plus a great deal of shouting. She wondered if it was Harry and his crowd having it out with the blackshirts. The police must be there, trying to bring order.
Lily was present when they got back to Turnpike Street. She’d brought an apple pie. ‘I made one for us, but there was quite a bit of pastry over.’
For all the tensions and backbiting within the Ryan family, they stuck by each other like glue in times of need. Lily often turned up with a pie, saying she’d made too much pastry. Pauline brought fruit, saying it was about to go bad, though it looked quite fresh. Gladys sometimes came on Mondays with the remainder of their Sunday joint, as Enoch was the only brother who could still afford to buy one. Not to be outdone, Mollie bought knitted garments from Paddy’s Market, undid them, washed the wool, and re-knitted it into jumpers for her sisters-in-law. It was something she enjoyed doing, so it wasn’t exactly a hardship, apart from giving her less time to sew.
Later that night, when the children were in bed and Lily had gone home, Mollie sat by the parlour window, trying to finish a pair of gloves before daylight faded altogether and she’d have to light the gas mantel. She only sewed in the parlour where the pieces could be spread out in the order they’d be needed - she usually put them on the piano lid.
She was reaching for a thumb, when there was a knock on the window, making her jump. ‘Damn!’ she swore when the needle pierced the palm of her left hand. Harry Benedict was grinning at her through the glass. He appeared to be sporting a whopping black eye and was making signs at her to open the window, which she did, pulling down the top half and leaning on the frame.
‘What happened to you?’ she asked. The collar of his shirt was hanging by a thread.
‘Had an argument with a lamp post,’ he said. ‘The lamp post won.’
‘Did it also tear the collar off your shirt?’
‘No,’ he conceded. ‘That was the enemy.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘They lost. Completely routed.’ His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
‘Were any policemen hurt?’
‘Not as far as I know. Anyroad, why should you care if a copper had his head cracked open?’ he asked contemptuously.
‘I care a lot,’ she said coldly. ‘I was married to one once. He wouldn’t have given the blackshirts the time of day, but would have considered it his duty to protect them.’
‘You know what they stand for, the blackshirts, don’t you?’ He put his elbow on the frame and leaned against it so their faces were only inches apart.
‘Of course I do: an authoritarian state headed by a dictator like Mussolini, the suppression of the individual, nationali
sm, racism, and a load of other things.’
His eyes popped. ‘You put that better than I could.’
‘Why should that surprise you?’
‘Women aren’t usually interested in politics.’
‘I read The Times from cover to cover every day,’ she said boastfully. She could have quoted him the latest cricket scores if he was interested, or the state of the Stock Market when it closed the day before, the temperature in Paris, or the fact that a Social Security Act had been passed in the United States as part of Roosevelt’s New Deal. Mr Pettigrew liked to have every detail in the paper read to him, clearly and precisely, getting irritated if she stammered or hesitated over a word she’d never come across before.
‘I thought I heard voices!’ Irene came into the parlour. Her face flushed with rage when she saw Harry Benedict outside. ‘Take your flamin’ arm off me window,’ she shrieked. She barged across the room, as if to shut the window on the man, but Mollie pushed her away, regardless of the consequences. She was twenty-seven years old and no one, not even her mother-in-law, had the right to dictate who she could speak to.
‘We’re only talking, Irene,’ she said gently, already sorry about the push, but not prepared to give in. ‘He’s not doing any harm.’
But Irene was not to be calmed. ‘It’s my house, and I’m not having him anywhere near it,’ she spat.
‘In that case, we’ll talk outside.’ Mollie stalked out of the room. There’d be hell to pay tomorrow. She’d expected to wait a few more days before a fresh crisis arose, never dreaming there’d be another within a matter of hours.
