MB01 - Stay In Your Own Back Yard

by Joan Jonker

  ‘It is when it interrupts the peace of my ’ouse,’ said Molly. ‘Next time yer take off, I’ll have the law around.’ She started to walk away, then turned back. ‘It’s a poor excuse for a man yer are, Nobby Clarke. An’ I’ll tell yer this – if yer ever lay a finger on any of my kids again, it’s Jack yer’ll ’ave to answer to. Bear that in mind.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘For two pins I’d ’ave it out with him, yer know,’ Jack said when Molly came downstairs after putting Ruthie to bed. ‘I’m not havin’ him pushing my wife around, or nearly stranglin’ one of me kids. Who the hell does he think he is?’

  ‘Leave well alone, Jack, it’s no use causin’ more trouble. He came off worse in the end . . . sprawled on the ground with all the neighbours lookin’ on. That put a dent in ’is pride, I can tell yer.’ Molly sighed as she leaned on the sideboard. ‘I was feelin’ on top of the world when our Jill came ’ome from work, made up ’cos she likes her job. Then the queer feller ’ad to go an’ spoil it, the bad-tempered bugger!’

  ‘Don’t let him get yer down, love,’ Jack said, ‘he’s not worth it.’

  ‘Yer right, he’s not worth wasting me breath over.’ Molly straightened up. ‘I think I’ll walk round to me ma’s for a bit of fresh air. Yer’ll see to the kids for me, won’t yer?’ She was already on her way to the hall for her coat. ‘Give them a shout when it’s time for bed, an’ don’t stand any messing from them either.’ She slipped her arms into her coat. ‘Make sure they get a wash before they go to bed. This mornin’ our Tommy had a tide mark round ’is neck bigger than any I’ve seen on the shore at New Brighton. He was goin’ out the door like that, too, until I collared ’im. God knows what sort of a house ’is teacher thinks he comes from.’

  Jack lifted his cigarette and sent a smoke ring floating up to the ceiling. There was a grin on his face as he watched it disappear. ‘If yer keep talkin’ much longer, love, it’ll be time to come back before yer get there.’

  ‘I’m goin’, I’m goin’!’ Molly dropped the front door key into her pocket and tutted when it fell right through. ‘One of these fine days I’ll sew this pocket up.’

  ‘If yer’ve got tuppence to spare, will yer get me five Woodies from the corner shop on yer way past?’ Jack asked. ‘Or if yer haven’t got tuppence, a penny for two loosies?’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear.’ Molly clicked her tongue. ‘What an extravagant ’usband I’ve got. Yer’ll ’ave me in the workhouse with yer gamblin’, drinkin’ and smokin’.’

  She was halfway down the hall when she heard, ‘Yer forgot to mention me womanising.’

  ‘I’m the only woman you’re likely to get, Jack Bennett! I’ll put up with yer gamblin’ and drinkin’, but other women . . . never!’

  Jack heard the front door open and shouted, ‘Get me the Woodies an’ when we go to bed I’ll prove that I’m more than satisfied with the woman I’ve got.’

  ‘Sod off, Jack Bennett! Yer get more like a dirty old man every day.’

  With that parting shot, she banged the door behind her, her body shaking with laughter. And the smile stayed on her face as she walked the three streets to the little terraced house where her parents lived.

  ‘Hello, lass.’ Bob Jackson opened the door. ‘We were hoping yer’d come round to let us know how Jill got on.’

  Molly could hear the music before she even stepped into the hall. ‘John McCormick, is it, Da?’

  Bob nodded. ‘There’s not much on the wireless so we got some of the old records out.’

  Molly, light on her feet, waltzed into the centre of the living room and struck up a pose. Both hands on her chest, her head thrown back, she sang at the top of her voice. ‘The Rose of Tral . . . ee . . . ee.’

  ‘Oh, it’s yourself, is it?’ Bridie Jackson had lived in Liverpool for forty years, but she’d never lost that lovely lilting Irish accent. She’d been sixteen years of age when, in 1895, she’d set sail from her home and family in County Wicklow to seek work in Liverpool. ‘Will yer not sit yourself down and let the best singer in the world finish his song?’

  ‘Now, sure, that’s what I’ll be doin’.’ Molly had the accent off to perfection. Hadn’t she been hearing it all her life? While Bridie sat with her eyes closed, lost in the richness of John McCormick’s voice, Molly gazed at the face that had never lost its beauty. It might have dimmed a little since the young Bridie Malone had set foot on English soil, but it had never disappeared. At fifty-six, Bridie was still a fine-looking woman, and Molly loved the bones of her.

  She turned her eyes to her father, and smiled to see that he too was watching his wife’s face. He was a good man, her da, the best father a girl could have. He was sixty now, and still working as hard as he ever had. Never had a day off sick in his life.

  The record screeched to an end. It had been played so many times over the years, the hole in the middle had grown too big for a perfect sound. But to Bridie it was a reminder of the home she’d left those many years ago. She’d always promised herself to go back and see her family, but there was never enough money for the fare. Now her parents were dead and a sister was the only living relative left.

  ‘D’yer want the other side on, Ma?’ Molly asked. ‘It’s yer favourite, “I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen”, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure, now, I’d like that fine, as long as yourself doesn’t mind?’

  Bob had already turned the record and was busy winding the handle on the gramophone. ‘It only takes five minutes, lass, then I’ll put the kettle on for a cuppa an’ yer can tell us about Jill’s big day.’

  Molly didn’t listen to the words of the song, they always made her feel so sad. Instead her thoughts dwelt on her ma and da. When she was little she’d never asked to be told a fairy story, because the story of her mother’s life was better than any fairy tale.

  If I was clever enough to write a book, she thought now, I’d write one about me ma and da. What a lovely romantic story it would make! Her mother had arrived in Liverpool tired, hungry and frightened after being tossed and turned as the boat ploughed its way across the rough Irish Sea, the passengers herded together like animals. Bridie had felt so alone in Liverpool, a strange, noisy city, so different from the tiny village she’d come from. All her worldly possessions were packed into the cardboard box she carried by its string. Clutched in her hand was a piece of paper with the name and address of an Irish family she was to stay with until she found work.

  Four weeks later she got herself a job in service with a family in Princes Avenue, down Toxteth way. The family were very rich, the husband something big in shipping. Bridie found herself a maid of all work, rising to start at six in the mornings, and fetching and carrying until ten at night. Her only time off was one evening a week, and a full day off once a month. For that she was paid the princely sum of four shillings a month and her keep. It was on one of her days off that she met the man who was to become her husband. It was a Sunday, and she had walked down to the Pier Head with a bag of stale bread the cook had given her to feed to the birds. She always did this on her day off because she had no family or friends in Liverpool and had nowhere else to go. And looking across the Irish Sea made her feel nearer her homeland.

  Fate had taken a hand that Sunday in the shape of a gust of wind that blew Bridie’s hat off and sent it flying through the air to land at Bob’s feet. He had picked up the hat, seen Bridie and walked towards her. It had been love at first sight. They married six months later and were as much in love now as they were that day.

  Feeling emotional, Molly gulped to try and clear the lump in her throat. She glanced across at her da, and when she saw him reach for his snuff box, was transported back in time. In her mind’s eye, she could see her mother, plain as anything, handing her a halfpenny and saying, ‘Remember, now, me darlin’, it’s a ha’porth of S.P. Golden Virginia snuff . . . it’s the only kind your father likes.’ And he used the same brand to this day.

  Molly rested her head on the chair as her mind went
back even further in time, to when she was very young. Every night when her ma tucked her up in bed, Molly would beg to be told a story before she went to sleep. ‘Tell me about the big house, Ma,’ she would say, then listen wide-eyed as Bridie told her of the years she’d spent as maid of all work in the home of the rich family.

  Life was hard for those who worked downstairs in that big house. On the go all the time, never a moment to themselves. Bridie, the lowest in rank, was assigned all the rough work. She was up on the stroke of six every morning, an hour before Rose, the parlour maid, and Mrs Beecham, the cook, put in an appearance. With a large wrap-around apron covering her long black dress, and a mob-cap on her head, her first task was to rake out the grates in the drawing room and dining room, then relight the fires so the rooms would be warm when the family came down to breakfast. Then the rooms, hallways and stairs had to be dusted, and heaven help her if the mistress’s eagle eye spotted a speck of dust anywhere.

  When she was finished, it was down to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for Mrs Beecham and Rose. If the cook was in a good mood, Bridie would be invited to sit at the large wooden table and have a drink of tea and a slice of toast. But if the heavily built woman hadn’t slept well, then Bridie would be told to start preparing the potatoes and vegetables, and it would be ten o’clock before a drink or bite of food passed her lips.

  It wasn’t that Mrs Beecham was an unkind woman, Bridie told Molly, but she was a hard task master and never let anyone forget their place. At eight o’clock the kitchen would become a hive of activity as the bells on the wall started to ring. Mrs Beecham would glance at the line of bells, then hand a tray to the waiting Rose. ‘That’s the master bedroom, take this up quickly.’

  A man was also employed by the family, but he didn’t sleep in. His name was Mr Edmonds and he helped around the house when he wasn’t driving the master to work in his horse drawn carriage. He was a real snob was Mr Edmonds, thought himself a cut above everybody else. Bridie was glad she didn’t have much to do with him and kept out of his way as much as possible.

  Although the hours she worked were long and the work hard, Bridie wasn’t unhappy. She loved polishing the beautiful furniture, the likes of which she’d never seen before. The feel of the shining mahogany beneath her fingers was a pure delight, as were the rich drapes hanging at the windows. She didn’t envy the family their rich life-style, but she appreciated the beauty of their possessions.

  The master was a kindly man, more friendly and approachable than his wife, who was inclined to look down her nose at those she considered beneath her. But because she spent most of her time downstairs, Bridie wasn’t often at the wrong end of the mistress’s sharp tongue. And she loved the two children, Nigel who was ten, and Sophie, a happy eight year old.

  The best times for Bridie were when the mistress was entertaining. She would stand on a stool at the basement window and wait for the guests to arrive. She couldn’t see the road, but she could hear the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves as they pulled carriages along Princes Avenue and her heart would be pumping as the vehicles drew up outside the house. She only had seconds to take in the finery of the women with their fancy hair styles, the velvet bands around their foreheads, the furs and the feathers. These were the times she envied Rose her status as first parlour maid. Dressed in a long black dress, with a starched white frilly apron and lace headdress, Rose would open the door to the guests and relieve them of their coats. Then when she had a minute to spare, she would rush downstairs to babble excitedly about the beautiful clothes the women were wearing.

  But hearing about it second hand wasn’t good enough for Bridie. She wanted to see the fashions, the lovely colours and the jewellery for herself. So one night when the family were having a dinner party, she told Mrs Beecham she’d left a duster in the hall and asked if she could go and get it while the guests were in the dining room.

  ‘It wasn’t a lie,’ Bridie hastened to tell the enthralled Molly. ‘I had left a duster, but sure, hadn’t I done it deliberately?’

  Anyway, she had crept up the basement stairs and hidden behind the door at the top. It had been an uncomfortable, worrying fifteen minutes. Any second Bridie was expecting Mrs Beecham to come looking for her. But when the guests, all laughing and chattering, came out of the dining room and crossed the hall to the drawing room, the sights she saw were well worth being dragged downstairs by the ears for. Such finery she could never have imagined in her wildest dreams. The rich satins and silks in every colour of the rainbow, the feather boas, the perfumes, the long cigarette holders between the slim fingers of the elegant women . . . Bridie had never seen anything like it in her life and probably never would again.

  But as she’d crept down the stairs, back to the basement where she belonged, she told herself she’d not change places with any of them. ‘Sure, who’d want to wear a dress that had no top to it, was cut so low you could see the woman’s breasts? It wasn’t decent, so it wasn’t. And to see a woman smoking, sure what’s the world coming to?’

  The record finished but Bridie still sat with her eyes closed, and Molly knew her mother’s mind was back in the lush, green fields of her homeland. Impulsively, she got up and crossed to kiss Bridie’s cheek. ‘Tell yer what, Ma. When Doreen an’ Tommy start work, an’ we’ve got a few bob comin’ in, we’ll all go to Ireland for a holiday. What d’yer say to that, eh?’

  ‘Sure now, wouldn’t chance be a fine thing?’ A wistful smile crossed Bridie’s finely chiselled face. The one regret she had in life was that she only had the one child. She had given birth to two children after Molly, but both had been stillborn. And the doctor told her she would never have another. It had been a bitter blow to her and Bob, but as she said, it was God’s will, and He knew best.

  ‘I mean it!’ Molly said. ‘As soon as we’ve got enough money we’ll be on that flippin’ boat to Dublin, an’ yer can show us this beautiful place yer always talkin’ about.’

  ‘We’ll see, lass, we’ll see. If God wants me to go back, then go back we will.’ Bridie shook her head to rid herself of the memories. ‘Now, will yer not be telling us how me first grandchild got on today?’

  There wasn’t much to tell because Jill hadn’t had time to go into details, but Molly made the most of what she knew. After all, didn’t her parents’ life revolve around her and her family? ‘She’s goin’ to see about night classes on Wednesday, so I’ll let yez know how she gets on.’

  ‘Sure, education is a powerful thing,’ Bridie said. ‘And wouldn’t we all be better off if we’d had one?’

  ‘In our day, sweetheart, there was no such thing as education for the working class.’ Bob sipped on a cup of tea so strong you could stand the spoon up in it. ‘But times are changing, an’ one day the working man will stand up to be counted.’ He smiled that special smile he kept for the woman he adored. ‘Anyway, we’ve got all we want in life . . . we’ve got each other.’

  Molly saw the love shining in his eyes and vowed she’d break Jack’s neck when she got home. Why doesn’t he look at me like that? He’s got no romance in him, has that husband of mine, she thought.

  ‘Our Tommy got ’imself into trouble today,’ she said, her head nodding. ‘Mind you, that’s nothin’ new, he’s never out of trouble. But I’ve got to say he outshone ’imself today. First he came ’ome from school with the backside out of his kecks. Sliding down the railway embankment he said, bold as brass, as though new kecks were ten a penny. I was flamin’, I can tell yez. I made ’im go up to his bedroom as a punishment, an’ said he ’ad to stay in for the rest of the day. But he made such a commotion upstairs, it was me bein’ punished, not him. In the end, to get a bit of peace I said he could go out to play as long as he stayed in the street.’ Molly looked from one intent face to the other. ‘Guess what ’appened then?’

  Bob was trying to keep a straight face. Hadn’t he been the same at Tommy’s age? Always in trouble, in school and out. ‘Got into a fight, did he?’

  ‘Our Tommy neve
r gets into a fight, Pa, he’s never out of one! No, nothin’ as tame as that. He put a ball through next door’s window.’

  Bridie gasped. ‘Glory be to God, he never did!’

  ‘Well,’ Molly said, ‘to be fair to ’im, he didn’t actually kick the ball, that was Ginger Moran. But Tommy was playin’ with him so he’s as much to blame. An’ yez know what a temper Nobby Clarke’s got. He flew into a rage an’ wouldn’t listen. Honest to God, I thought he was goin’ to kill our Tommy. If Nellie McDonough hadn’t been there I think he would ’ave, ’cos I couldn’t ’ave stopped ’im on me own. But we both set on ’im an’ he had to let our Tommy go. Between the two of us, he ended up on the ground.’

  Bridie looked shocked. ‘May the saints preserve us! Molly, ’tis a terrible sight to see a woman fightin’ in the street like a common fish wife. ’Tis ashamed of yerself yer should be.’

  ‘Ma, with Jack not bein’ there I ’ad to do something, otherwise he’d ’ave throttled our Tommy! I’ll give ’im a hiding meself for bein’ naughty, but I’ll not ’ave anyone else lay a finger on ’im.’

  Bob was biting on the inside of his mouth to stop himself from laughing as he imagined the scene. Nellie McDonough was a big woman, and his daughter could handle herself, too! It would take a brave man to cross the pair of them. ‘He wouldn’t like it, two women getting the better of ’im. I bet he was as mad as hell.’

  Molly could see the humour in her da’s eyes, and winked. ‘The neighbours all enjoyed it. Passed an hour away for them.’

  Bridie put a hand to her mouth, a look of horror on her face. ‘You mean all the neighbours were out? Oh, what is the world coming to? I never thought I’d live to see the day when a daughter of mine would be brawling in the street like a navvy.’

  Molly burst out laughing. ‘Ma, if yer could only see yer face, it’s a picture no artist could paint.’