by Sheila Riley
Bruce whispered something she couldn’t quite hear as she inhaled the fragrance of his expensive cologne. Where she came from, men smelled of toil and carbolic soap and she was fully aware that all eyes were on both of them.
Pulling away slightly, she saw Bruce looking mildly surprised, until she gave him a dazzling smile and pointed to her ear, shaking her head. He nodded, realising she had not heard him, and leaned closer.
Turning her head to listen, Grace caught sight of Clifford stroking the face of another young dancer whose hungry expression proved to Grace he went for easy targets. Under normal circumstances, she would warn the dancer what Clifford was really like, although she doubted the young starlet would listen, knowing she would not have listened either.
Watching how smoothly he ingratiated himself was like seeing her past playing out before her eyes. The showgirl, so naïve, so gullible, was the kind of girl she had once been. She looked away, silently thanking her lucky stars she found out what a deceitful, two-timing fake Clifford Brack truly was, before she married him.
The wedding! A thought suddenly struck her as Bruce guided Grace round the dance floor. She would have to write to her mother and tell her she didn’t need to buy that new hat after all.
‘You look fabulous,’ Bruce D’Angelo, totally charming, crooned into her hair, interrupting her thoughts as he moved with the ease of a professional dancer.
‘Thank you.’ She felt as if she had known him for much longer than the hour they had spent together, and when the upbeat samba rhythm struck up, Grace felt her hips snake into a life of their own.
‘You can certainly move, Grace,’ Bruce whispered as they danced so naturally together. She did not give a second thought to the fact that she was dancing in the arms of the most important man on board. Nor that this, the heady stuff of her dreams, was the lifestyle she had once strived for. ‘I want to kiss you, right here on the dance floor.’ Bruce said when the music stopped.
Grace gave him a look of mock surprise and said in the voice of a southern belle, ‘Why, sir, we have only just met!’
They were still laughing when he steered her past Clifford and his cohorts, off the dance floor to a table on deck, where it was a little cooler.
Grace didn’t have a care in the world, smitten by the magnetic pull of Bruce D’Angelo, whose dark Mediterranean looks would always be a draw, even if he weren’t heir to one of the world’s finest shipping lines. A purser brought more champagne in a silver ice bucket to refill their glasses.
‘So, tell me everything about you,’ Bruce said as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘You first,’ Grace replied, knowing she could not possibly tell him about the muddle of characters that made up her family. Although, when he told her that he lost his mother in a car accident when he was seven years old and was sent to boarding school, she wondered what it must be like not to have a loving family to call on when the need arose.
‘Dad and I don’t see eye to eye on much,’ Bruce explained. ‘He loves the cut and thrust of the business world, whereas I prefer to be quiet and read a book.’ He gave an endearing half-laugh, ‘You’re never lonely with a book to read.’
‘Tell me about your mother,’ Grace said and immediately his dark eyes softened.
‘She was the most beautiful woman in the world.’ He gently touched her hand and Grace, feeling moved by the simple gesture, gave him a reassuring smile. ‘My world is a poorer place without her in it.’
Grace spotted the deep sadness in his eyes and wondered what it must be like for such a young boy to lose his most precious treasure. The woman who had given him life and nurtured him for his first seven years.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said brightening, ‘you must think me a bore…’
‘Not at all!’ Grace insisted, she loved listening to him talk.
‘That’s the first time I’ve ever spoken about Mom,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to share my precious memories of her with anybody, in case talking would somehow dilute my remembrance of her, but since talking to you, Grace, I feel… stronger.’
‘I’m glad it helped,’ Grace said.
When he urged her to tell him about her home life, she gave him the well-rehearsed tale of a middle-class girl from one of the better-off districts of Liverpool and she was thrilled when he wanted to hear more about her family.
‘Well, our Danny was a sergeant in the army before he went to work for our uncle, who has his own haulage business.’ Grace had no intentions of telling Bruce that Uncle Henry was a carter, who plied his trade along the dock road of Liverpool. ‘Then there’s our Bobby, who is still in education.’ Nor was she going to tell him the little bugger spent as many days sagging school as he did in it. Bobby tried every trick in the book to get a day off school. ‘Da… My father was severely injured when smugglers broke into his warehouse.’ Not the truth her father was a night-watchman on the docks.
‘How severely injured?’ Bruce gripped her hand across the table.
‘Very,’ she said, keeping the news that her dad had lost his toes in the Somme to herself. ‘He has not been able to work since, and is barely able to walk far, needing someone to help him.’ Especially when he’s kale-eyed coming out of the Tram Tavern. She hoped her downcast eyes hid her daughterly disparagement. The old bugger had never done a proper day’s work in his life, and if it hadn’t been for her sainted mother, they would have starved many a day.
‘And your mom?’ Bruce asked, urging her to continue.
What could she say about Mam?
‘She does a lot of work for the church.’ Washing the alter cloths and vestments. ‘And she is involved in many local charities.’ Feeding the pockets of local spivs, or donating to Da’s daily contribution to bookies runners were as close to charity as her ma was ever going to get.
‘Your family sound delightful,’ Bruce said, and Grace lowered her head. She had embellished her clan’s credentials to the point of sainthood, embroidering a family who were too perfect to be true, instead of the bewildering muddle who got by as best they could.
‘I’m just a girl from Liverpool who happens to be able to sing.’ She had never told anybody where she truly came from, not even Clifford. He found out for himself from the ship’s records.
‘You are not just anything,’ Bruce said, ‘you are talented, unique and absolutely gorgeous.’
‘Stop it,’ Grace laughed, and said, ‘I’ll never get my head through the door with all these compliments.’ She was thrilled, especially when he roared with laughter so loud it cut off the conversation of people nearby.
‘You are a breath of fresh air,’ he said. ‘Everybody is so careful what they say around me, they forget to be themselves.’
‘I only know how to be me,’ she replied. She hadn’t told lies; she had embroidered the truth. There was a difference. A Mersey girl, she knew how to look after herself from an early age, had learned how to answer a question with a question so as not to give away useful information.
Something Clifford Brack hadn’t reckoned on when she reminded him that fraternising between staff was robustly discouraged and threatened to let it be known he flouted company rules for his own benefit. Seeing her in close conversation with Bruce, she suspected Clifford got the message loud and clear. They were over. Done with.
‘What a charming necklace,’ Bruce said, looking at the rope of pink diamonds that matched the engagement ring she didn’t wear any more but kept locked away in her jewellery box in her cabin.
‘Paste, I’m afraid.’ Her words carried to Clifford, who was coming on deck from the ballroom and fixed her with a piercing glare. ‘Cheap costume jewellery.’
‘Oh, honey, I do adore your candour.’ Bruce reached for her hand, wiping Clifford from her thoughts. He lowered his voice, so only she could hear. ‘I can see we are going to have a wonderful time.’
However, their intimate moment was interrupted when Clifford approached the table, his assured demeanour in complete contrast to h
is glowering expression only moments before. His male ego obviously dented. His masculinity challenged by a man who outranked him in stature, respect and was an absolute gentleman.
‘I came over to say goodnight. Mr D’Angelo, I trust you have had a wonderful evening?’
‘The entertainment was a resounding success, Clifford. Congratulations.’
Clifford shook his boss’s hand, ignoring Grace. It was as if she wasn’t even there. Invisible. Of no consequence whatsoever. And that was just the way she liked it.
2
April 1950
‘You bloody lunatic, you nearly ran me over!’ Evie Kilgaren was holding her foot when Danny Harris’s truck screeched to a halt and he jumped out of his cab straight into a puddle of April rain that splashed her beautiful face and coat. A spring deluge had drenched the busy Liverpool street, causing puddles in the cobbles, but did not deter well-dressed clerks in their bowler hats to hurry from their place of work and rush to Evie’s aid.
‘I’ll see to her,’ Danny said, a defensive rush flooding his body as he pushed his way through the crowd of onlookers. His heart was racing. If he had done her some serious damage, he would never forgive himself. ‘…I did a left turn, swung round the corner… You stepped off the kerb, then bam! You were flying through the air like a paper bag in a gale-force wind.’ Every detail of that awful moment filled his head. Evie looked up at him and that flash of fury turned her beautiful eyes a mesmerising shade of blue that sent his pulse racing. ‘Evie, I am so sorry.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, you bloody road hog!’ Evie answered, sitting in the midst of the clerical group rubbing her ankle. Amid the questions and enquiries, she began to feel a bit sorry for Danny. He was as white as a sheet and obviously believed it was his fault. But it wasn’t, she was the one who had not been paying attention while waiting to cross the road.
‘Here, let me get you up out of that puddle.’ Danny stooped down but decided against pushing his luck when he caught sight of the murderous look in her eyes and knew the idea wasn’t one of his best. Evie, like a feral cat, was feisty when cornered. ‘I am so sorry, one minute you were on the kerb and the next…’ Danny sitting on the heel of his army-issue boots tried to reassure her as some of the murmuring onlookers began to disperse, realising she was not an ambulance case.
‘…I was flying through the air like a paper bag. Yes, you said.’
Danny suppressed another apology, he had always had a soft spot for Evie, who lived at the top end of Reckoner’s Row next to the Tram Tavern. She had been the backbone of her little family all her life, not just since her ma was killed and her da arrested for murder.
She had to be mother and father to her seventeen-year-old brother Jack, who worked in the hauliers’ yard, and her thirteen-year-old sister, Lucy, who was also a friend of his younger brother Bobby. Danny had never met a more courageous girl in his life.
‘Let me help you up, are you hurt?’ Danny held out two big, strong, work-hardened hands and pulled her out of a puddle that had collected in the dip of the road. Looking over the heads of gathered bystanders, he spied a policeman getting off his bicycle and advancing like an avenging angel in his black waterproof cape and domed helmet, galvanising the diehard stragglers who had stayed to see the event until the end.
‘He ran her over, I saw everythin’!’ A drayman, in a blended mixture of Irish, Welsh and catarrh offered his opinion and Danny gave a low groan.
‘No, she stepped off the kerb and tripped, I saw it, plain as day,’ said a woman in a waterproof pixie hood and Danny opened his mouth to protest.
‘Came round dat corner like a whirling dervish, Missus…’ said the carter while office workers edged closer, and Danny’s dreams of owning his own haulage yard began to dissolve, knowing he could lose the heavy-goods licence he got as a soldier in the army.
‘Are you sure you can walk?’ Danny asked Evie. ‘If I lose my licence, Henry will sack me.’
‘I doubt it, your uncle owns the business, but it’s good to know you’re not just thinking of yourself.’ Burning with mortification and hobbling on one foot, Evie knew the only thing that was truly hurting was her pride. She could think of nothing worse than being the centre of attention, her mortification made worse by a gaggle of opinionated nosy pokes.
Wobbling on her one good leg, Evie gained her balance when Danny’s strong hand tentatively circled her waist. He now recognised her piercing glare as embarrassment rather than anger, knowing from experience how feisty she was, which wasn’t surprising – given the life she had led, and the misfortune she had faced, she had to be. But she had a good heart and would help anybody out.
‘You need to go to hospital,’ Danny said, worried she had done some damage to that ankle, which was turning a worrying shade of purple. ‘You might have damaged something.’
‘I have,’ Evie answered, stooping to retrieve her squashed handbag, which had cushioned her fall. Although she suspected the bag had not been strong enough to prevent a huge bruise forming on her backside, if the pain was anything to go by. ‘I have to get home.’
Mister Walton, the stoic office manager had asked her to stay behind to do a bit of overtime on the monthly accounts for the D’Angelo Shipping Line and Evie could not pass up the chance to earn a few bob more, determined to keep the hunger of bygone days at bay, and also to be seen as a keen and competent employee, but now she was going to be late home.
‘What’s happened here, then?’ asked the police constable who parted the crowd of Onlookers milling around who freely gave their own contradictory versions of what they thought they saw; while Evie wished she could shrivel up and blow away on a gust you could lean into blasting off the River Mersey.
‘I’ll never be able to show my face round here again,’ Evie said to nobody in particular.
‘You’ve got to,’ Danny grinned, ‘you work in that office over there.’ He pointed up to the arched first-floor window overlooking one of Liverpool’s oldest streets.
‘Not for much longer after this mortification.’ Evie would have liked to storm off, but as she could hardly put her weight on her bruised ankle there was no point in trying.
‘I think you should see a doctor.’ Danny’s voice was full of concern.
‘Think what you like, but I’m not going, I’m late enough as it is.’
‘Then you’ve got to let me take you home.’ Danny’s eyes were full of concern and Evie felt a bit sorry for him. He’d had a shock too. It wasn’t every day you almost ran your neighbour down with a ten-tonne flat-back wagon.
‘Do you make a habit of rescuing a girl from…’ The gutter? She only just stopped herself from mentioning her other humiliation. Bloody hell. Not again. Evie cringed when she recalled that day, three years ago, when Leo Darnel attacked her in the street and Danny came to her aid. ‘I’m fine.’ She slumped at the enormity of what could have happened.
‘Are you sure about that, Miss?’ The constable asked and Evie nodded.
‘You are not fine, and I’d like to help’. Danny was so relieved his wagon hadn’t touched her. Realising what could have happened in that split second when he turned the corner, heading straight for her, he had never stopped the wagon so fast in all the time he had been driving.
‘I think my ankle gave way as I stepped off the kerb,’ Evie said to the black-caped bobby, explaining the moment that sent her tumbling. ‘It wasn’t Danny’s fault, he’s an exceptionally good driver… His wagon didn’t touch me.’
The constable accepted her explanation and dispersed the crowd when he saw she was up and talking.
‘Are you sure you don’t need an ambulance?’ Danny sounded repentant. ‘Or maybe it’d be quicker if I carry you over to Saint Paul’s Hospital.’
‘That’s the eye hospital, you twit,’ Evie said impatiently, ‘there’s nothing wrong with my eyes, although you might want to get yours checked out.’ That wasn’t a fair thing to say, she knew. It wasn’t his fault. If he hadn’t been such a skilled driver, ther
e could have been a very nasty accident on the busy road.
‘I could put you in the truck and have you round to the Royal Infirmary in no time.’
‘You will not take me to the Infirmary, Danny Harris,’ Evie said stiffly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me… I tripped… I’m freezing, and my drawers are soaking wet.’ He didn’t need to know that, she thought. And rolling her eyes, she noticed her laddered stockings. ‘Oh they’re ruined beyond repair, and I’ve only had them six months.’
‘But you tripped ever so gracefully, so there is a silver lining,’ Danny told her, taking hold of her cold hands and giving them a good rub as the April breeze eddying off the River Mersey was fiercely nippy. ‘I imagined all kinds of horrors, losing my licence, my job…’
‘Don’t mind me, like!’ Evie’s biting remark was softened by the ghost of a smile as she pictured herself flying through the air and had to bite her lips together to stop herself from laughing. ‘And you can take that smug look off your face. I’m not going to be the cause of you losing your job.’
‘You’re a good sort, Evie.’ Danny knew she’d been through more than most. Her father strangling her mother and dumping her body in the canal during the ‘big freeze’, three years ago was just one of the things that made Evie one of life’s fighters. She had come through the ordeal much better than some people would. Caring for her brother and sister while studying for her bookkeeping examinations and getting a good job… And, she was lovely to look at.
‘C’mon, I’ll take you home, it’s the least I can do.’
‘You owe me a pair of silks, don’t forget,’ Evie said, looking down at her tattered stockings and giving Danny’s hand a sharp slap when he dusted down her coat.
‘Sorry!’ he apologised when Evie gave him a look that said, no trespassing. Turning to a straggler who was determined to see the rumpus to the end, Danny waved and said, ‘Nothing to see here, the show’s over.’
