‘Get ye away here now, quick, missus, O!’ shouted Peggy at the wall, when she finished banging, and was reassured to hear her neighbour’s back door slam shut in acknowledgment, as Annie rushed down her path to join them. But not before she had used her own mop to bang on the kitchen wall to alert Sheila, who in turn used hers.
In the absence of telephones, it was an efficient system. Within five minutes, six women were sitting round Peggy’s wooden kitchen table, in front of the range where a tiny fire burnt, just enough to boil the kettle slowly.
Peggy had nine children. Every penny and every lump of coal was counted. She was as sharp as a box of knives and God help the coalman if he tried to short-change her weekly hundredweight of coal. If she caught him in time, she made him wait whilst she inspected the sack to see if it was full to the top. A short-weight sack was a day’s warmth and, in winter, that mattered. Between her nine children there were five pairs of shoes. Whoever’s turn it was for the shoes would play outside, or go to school that day.
Peggy and Paddy lived an entirely different life from that of Bernadette and Jerry. Bernadette, who bought the occasional new dress, but never without giving away to someone else something she already had, had been the glamour in their lives. No one had ever seen Bernadette outdoors with her curlers in. Today wasn’t just a day to gossip about Alice, it was a day to talk about their Bernadette too.
Sheila, who was only twenty and as yet had just two children, walked through the door with a shovel of coal in one hand, a baby in the other arm resting on her hip, and a two-year-old holding onto the end of her long apron trotting along behind her. Before she sat at the table, she threw the heaped shovel of coal on Peggy’s fire and no one questioned it or batted an eyelid. She wanted to stay and hear every word of the gossip rather than be driven out by the cold and, besides, they would need the range.
‘A lot of tea will be drunk this afternoon, so it will,’ Sheila announced, as she closed the range doors to let her shovelful of coal catch.
This morning was one of those days when something had happened to lift the daily monotony and the relentless grind to pay the rent and feed a family. It required a sense of occasion and urgency. The air in the kitchen as they all settled down was tight with expectancy. Everyone needed to concentrate on Maura’s every word, each being too important to miss.
Whilst Maura had been at the register office, Annie had made oat biscuits, with syrup that had found its way from a ship into Annie’s kitchen en route to the Lyons factory. Peggy and Annie had given all the children a delicious, chewy biscuit and sent them into the front room, or out to play. This morning wasn’t about changing nappies, scrubbing floors, washing nets or making bread. The tea and biscuits around the table powwow were as important to the women on the streets as a meeting of world leaders was to global security.
Maura sat and waited for everyone to settle down, for the tea to be poured and babies calmed, before she commenced. This was her moment. She was queen of the news – and what news she had to impart! She began with the gloves and ploughed on straight through the oohs and aahs to the ceremony itself.
‘It will all end in tears, such as every ungodly marriage does, so it will,’ said Peggy with absolute authority.
This seemed to be the general opinion when discussing Jerry and Alice on any day, not just their wedding day, and no one present had talked about much else since Alice had arrived on the street. It was true that no one could find anyone who had taken to Alice, or had a word to say in her defence. She gave people good reason to distrust and dislike her.
‘That Alice, she’s no better than she thinks she is,’ said Peggy.
Everyone looked at her for a moment trying to fathom what it was she meant and then, giving up, moved on.
‘Alice is a Protestant; she has probably been in the Orange Lodge. What in God’s name was Jerry thinking of, marrying such a woman and bringing her amongst us?’ said Sheila, if for no other reason than to make her own contribution.
As different from every one of her neighbours as it was possible to be on a practical level, Alice just wasn’t the same as any other woman; she was slightly unusual, odd even. Alice would never belong. That much had been decided from almost the first time the women on the street had been aware of her existence. Each one round the table knew exactly what Alice was up to. They had all seen right through the game of the plain spinster preying on a grieving man.
‘God help me, it was so hard,’ said Maura, putting one hand onto her left breast and the other to her brow for effect. ‘I had to get meself half piddled in the Grapes with a couple of rum toddies, which went straight into me blood, so it did.’
All the women gasped. Not one of them had ever before drunk a rum toddy during the day, let alone in the morning.
‘It hasn’t even been two years since our own Bernadette was sitting round this very table with us, before she was taken,’ said Maura.
They all looked to the floor and crossed themselves simultaneously, muttering a chorus of, ‘God rest her soul,’ and then for a moment lost themselves in their own thoughts of remembrance. Bernadette, who had made them all laugh within seconds of walking in the room. Who never arrived without a plate of food she had made, for them and any little ones around. Bernadette, who had amazed them all with her ability to control her own reproductive organs, whilst unable to control her wild red hair. She had become pregnant only when she decided it was time to, thereby keeping her richer and more beautiful, and, sure, who would have denied her that?
Her soul had been as beautiful as she was. Bernadette, who if the women in the streets had their way would by now be canonized. Even if Bernadette had been a demon, she would have seemed a saint compared with Alice.
The gossip continued for well over two hours and the women savoured every minute. Grand events like this didn’t happen every day and this one would be relished for a long time to come.
When Jerry and Alice walked into their kitchen for the first time as a married couple, Alice announced that she would like her own furniture to be moved out of storage at the hotel and into the house.
‘It’s the very best quality and I’ve cared for it well. It will improve the place no end,’ she said to Jerry, walking over to the range to put the kettle on.
Jerry was taken aback. The house was how Bernadette had wanted it to be. She had lovingly invested herself in every little detail. He wanted to keep it that way. The realization swept over him afresh: marrying Alice was going to be about more than he had bargained for.
‘That’s fine,’ he replied, with a smile he didn’t feel. ‘I’ll borrow the coal wagon from Declan, after he’s finished his drop-offs on Wednesday, and get yer man Tommy to help me.’
Alice looked at Jerry without a hint of softness. ‘I want better than a coal wagon for my belongings, Jerry. I want a proper van.’
Jerry decided it was time to tell Alice a few home truths about how much he earned and how much life cost. She had been protected by having full board in her hotel accommodation and free food, and probably felt more secure than she should do with the small nest egg she had saved. She had left the Grand only yesterday and now wouldn’t be returning except for her belongings, so it was time to talk facts.
The row about the housekeeping budget began when they had been married for less than four hours, and the row about Jerry having no intention of ever leaving the four streets or the docks to emigrate to America began after five.
In his effort to put right a night of shame, haste had taken over from common sense and he had never considered the practical issues of their living together. He had just assumed that life would become easier, with a housewife at home. Alice had been very keen to leave the hotel as soon as possible. And here they were, on their wedding day, arguing. The contrast between Jerry’s two weddings could not have been greater.
The row about Nellie was the third and last on their wedding day. Nellie had blossomed over the last two years, her days spent in the midst of the hul
labaloo at the Doherty house, her evenings and weekends basking in the one-to-one devotion of her father. Her hair was short, strawberry blonde and curly, but was already showing signs of darkening and taking on her mother’s wild untameable redness. She was described by everyone as a little cherub, because that was just how she looked, like a tiny angel, and she brought out the protective instinct in everyone who met her. Nellie had never carried her father’s sadness. She had never known a mother’s love, other than the next best thing, which had come from Maura. But Jerry had done more than his utmost to compensate. It was the next to best life for an only child, but all that was about to change.
As Alice was preparing their supper, she announced that she would like to eat at separate times from Nellie.
‘I also think it would be a good idea, Jerry, if just the two of us eat at my table. You could get something for Nellie to sit at. Maybe turn one of the tea chests in the backyard upside down and put an oilcloth on it?’
Alice had completely misjudged Jerry. Like a lion, he roared, ‘We will not, she eats with us, so she does, she’s not a dog being sent to eat in a kennel!’
Nellie, who at two years old joined in the rough and tumble at the Doherty house and had been brought home by a very grown-up, seven-year-old Kitty, knew full well that this argument was about her. Putting her thumb straight in her mouth, she began to cry. All was not good. Everything was different and she had no idea why. Alice was here again but this wasn’t the normal routine; she was usually gone by now, much to Nellie’s relief. Nellie knew Alice didn’t like her, but she didn’t have the words she needed to communicate this to Jerry.
The row about her raged over Nellie’s head. She had never seen her da angry before, but she wasn’t frightened when he scooped her up into his arms and held her tight, as he gave out to Alice. Nellie didn’t know why, but she understood enough to know that her da was fighting her corner. She put her arm around his neck and placed her head on his shoulder. Her fingers twiddled the hair at the nape of his neck round and round between her fingers, as the shouting continued.
She looked at the statue of the Virgin Mary on the mantel-shelf above the fire, which, now that she was in her da’s arms, was directly at her eye level. Nellie had often stared at the statue. When she was laid in her crib in the kitchen as a baby. As a toddler sitting in her wooden playpen, and often when she was in her da’s arms, as he sang her to sleep. Now Nellie stared intently at the statue and was rewarded as, through the tears swimming in her eyes, it smiled. Nellie grinned back and hugged her da tighter. It had happened so many times before.
That night, Jerry and Alice lay next to each other in a hostile silence. Alice lay, waiting to be assaulted, but hoping the row had been enough to deter Jerry from lovemaking. They hadn’t had sex since the night she had lost her virginity and although doing the deed had got her here, where she wanted to be, it was not something she relished doing again.
Jerry, lying on his back looking at the ceiling, decided that they couldn’t go on like this. He had to do something. It was time to perform his wedding-night duty and get it over with. They had to put behind them an awful day. This time he kissed Alice. He had kissed her a number of times since the night they had crossed the line and it had never been unpleasant. Kissing Alice didn’t stir him in the way kissing Bernadette had, but, as the sailors said, any port in a storm. Maybe having regular sex would make him feel happier in himself.
This time he tried to be as gentle as he had once been rough, he really tried. He tried to make it responsive and special. Alice didn’t. It was over in five minutes. When he said goodnight, Alice didn’t respond. She hadn’t made a sound or moved a muscle from beginning to end. Five minutes later, as he began to drift into sleep, he heard the latch of the bedroom door lift as Alice left the room.
Jerry lifted himself up onto one elbow and lit a cigarette. He looked out through the bedroom window at the stars illuminating the inky-black sky. There was a full moon and he could hear a tug out on the river and a tomcat fighting in the street, screeching like a baby. As he blew out smoke, he lay back on his pillow and felt lonelier than he had ever done in his life. His eyes filled with tears brought on by the familiar pain of loss, enhanced tonight by guilt and shame, as he gazed up at the sky and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, angel, I’m so sorry.’
Chapter Seven
Maura knew it would be just a matter of time before Father James called round to the house to ascertain for himself the details of the wedding. He wouldn’t want to hear it in bite-sized chunks, from women who he knew were exaggerating their own sense of importance in the situation and embellishing their second-hand knowledge. At the six o’clock mass, some of the women had tried to engage him in gossip and ask him what he thought.
‘I have no opinion now,’ he replied sternly, brusquely dismissing the invitation to gossip, ‘until I hear it from the horse’s mouth meself.’
‘Well, they are legally married in the law, so they are, Father, and that’s a fact,’ said Peggy indignantly, affronted at being put down so abruptly in front of the other women. Peggy was never quite as deferential to the priests as the other inhabitants on the streets.
Father James shook his head in disbelief and boomed, ‘The only marriage that matters, Peggy, is a marriage made before the eyes of God.’
He was as keen as the women to know what had happened. He also knew the best place to find out was to get himself to number nineteen as quickly as possible and inveigle Maura into giving him the unfiltered version.
Maura had missed the six o’clock mass and was in the process of wiping the dust from her windowsills for the second time that day. Cleanliness was next to godliness. She felt guilty at having attended a Protestant wedding and missing mass. She knew that Father James wouldn’t be able to keep away and that she would see him walking through her back door at any minute, now that evening prayers were over.
The Father often liked to visit Maura’s house, which annoyed Tommy.
‘Jaysus, Maura, we get more visits from the Father than the whorehouse gets from a sailor,’ he liked to complain. ‘Everyone will be thinking we are the biggest sinners in Liverpool.’
‘Go wash yer mouth, ye heathen, ye,’ she would shout, as she flicked him with a rolled-up tea towel.
Tommy had learnt from bitter experience not to say a word against Father James. The tea towel hurt. As he walked out of the house, sulking, he shouted over his shoulder, ‘I’m away to the outhouse for a shite. Maybe ye can leave me be in peace in there, eh?’
Tommy didn’t get it. He didn’t understand the prestige or the feeling of self-worth and status that being popular with the priest gave Maura. She liked the fact that the others saw him tripping in and out of her back door; it made them jealous, so she thought. Maura wouldn’t have a word said against Father James. It was her dream that one day Harry would become a priest or Kitty enter the convent.
Father James was a disciplinarian who brooked no dissent from his flock. Jerry’s marriage in a register office to a Protestant had been undertaken in defiance of the Church and God. The Father had a sinner in the midst of his flock and he wasn’t happy. It was the first step on a road that could lead a community into ruin and it had to be stopped in its tracks.
Sure enough, an hour later, as Maura was washing the dishes, after what felt like the feeding of the five thousand in her kitchen, she heard the click of the gate latch and through the window saw Father James’s hat, darker than the night sky, loom towards her up the back path.
‘Come along in, Father,’ said Maura, ‘and have some tea. Tommy,’ she shouted upstairs, ‘Father James is here.’
As he took off his cape and placed it over the back of the kitchen chair, Maura noted that, yet again, the Father’s cassock was dirty with what looked like soup stains down his front and he never looked as though he had managed to shave as well as he should have, with clumps of whiskers around his mouth clinging onto the remnants of food he had eaten that day. He always left on his os
tentatious hat. Father James thought it gave him an air of authority, especially with the children.
Tommy was tucking in Harry, who hadn’t been sleeping so well. His asthma had been worse than usual that evening, as it always was when there was an unloading of stone on the Herculaneum dock.
‘Night, night, little fella,’ said Tommy, as Harry finally closed his eyes and Tommy could creep down the stairs.
‘Jaysus, Maura, it took me half an hour to get him off, what are ye doing shouting like the foghorn up the stairs?’ said Tommy, as he entered the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Maura gave him a look that told Tommy to shut up quickly, just as he saw Father James out of the corner of his eye, standing by the back door.
‘Oh hello, Father, how are ye, ’tis a pleasure as always, are ye staying for a cuppa tea?’ Despite the resentment Tommy felt at once again finding the priest in his kitchen, no one observing would have guessed that Father James wasn’t Tommy’s favourite person.
Everyone had to be courteous and grateful to the Fathers. They were the community pillars of truth, morality and discipline. When times were desperate, they provided food from the sisters, or sometimes clothes from a big house in town. Almost every family in the street had, at one time or another, found itself knocking on the Priory door on a dark and cold winter’s night, looking for help in the form of food or coal. The Fathers and their housekeeper were the last port in a sea of poverty. Their authority came from God, not the City Corporation offices or the government. They were the mortal representatives of God’s voice on earth and no other office could match that.
‘I am indeed, Tommy; I have come by, though, to hear about how the sinful service that calls itself a wedding went today and which you yourself and Maura took part in.’
Maura wasn’t expecting that and looked quite crestfallen.
Tommy left Maura and Father James to it as they took a tray of tea and fruit loaf into the front room. He made his excuses and sat at the kitchen table to do his pools and read the Liverpool Echo. He lit his Capstan Full Strength ciggie, put on the radio, stoked the fire and poured his own tea. He grinned as he cut himself a slice of fruit loaf; Maura had made it that morning by soaking overnight in cold sweet tea a large pocketful of sultanas that had been Tommy’s share from a chest that had split the day before. Tommy often joked that he could fit a small baby into one of his jacket pockets, but promised he never would.
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