It was after six the following evening before the crew members were all discharged, wages and discharge books in their pockets. While this was the last pay they would receive until they found new employment, most of them were eager to get inside an English pub and drink some English ale, before beginning their search tomorrow for ships needing crew.
Will, having no family to concern him, enough cash in his pocket to see him through several weeks – months maybe, if he was careful – thought he might wait around in Liverpool for the Christina to sail again. But before disembarking, the master had told him that the ship was likely to be in dry dock for a few months. Repairs that had been planned anyway were now more extensive after the battering the ship had taken in the Biscay storm.
‘Use the time wisely, Kidd. Get some more experience under your belt. You ought to be studying for your Mate’s certificate.’ He took a pen from his pocket and wrote something on a piece of paper which he folded and handed to Will. ‘If you go along to the Coastal Line and ask for this man and tell him I sent you, you might get some work. It’s short runs between here and Dublin, but it will help towards getting your ticket and keep you out of trouble. Then, when the Christina’s done, come and find me. You never know, I might just be looking for a new bosun.’
‘Thanks, sir.’ Will stuffed the paper into the pocket of his donkey jacket, but thought it unlikely he’d do as Palmer suggested. Chugging back and forth across the Irish Sea didn’t sound like the kind of job he’d come to sea for. If the Christina was out of the picture for a while, then maybe he’d try for another tramp ship heading south.
The extensive dock area of Liverpool offered up a plentiful supply of public houses. Paolo and Will chose one at random and headed inside. The Old Brown Jug was packed with dockers and sailors, most of the latter with only a few hours in port, all keen to make the most of the beer and the chance for some relaxation.
The two seamen pushed their way to the bar, bought a couple of pints and headed for a table in the corner, away from the noise of the crowd. Most of the men in the pub seemed to be discussing the previous day’s football results. The two local teams had enjoyed different fortunes with Liverpool winning 4:0 at home, while Everton lost away to Preston North End. Will had been to a couple of games in the past when in port and, impressed by the prowess of Dixie Dean, had decided he’d cheer for the Toffees. He gathered Dean had now moved on and the team was missing his magical goalscoring.
Paolo pulled a face. ‘How I wish I were in Napoli. My father used to take me to watch the calcio when I was a bambino. Now I am stuck here with your dirty English weather, dirty football game and I will never get used to your horrible English beer.’
‘It’s not mine, mate. I keep telling you, we Aussies hate warm, flat beer as much as the next man.’
Someone had left a newspaper on the table and Will drew it towards him and glanced casually at the headlines, then picked it up and started to read. ‘Strewth! Hitler’s gone and invaded Austria. Rafqa said she reckons there’ll be a war in Europe before long. Maybe she’s right.’
‘I don’t like it. Very bad.’ Paolo started to read over his shoulder. ‘Mussolini is troppo friendly with the Germans and I don’t want to think what will happen if there is a war.’
‘We could end up on opposite sides.’ Will tried to make it sound like a joke but Paolo was frowning.
‘I have to find a way to get Loretta out of Italia. Or I must go back and join her. But her family will kill me if they find out we are still together. And if I go back I might be forced to join the Regia Marina, and you know what I think about the regular navy.’
‘If we do end up at war, and Italy backs the Germans, you could be in trouble here too. They might treat you as a foreign spy and lock you up.’ Will grinned at his friend, believing it was the most unlikely of prospects.
But Paolo’s face was serious. ‘Then we must pray to the Madonna it will not come to that. Maybe this Hitler is playing a game. Showing his strength. But he won’t go further. Will he?’
Shrugging, Will said, ‘You know more about it than I do. I pay no attention to what’s going on in the world. Well up to now, that is. Maybe I need to start reading the papers.’
He stood up, took the two empty glasses from the table and started to move towards the bar.
It happened so quickly that Will didn’t even register Cassidy’s presence until the bosun’s fist made contact with his chin. Thrown backwards by the blow, he stumbled, dropping the glasses which clattered and smashed. The crowd of men around the bar drew back, leaving a space around him and Cassidy.
Will’s jaw was ablaze with pain and he could feel the taste of blood from a cut lip.
‘You piece of shit, Kidd. You miserable son of a bitch. You’ve cost me a job with the White Star.’ He drew back his fist ready to strike another blow, when Tornabene stepped between them, arms outstretched.
Cassidy pushed Paolo aside as though he were inconsequential, knocking him into a table and sending more beer glasses flying. The bosun grabbed Will by the front of his jacket, pushing his face close to his. ‘You told the skipper I caused that towel-head’s death. You lying bastard.’ His teeth were bared so he looked like a wild dog. ‘I only got a “Satisfactory” rating in my discharge papers. How the hell am I going to get work with that?’
As the older man thrust back his arms to strike the next blow, Will got in first, landing a punch in the solar plexus and winding the bosun. ‘That man would still be alive if you hadn’t ordered him to go forward. You murdered him. And his name was Ashok.’
‘You know all about murder, you fucking bushie. You, with a father who was hanged for it. And a brother who tried to kill you. A family of bludgers and killers.’
Will lunged at him, rage and adrenaline coursing through his body. Before he could plant another blow, he felt his shoulders being jerked backwards as several men rushed forward and pushed the two of them apart. Two of them held Cassidy back, but such was the rage in him that he bit down on the arm of one his restrainers, broke free and before anyone realised what was happening, he’d drawn a knife and was lunging towards Will.
In that moment, Will was transported back to Wilton’s Creek, to his brother pulling a knife and thrusting it into him. Plunging it into his stomach and almost killing him. It wasn’t going to happen to him again. He wasn’t going to let a man like Cassidy get the better of him, cut him down, snuff him out, like poor Ashok. A new energy surged through Will. He wasn’t ready to die. He stepped sideways, quickly dodging the thrust and, sticking out his foot, caused Cassidy to trip over and fall. The knife skittered across the floor of the pub, its progress slowed by the sawdust.
As soon as the commotion had started, the barman must have reacted quickly, because two policemen came into the bar and made a beeline for the brawlers. Without waiting to ask questions, they clipped handcuffs on both Cassidy and Will, and grabbing them each by the collar, led them, protesting, out of the pub.
Paolo ran after them. ‘Why are you taking my friend? He do nothing wrong. It was that man.’ He pointed at Cassidy. ‘He had a knife. He started the fight.’
‘Unless you want to be arrested too, I’d run along, Eyetie.’
The policemen shoved Cassidy and Will into the back of a waiting ‘paddy wagon’ where Cassidy continued his tirade.
‘You fucking bushie bastard. You filthy piece of scum. You’ll pay for this. Ever since you came on board you’ve pissed me off with your arse-licking to the old man. The master never normally speaks to ratings. Who the bleeding hell do you think you are to get special treatment? I’d like to kill you, you piece of shit.’ Then his threats were drowned out by the wail of the siren as the van headed away on the short trip to the police station.
After being relieved of the contents of his pockets, Will was led away to a cell, grateful that he was at last separated from Jake Cassidy. The room was cold and empty, with only a stone bench built across one end and a bucket to use as a toilet. There wasn�
��t even a window. He sat hunched forward on the cold slab, then got up to pace around the confined space, movement being preferable to sitting shivering. He lost track of time but had no desire to sleep and, even if he had, it was unlikely he’d succeed on the hard bench without so much as a blanket.
As he prowled the narrow measure of the cell with small steps, he thought of his father. How had he coped during the weeks and months he was locked away? Will knew he’d go mad if he were held here for long. Perhaps his father had gone mad – maybe facing the executioner had been preferable to more time in prison waiting for an appeal. Even if his sentence had been commuted to manslaughter it would have meant years locked away.
Ever since, Will had convinced himself he hated his father – yet deep down he knew that wasn’t true. When Will’s mother was alive he’d been a different man, kinder, capable of humour. Her death and Nat’s part in that had changed him. He’d become bitter, closed off, cold. But his marriage to Elizabeth had begun to soften that hardness, and while Jack Kidd would never have outwardly shown his son affection, Will knew that his father had cared for him in his own way.
There on that hard bench in that small cell, Will was forced to admit to himself that his hostility towards his father stemmed from his own insecurities and from his conviction that he had been a disappointment to him. He felt as though he had failed every test his pa had ever set for him. Forced to work in the coal mine Jack Kidd owned, Will had been terrified, miserable and claustrophobic. The cold dark netherworld of the pit had been a living nightmare to him.
His reveries were interrupted by the sound of the bolts being drawn back. The desk sergeant who’d processed him stood on the threshold.
‘You’re free to go,’ he said in a strong Scouse accent. ‘Keep out of trouble now. Go’ed, lad, I don’t want to see you back again.’
‘The other man? Have you let him go too?’
The sergeant shook his head. ‘He’ll be up before the beak tomorrow for assault. The publican and one or two others all ’ad the same story, like.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Still screaming his head off, giving it down the banks, he is. Don’t mind telling you I’ve learnt a few new words from him. You’re lucky you came away with just a cut lip for your trouble. And the lads who brought you in heard the threats he was making on the way here.’
Relieved he was free and that Cassidy was not, Will tried not to resent his miserable night in the cells. He pocketed the possessions that had been taken from him when they brought him in and made his way upstairs, behind the sergeant.
Paolo was waiting on a wooden bench when Will emerged into the police station lobby. The clock on the wall showed it was after six in the morning.
‘G’day, cobber’ said Will. ‘You’re a real pal to wait for me. How do you like the sound of a big fry-up? The tucker’s on me.’
Chapter Five
Hannah walked into the Morton Coffee Company premises, a pair of cramped rooms, close to the docks, and dwarfed by an adjoining line of warehouses. The space was unworthy of the term offices, with its piles of unpaid bills, its unwashed windows, unswept floors, cobwebs and mouse droppings. When she’d first started work here, Hannah had taken a broom, intending to clean up, only for her father to remind her that she was the proprietor’s daughter, not a common worker-woman. She’d started to answer back, only to see his eyes narrow and his mouth set hard, so she mumbled an apology and put the broom in the corner where it had remained since, gathering dust.
She was relieved to discover that her father wasn’t at his desk this afternoon. Charles Dawson’s rages and ill humour usually lasted a few days and it was always wise to give him a wide berth until he eventually returned to a state of silent moroseness.
Greeting the clerk, Mr Busby, Hannah hung up her coat, stuffed her gloves inside the pockets and placed her hat over the hook. The hat was a battered felt, long past its best. With no money of her own, apart from a paltry allowance for the most basic essentials, she had no means of replacing it. Her father believed clothes served only to protect the wearer from the elements, preserve their modesty and reflect their sobriety. Changing fashions were, in his eyes, an indulgence encouraged by the devil. Wearing long-out-of-date hand-me-downs from her mother’s younger, affluent days made Hannah feel a frump. Her sister’s skill with a needle helped – Judith was able to re-fashion items in acknowledgement that it was 1938 and not 1918 – but the cuffs and nap of Hannah’s coat were threadbare and her shoes were worn down at the heels. She had to console herself with the miserable thought that in any case she had nowhere to go, even had she had something better to wear.
Mr Busby, who had not responded to her greeting, looked up at last and nodded to her, pushing a pile of invoices across their shared desk for her to enter in the ledger. He was a man of around sixty, parsimonious in words and expression. Hannah was used to sharing the office in silence punctuated only by the loud ticking of the clock on the wall above her head, Mr Busby’s nervous cough, and her occasional request to use his pencil sharpener – an item which he guarded with a ferocity more appropriate to the conservation of a valuable historic artefact.
The time always dragged. The work was undemanding, repetitive and unfulfilling. If her colleague was going to retire, she prayed it wouldn’t be soon, as working here day after day as her father’s full-time, unpaid minion was a horrible thought. When, one day, she had dared to challenge her unsalaried status, Dawson had flown into such a terrible rage that it still made her shudder to think about it. That had also been the first occasion he had struck her, leaving a large welt across her cheek. Her mother’s expression when she saw the bruising was a wordless acknowledgement that she herself had long been the victim of her husband’s violence. Hannah wasn’t sure whether her mother’s eyes were signalling solidarity or resignation. Either way, her father’s attack was not something she wanted to repeat.
Sometimes, walking on the shore, or pausing in the tedious addition of columns of figures, she would imagine running away. Would it be so hard? To walk out of the house and never come back. But where would she go? How could she survive without a penny to her name? What about Judith and her mother? Judith would never agree to come with her. And without Hannah to do the cooking and cleaning, how would her mother get by? It was too much to expect her mother to ever take on the running of the house herself. Besides, if her father were to find her – as he surely would – the beating he would give her was more than she wanted to contemplate. Instead, she allowed herself to dream, to travel on a flight of fantasy, far away from Liverpool, away from the miserable shabby little house they inhabited, away from this scruffy office.
She felt in her skirt pocket and pulled out an old photograph, looking at it under the edge of the desk. Its precious nature was demonstrated by the way she kept it safe between a piece of folded cardboard, but even so, it was already well-thumbed and faded. Hannah had found it in the attic of Trevelyan House, one afternoon when her mother was sleeping. It was not long after the last of Sarah’s many stillbirths, and her grief and despair meant that Hannah and Judith were left unsupervised. The attic was forbidden to the thirteen-year-old Hannah – but who was to stop her? When she came upon a trunk full of books, a violin, and a silver-framed photograph with its glass shattered, the distant memory of a much-loved aunt had returned in a vivid flash, along with the recollection of music filling the house. Music – something long forbidden by her father. Hannah had removed the picture from the frame, hidden it inside her blouse and kept it safe on her person ever since. That night, before the light faded, she had lain in bed, studying the portrait. Aunty Lizzie, her mother’s older sister, had been a daily presence in her life, until one morning, when Hannah was five, she’d woken to find her aunt gone. From then on, any mention of Aunty Lizzie’s name led to a smack from either parent, or to being sent to her room – until eventually the memory of her aunt had faded. Finding that photograph was like finding buried treasure, a secret she shared with no one, not even Judith, who’d been to
o young to remember.
The office was cold. There was an ancient coal stove in the corner which, when lit at all, benefited Mr Busby, but only took the worst of the chill off by the time its feeble output reached Hannah’s side of the desk. She shivered, wondering whether to put her coat back on.
Looking through the grimy window at the activity on the dockside, Hannah watched the stevedores calling out to each other, trundling two-wheeled carts piled high with boxes or sacks, moving them from ship to warehouse, or the other way round. Overhead, derricks swung, winches turned, and ropes and pulleys carried sacks and bales from deck to dock. Sometimes she’d try to guess what the cargo was before it was landed – although this dock dealt mainly with grain and cotton from America.
The coffee business was going through something of a slump. Britain was a nation of tea drinkers and the rising price of coffee, set against the falling value of wages and the high levels of unemployment during the Depression had been a blow to Morton’s. The company’s cash reserves had disappeared and the balance sheet made dismal reading.
‘Mr Busby?’
The clerk looked up, his irritation evident.
‘Has my father ever tried to deal in other commodities than coffee?’
Busby looked horrified. ‘This is Morton’s Coffee. Always has been since your great-grandfather founded it.’
‘But if no one wants to pay the necessary prices for coffee, couldn’t my father experiment with something else? Something that people do want to buy.’
Storms Gather Between Us Page 6
