Someone to Trust Read online

  ‘So you can tell I’ve flour on my face?’

  ‘But you know yer have because you put it there.’ Silence. For a moment Lucy thought her mother was going to spit nails at them but instead she laughed. ‘Now that’s the kind of thing your father’d say. He’d say there was no way of getting round the truth. So I look lovely, do I?’

  ‘Of course you do,’ chorused the children.

  ‘Black suits me, does it?’ Maureen ran her hands down her body, fingers lingering on her hips. ‘I’m a little on the skinny side but I’ve still some shape.’ She smiled at them. ‘Sorry for sounding cross but I’m a bit on edge. Go wash your hands and faces, and change into your black frock, Lucy. There’ll be no tea because there’s bunloaf and cheese and crackers for the wake. You can have some as soon as you’re ready. Now hurry! Folk’ll be here soon.’

  Bunloaf and cheese and crackers? Oh, goody, goody! thought Lucy, wondering nevertheless how she was ever to grow curves if she didn’t get proper food. And even when she did get some it wasn’t much because she made sure Timmy got a good share of it. She was almost permanently hungry and would have much preferred a bowl of steaming scouse to the cold food that lay on the table, but she did not complain and went in search of the hated black frock.

  Half an hour later people began to trickle into the house bringing with them bottles and glasses. As the level of liquor in the bottles sank, spirits rose. Older people reminisced about Ireland in the days when the dead woman was a child and soon the talk turned to Home Rule and the tardiness of the British Government in sorting things out. Some said there would be trouble soon if they didn’t get a move on.

  Timmy escaped to his favourite hiding place under the table and Lucy decided to go with him. There had been enough comments made about her appearance to hurt. Someone had even teased her about being one of the little people. She took some food with them and kept an eye on what was going on by lifting the tablecloth every now and again in between telling her brother some of the stories of Ireland her gran had told her when she was his age. So it was she saw Callum arrive and not long after that noticed him tying a piece of string to her grandmother’s hand where she lay in her open coffin. The other end he tied to the doorknob. When the next caller opened the door the hand of the corpse rose as if in greeting. The gesture was met with gales of laughter and Lucy felt certain her grandmother would have enjoyed the joke.

  Maureen certainly had. She was talking animatedly to its instigator. Callum was a man you couldn’t help noticing. Big and muscular, he was wearing a green tie and a pompom trimmed tartan beret on his nut brown hair. There would certainly be trouble if he met any of the Orangemen from up Netherfield Road way, thought Lucy, pricking her ears as he and her mother came over to the table.

  ‘So when d’you think Mick will be home?’ asked Callum.

  ‘God only knows,’ replied Maureen, twisting a glass between her fingers. ‘But I’m praying it’ll be soon because we’re on our uppers and I’m hoping he’ll find himself a proper job and not be messing about like he did before he was called up.’

  ‘But what’ll you do in the meantime?’ asked Callum’s mother, Aunt Mac.

  ‘We wouldn’t let her starve, now would we, Ma?’ said Callum.

  ‘Of course not. We’ll help where we can.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ said Maureen. ‘I know I can’t carry on living on air.’

  ‘We’ve all tried it,’ agreed Aunt Mac. ‘But you just go down and down like a pricked balloon. You only have to look at your Lucy – there’s not a pick on her and nobody’d guess she’ll be thirteen soon and leaving school.’

  Maureen bristled. ‘Don’t you be worrying about our Lucy. She’ll be OK. I’ll be finding myself another job now Mam’s gone. Let’s change the subject. How about giving us a tune on that fiddle of yours, Callum? I’m sure Mammy’ll enjoy “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”?’ Maureen fluttered her eyelashes at him.

  He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Sure, and aren’t yours like a morn in spring, darlin’!’ he said gallantly.

  The next moment music flooded the room and people began to sing and some to dance. Lucy enjoyed both and she and Timmy emerged from beneath the table and joined in the fun.

  * * *

  The following morning Lucy woke bright and early. She slid out of bed and went over to the window. Lifting the edge of a washed out curtain she could just about see blue sky above the roofs of the opposite houses. ‘Mam, it looks like it’s going to be a lovely day for the funeral,’ she called.

  Maureen groaned. ‘Am I wanting to know that when my mouth feels like sandpaper and my eyes like they’ve fishing weights dragging them down? Get me a drink of water, girl, and see if there’s a Beecham’s powder in the box downstairs.’

  Lucy donned her dress and boots and hastened to do her mother’s bidding. There was a broken glass on the draining board and the water bucket was empty. She put on an apron before picking it up and leaving the house. The court area was deserted except for a rat nibbling at some offal. She picked up a stone and threw it, catching the rodent smack on its backside. It shot away behind the ash bin. She hated rats. She turned the tap on the drinking fountain and, cupping her hand, drank thirstily before sluicing her face and drying it on her apron.

  When the bucket was full she left it a moment to go to the privy. Here was something else she hated. Without fail, every time she went into the stinking place she wished they were back in their old house with their own lavatory.

  As she emerged from the privy her gaze fell upon a girl in a grubby, torn frock and bare feet, struggling to carry away her bucket of water. ‘Stop, thief!’ cried Lucy, darting over to her and seizing the handle of the bucket. ‘Give me that back right away before I clout you one!’

  ‘You prove it’s yours!’

  Lucy’s eyes flew wide, her eyebrows arching beneath her fringe. This girl and her brother and mother had only moved in the other day and Lucy didn’t know their names. ‘You’ve got a nerve! You know it isn’t yours. I left it there while I went to the privy.’ Lucy pulled with all her might and water slopped over the sides of the bucket, drenching her apron and feet. ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ she said wrathfully. ‘These are me funeral clothes.’ She clouted the girl on the arm and managed to yank the bucket out of her grasp.

  The girl cringed before her. ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t know it was yours, honest,’ she wailed. ‘But ours has a hole in it.’

  ‘Then you should take it to the ironmonger’s. He’ll put a patch on it.’ Lucy gripped the handle of her bucket tightly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to go in. It’s me gran’s funeral today.’

  ‘I’m sorry about yer gran,’ said the stranger, poking a finger through a tear in her frock. ‘I didn’t know her but I believe she used to make lovely toffee apples.’

  ‘Shut up!’ said Lucy fiercely, her own eyes filling with tears at the memory of how her gran used to allow her to dip the apples in the hot toffee. Without another word she hurried indoors.

  Remembering what her mother had said about needing a Beecham’s powder, Lucy found the last one in the cardboard box that served them as a medicine chest. She mixed the powder with some water in a cup and carried it upstairs.

  Her mother was lying supine beside Timmy who was sucking his thumb, eyes closed. ‘Here yer are, Mam. Yer going to have to get moving,’ said Lucy.

  ‘What is it?’ muttered Maureen, and without opening her eyes eased herself into a sitting position. Her auburn hair hung in tangled ringlets about her clammy face.

  ‘The Beecham’s you asked for.’

  Her mother’s expression eased. ‘Ah, you’re an angel. Give us it here!’

  Lucy placed the cup in her mother’s outstretched hands and went back downstairs to light the fire before going out again to the bakery, knowing that as soon as Maureen got up she’d be demanding a cup of tea and fresh bread.

  A couple of hours later the coffin bearers arrived with the undertaker. The hearse was parked in Bosto
ck Street: a fancy black one with shining brasswork, and drawn by two jet black horses. Lucy admired the whole set up, remembering her granddad had been given the same kind of send off. ‘That’s cost you a bob or two, Mam.’

  ‘Sure it has but I couldn’t not give my mammy a good send off even if we have to go hungry for the next six months,’ said Maureen, loud enough for the other court dwellers to know that there was no money left over from the insurance going begging. She had Timmy by the hand and Lucy walked sedately by her side, following the coffin bearers, who had a bit of a struggle squeezing through the narrow passageway beside the Methodist Hall to the open street.

  Lucy felt uncomfortable on entering the church. It was bright with stained glass and statuary and she remembered her gran putting herself into debt to purchase Lucy a white silk frock for her confirmation here. If it hadn’t been for her mother working in munitions they would still have been in debt today. She remembered the days when her father was alive and there had been new clothes for her every bank holiday and at Christmas.

  The requiem mass seemed to go on forever and when it was over Lucy knew she still had to face the burial in Ford cemetery to the north of Liverpool. To her relief and surprise, though, when they stood outside church Maureen said, ‘You and Timmy don’t have to come to the cemetery, Lucy. We’ll be going to an inn out there for a bite to eat and a drink. You can stay here.’

  ‘What about food for us, Mam?’ asked Lucy, hoping her mother wouldn’t drown her sorrows in drink as she had last night.

  Maureen sighed and from her handbag took an engraved silver match container. She shook out two silver threepenny bits. ‘Here! Don’t spend it all in one shop,’ she said with a hint of a smile.

  Lucy thanked her, wishing she could trust her mother to be sensible with her own money. ‘I’ve never seen that before,’ she said of the matchbox, lifting her skirts and placing the coins in a pocket in her drawers. ‘Where’s it from?’

  Maureen tapped the side of her nose. ‘Shall we just say your gran kept some secrets even from me. But there’s not much where that came from so make the most of it. Now, scram!’

  Lucy seized Timmy’s hand and raced out of the gates before Maureen could change her mind and ask for the money back. She was brought up short by a voice. ‘Where are you off to in such a rush, Lucy Linden?’

  She gazed uneasily at the youth standing on the corner of Newsham Street with the girl who’d tried to steal her bucket. Lucy avoided him when she could. Now she was hoping he wouldn’t cause trouble because she’d hit his sister. ‘I’m not going anywhere in particular,’ she said, trying to sound nonchalant. ‘Why d’you want to know?’

  ‘We’re meeting our cousins. They live up by Our Lady Immaculate’s,’ said the girl, hopping about on one foot.

  She had on a pair of down-at-heel shoes. ‘D’yer want to come? We’re meeting them at the Pit on Mere Lane. It’s good up there with swings, a shaddle and everything.’

  Lucy said warily, ‘Why are you asking us?’

  ‘We feel sorry for yer, with your gran dying,’ said the youth, looking mournful as he picked his nose.

  Lucy didn’t want his pity but Timmy tugged on her hand. ‘I’d like to go on the shaddle, our Luce.’ A shaddle was a kind of seesaw.

  Her face softened. ‘It’s a bit of a way, a lot of it uphill.’

  ‘It’s better than going home.’

  Lucy agreed and, besides, the Pit was up on Everton Heights. It would mean crossing Netherfield Road where every twelfth of July the Orangemen marched along, banners flying, pipes, drums and squeeze boxes playing, defying those who wore the Green who responded by throwing a few bricks and picking fights. She didn’t have much time for either side. Her father, nominally C of E but who had gone along with Maureen’s wishes and married in her church, couldn’t understand how, if they were all Christians, they could hate each other so much. Lucy agreed with him.

  ‘OK, we’ll come with you,’ she said, ‘but say “Truce” first. Which means you won’t be sneaky and hit me when I’m not expecting it.’

  The youth grinned. ‘I’ll say “Truce” if it makes yer happy. Truce! Truce! Truce! Now, race yer to the top of Newsham Street!’ He took off.

  The other three ran after him. Lucy knew she had little chance of catching up with him but had to try; he wore short trousers and a sleeveless pullover and she was hot in the calf-length black frock and so he won, swaggering about afterwards as if he’d won a prize.

  Eventually they came to Netherfield Road where there were several shops boarded up. A tram clanged by and there was a rumble of cart wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. A carter called to a man standing in the doorway and women with small children clinging to their skirts gossiped on the pavement. There was a smell of hot tar and horse manure, the scent of hops and yeast from a nearby brewery and the oily undertone of ground nuts wafting up from Bibby’s soap manufacturers down by the docks.

  The four children paused a moment, waiting for a break in the traffic before darting like swifts across the road. On the corner of Havelock Street stood the John Bagot Fever Hospital. Lucy remembered her mother bringing her here with Timmy, in a panic because his chest was bad and she thought he would die.

  ‘We go up here,’ said the youth, indicating Havelock Street.

  Lucy did not need telling. She gazed up the cobbled street which rose almost perpendicular to where St George’s cast-iron church stood on the crest of the hill. On one side of the street was a handrail. She skipped over to it, followed by the others, and bringing her skirt through her legs, took a safety pin from her collar and pinned it to the fabric at her waist. Then she swung by her hands, before turning herself upside down and hanging by her knees. It was fun and the others followed suit. Then the youth went and spoilt things by tickling her under both arms when she changed her position.

  Lucy’s hands slipped from the bar and she fell to the ground, grazing both her knees. ‘You eejit!’ she cried, turning on him, her hazel eyes glinting. ‘What did yer do that for?’

  ‘To pay yer back for hitting my sister,’ he said, thrusting his face close to hers. ‘I didn’t hit yer so I haven’t broken the truce. Now, the pair of yer, get moving. We’re supposed to be going to the Pit.’

  Annoyed with him, Lucy almost turned back then. Instead she flounced off, unpinning her skirt as she went. By the time she reached Northumberland Terrace she was out of breath and collapsed against St George’s churchyard wall. She did not linger long but instead went inside the church grounds and took off her boots so she could feel the grass beneath her feet. It was soft as a feather cushion. She twirled round and round before flinging herself down and closing her eyes. The world spun around her and she felt herself going with it.

  For several minutes nobody spoke. Then she said, ‘Look at those clouds. I’m going to pretend I’m floating across the sky just like them.’

  ‘Yer daft,’ said the youth, getting to his feet and walking towards the church.

  Lucy did not care what he thought but she got up, remembering the view from the church steps was well worth seeing. She held her face up to the breeze, letting it cool her hot cheeks. Then she looked down on the slanting roofs of hundreds and hundreds of sooty-bricked houses trying to spot where Court 15 was situated, but it was impossible. She let her gaze wander to the Mersey and out to the bar and the estuary where she could see a dredger, and a liner accompanied by a pilot boat, heading for the Irish Sea. ‘I think I can see New Brighton,’ she said.

  ‘Where, where?’ cried Timmy, running over to her.

  ‘Over there.’ She hoisted him up into her arms so he could get a better view, wishing she still lived up here. She remembered her gran telling her about the local toffee shop, which had been famous for its Everton Toffee. Now Barker & Dobson had bought the recipe and were churning the toffees out by the million and exporting them worldwide. Sometimes she dreamed of owning a shop and, just like the cottage in ‘Hansel and Gretel’, it was made of all kinds
of sweets.

  ‘It’s lovely! It’s all lovely,’ cried the other girl, startling Lucy out of her dream. She flapped her arms. ‘I’m a bird and I’m going to fly up in the sky and over the sea.’ She ran round and round in an ever-widening circle. Timmy struggled to get down and a moment later was chasing after her.

  ‘Yer look as daft as she did before,’ said the youth, giving Lucy an unfriendly look.

  ‘I think it’s fun,’ said Lucy, her eyes glinting. ‘I’m going to be a bee so I can buzz and sting and get you back for tickling me and making me graze my knees.’ She darted at him and pinched his arm. He yelped and landed her a smack.

  ‘You’re all crackers,’ said a voice behind them. ‘And you don’t belong here. This is our territory.’

  Lucy whirled round and stared at a lad who stood before them whittling a stick with a penknife. He wore dusty brown corduroy shorts and a grubby blue shirt open at the neck, had a shock of sooty black hair and a tanned face. He was not alone but with two other youths.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said warily.

  ‘I know who I am,’ said the boy. ‘Name’s Owen Davies.’ He dropped the stick and pushed himself away from the church wall with a quick thrust of his hips. ‘And I know what you lot are.’ Before Lucy could step back he pressed the point of his blade against her bodice. ‘You’re Irishes and you don’t belong in this churchyard.’

  ‘I was born in Liverpool and my dad was from Yorkshire so you leave me alone!’ Lucy was frightened but trying not to show it. She darted a look at the youth who’d led them up here. Why didn’t he do something?

  ‘We’ll go,’ he said, backing away. ‘It wasn’t me who wanted to come in here. It was her. She’s daft.’

  ‘You’re a liar!’ cried Lucy indignantly.

  Owen’s knife hand dropped and he turned on the youth. ‘Is that right? You’re a liar?’

  He reddened. ‘Yer not believing her, are yer? She’s a girl and yer know what girls are. They’re the liars. Anyway I’m not looking for a fight.’