The White Empress Read online

  ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Well . . .?’

  He delved into his kit bag and pulled out two parcels. ‘I bought you this, I was going to save it for Christmas but you might as well have it now.’

  She took the parcel from him and began to carefully unwrap it. Inside was a box. She lifted the lid and a brooch, shaped like a butterfly, nestled on a bed of cotton wool. Brightly coloured stones formed its wings and gold wire its body and antennae. She knew the stones weren’t real gems but she had never owned a single piece of jewellery. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful! Look how all the colours glow in the light! Oh, Joe, thank you!’

  ‘Aren’t you going to put it on?’

  ‘No, I’m keeping it to wear with my best clothes. I’ll pin it to my coat. Oh, it’s lovely!’ She wanted to fling her arms around him and tell him how she had missed him, but the presence of the old lady stopped her.

  Joe stood up and placed a second parcel into Mrs Travis’s hands. She was surprised.

  ‘You shouldn’t have wasted your money on me, Joe!’

  ‘I wanted to.’

  She pulled off the wrapping paper to reveal an elephant carved in ebony with long tusks of ivory and two smaller elephants completed the set. ‘You must have searched hard for something like this, they’re not the sort of thing you can pick up easily.’

  ‘I bought them from an old Chinese cook, I thought you’d like them.’

  ‘I do, I like them a great deal but are they a form of bribe?’

  He looked abashed.

  Cat looked from one to the other. They had obviously cost him more than the butterfly brooch. Obviously they were not keeping him on and he had come back for his old job. The little frown disappeared when she saw that Mrs Travis was smiling.

  ‘So, you’ve come back to us then? Well, I did promise to hold your job open, didn’t I? Do you still want it?’

  He nodded, twisting his cap between his hands. He was grateful to her but it hurt his masculine pride to have to come, tail between his legs, to get his job back. His hopes had been so high. He had promised himself he was never going to take a shore job again. But it was a hard winter and there was little work for, although the Port was thriving, the country was not and Liverpool was not the only city in the grip of unemployment, economic and social depression. ‘Take what you can, lad, until things pick up!’ the captain of the Marguerita had advised. But it still galled him that he had to settle for second best. One day he’d get a steady job at sea. One day he’d make it. He realised that Cat was speaking to him.

  ‘At least I’ll have someone to help me get the tree home from the market and put up the holly!’

  He smiled at her. ‘I come in handy for some things then?’

  ‘Aye, that you do!’

  That Christmas was the one Cat swore she would always remember, no matter how long she lived. It was the first ‘real’ Christmas she’d ever had, she told Joe as they struggled home on the tram on Christmas Eve. He with the tree and boughs of holly and she with the goose, vegetables and the fruit. Everyone was in festive mood. The market stallholders, shopkeepers, policemen and the crowds of shoppers who thronged Church Street, congregating around the huge Christmas tree while the Salvation Army band played carols. Even the conductor of the packed tramcar sported a sprig of holly in his buttonhole and one of mistletoe in his cap and demanded a kiss from all the women who crushed aboard. There were many ribald remarks from some of the older ones, too. To his jocular ‘Move along there, Ma, there’s hundreds waiting behind yer!’ came the reply, ‘If I move up any more I’ll be drivin’ the tram meself an’ we’ll all end up in Church Street!’ Which caused more ribald remarks as to who would look best, dressed up as the Christmas Fairy, the old shawlie or the driver!

  They had decorated the tree and then Joe had sat by the warmth of the kitchen fire and watched as she had plucked and cleaned the bird and prepared it for roasting. Then he had helped her prepare the vegetables.

  Mrs Travis had asked her if she wanted to spend the holiday with her family, but comparing the comfort and warmth of her surroundings with those of the little house in Eldon Street, she declined the offer, although she was to go home early Christmas morning and stay until just before lunch.

  ‘Why don’t you bring your mother and Eamon here for dinner?’ Mrs Travis had generously offered.

  ‘She wouldn’t come. She’d feel uncomfortable and as for our Eamon, his table manners would disgrace a pig, so they would! But thank you, you’re very kind.’

  So she had gone home with her brown paper carrier-bag of gifts and was surprised to find everyone up and the little house decked out with paper chains and holly. The big table, which took up most of the kitchen, was laid with a red cloth and was already set for the meal. On the old dresser stood bottles of ale and a bottle of cheap sherry.

  ‘I see someone’s been busy or has Santa come early?’ she laughed as she kissed her mother’s cheek.

  ‘Oh, Ellen and me went down the market late last night. They’re practically givin’ stuff away by ten o’clock! Perked ’er up no end, too! Now youse lot, sit still while I get me ’at and youse can gerra cloth an’ wipe our Ethel’s fingers an’ that toffee from round ’er mouth. It’s a good job she’s too young for Communion!’ Maisey instructed the eldest of her brood. ‘’Ave you been eatin’, our Dora?’

  ‘No, Mam!’

  ‘Yer’d berra be tellin’ the truth! Father Maguire can sniff out food like a blood ’ound an yer’ll disgrace us all if yer get turned away from the altar rail!’

  Cat delved into the brown paper bag. ‘Is there time for me to give them their presents, Maisey?’

  Maisey paused, still poking wisps of hair under a dark-blue felt hat that had seen better days. ‘Aye, luv, go on, but hurry up!’

  She felt like Lady Bountiful as she handed out the presents. She had bought something for everyone. Packets of toffees and Everton Mints for all the O’Dwyer children. A pair of silk stockings for Maisey who declared she had never had anything so fine for years and quickly moved her ample bulk into the scullery to put them on. There was a tie for Mr O’Dwyer and another for her father, although she had begrudged spending anything on him and it was only at Joe’s prompting that she had done so. For Eamon there was The Boy’s Own Annual with which he was not very impressed and a big bag of coloured glass marbles, with which he was, taking each one and holding it up to the light. For Shelagh she had bought a colourful headscarf in shades of pink, purple and lilac. She had deliberately left it in the ‘Owen Owen’s’ bag, as this was one of the better-class shops that Shelagh did not frequent. She received a cold peck on the cheek and a muttered ‘Thanks, it’s lovely’ in return.

  All her savings had gone towards her mother’s present. She had discussed with both Mrs Travis and Marie just what she could buy but it had been Marie who had come up with the most inspired and touching suggestion.

  ‘If you buy her anything like jewellery it will spend most of its time in pawn.’

  ‘Anything I buy will!’ she had retorted.

  ‘So write off to the Cenacle Convent.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘If you send them five shillings, they will say a Mass for her every day for a year and will send a nice Mass card and a lovely rosary. He can’t pawn them, can he?’

  Cat thought about it. It was rather a strange gift, but her mother was a devoutly Catholic woman who would appreciate the prayers offered up at Mass on her behalf by the nuns. She would also appreciate and treasure the rosary beads and neither would be pawned. So she had done as Marie had suggested and had received in return a Mass card bearing a coloured picture of the Nativity inscribed,

  A Mass will be said for Ellen Cleary

  every day for a year at this Convent.

  This is the gift of her daughter,

  Catherine Cleary.

  Accompanying it was a rosary of imitation pearls in its own little white-leather purse, engraved with a gold cross. Feeling that this was not enough, Ca
t bought a pair of warm knitted gloves, around the wrists of which was threaded bright ribbon, decorated with two tassels.

  The glow she felt from being able to distribute such largesse, to bring such gasps of delight and such obvious happiness, grew as her mother first tried on the gloves, exclaiming over the tassels. But it was with eyes full of tears that she reverently opened the card and read the inscription. There were tears in Cat’s eyes as Ellen drew out the rosary and spread it across her thin, chapped hand.

  ‘Oh, Cat . . . Cat . . . !’ Ellen Cleary’s words became choked as a sob caught in her throat.

  ‘I wanted to get you something very special, Ma, something more than just a brooch or gloves!’

  ‘You couldn’t have given me anything more . . . more beautiful . . .’ She choked again, then held up the card to Maisey.

  ‘What’s all the fuss about a card?’ Shelagh grumbled, craning her neck to peer over Maisey’s shoulder. Trust Cat to go one better than her! And she’d spent 1s 6d on a bottle of lavender water and her mother had only kissed her, put it to one side and said ‘You shouldn’t have spent so much on me, Shelagh.’

  Maisey read out the inscription in a strangely strangled tone, then blew her nose loudly on her clean handkerchief. ‘Yer’ve got one to be proud of ’ere, Ellen!’ She struggled to find the right word. ‘One who thinks! She’s . . . sensitive!’

  ‘What’s sen . . . sen . . . that word mean, our Mam?’ Dora enquired, for a strange atmosphere had suddenly descended on the room.

  ‘It means she really understands ’er Mam an’ what she really likes, an’ ’as got ’er somethin’ special that can’t end up in Stanley’s pawnshop every Monday mornin’! Eh, yer’ve gorra proper little treasure there, Ellen!’

  The warm glow had continued as Cat, the butterfly brooch pinned to the lapel of her coat, tucked her mother’s gloved hand through her arm as in bright, crisp sunlight they all trouped around the corner to Our Lady’s to morning Mass.

  The festive atmosphere had disappeared without trace two weeks later when, in driving rain that stung her cheeks, Cat paid her weekly visit home. Blowing off the Mersey was a ‘lazy’ wind, as people called it, for it cut through you instead of going around you. She knew there was something seriously wrong as soon as she opened the kitchen door. The room was silent. Her mother sat huddled close to the pitiful fire that was struggling against the down-draught from the chimney. Maisey was peeling potatoes in a bowl at the table and of Shelagh, her Pa, Eamon and the entire O’Dwyer brood there was no sign.

  ‘What’s the matter? Where is everyone?’

  ‘Out!’ Maisey’s lips snapped closed into a thin line.

  As this was unheard of Cat crossed and placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. ‘Ma . . .?’ Her question died as her mother turned towards her. The right side of her face was badly swollen, her lip cut and her eye half-closed and surrounded by purplish-blue bruising.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Cat whirled around and faced Maisey. ‘Where is he? Where’s that swine, I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him with my own two hands!’

  ‘Cat, he didn’t mean to . . .’ The words came thickly from her mother’s swollen lips.

  Maisey thumped the bowl down hard on the table. ‘It was all ’er fault, that little slut!’

  ‘Shelagh?’

  ‘Right! Cum ’ome drunk an’ with ’er blouse all undone an’ her skirt all torn! Yer Da, who’d ’ad one too many ’imself, laid into ’er, yellin’ at ’er, callin’ ’er a whore, a common little tart. An’ he’s right! She’s the talk of the street, carryin’ on . . .’

  ‘What’s that got to do with . . .’

  ‘’E took ’is belt off and laid into ’er. Give ’er a good thrashin’! Holy Mother of God! Yer could ’ear the screams all the way t’ the Pierhead! Yer Mam tried t’ stop ’im an’ he caught ’er with the buckle end.’

  Cat’s eyes blazed with a ferocious green light. ‘Where is she, Maisey?’

  ‘All the neighbours was out, someone went fer Father Maguire, but the scuffers arrived first!’

  ‘So she’s in jail?’

  ‘No. I told ’em t’ clear off, that we sort out ourselves an’ hadn’t a father the right to give ’is own daughter a good hidin’ for the way she’d been carryin’ on, disgracin’ us all! They went off, saying, “Alright, Ma, seeing as it’s a domestic we won’t interfere, as long as it doesn’t get out of hand.” Then Father Maguire arrived. ’E calmed yer Pa down, talked ter yer Mam an’ carted that slut off with ’im!’

  ‘So where are they now?’

  ‘Yer Pa was collared by Himself after Mass. I ’ope Himself gives ’im a good talkin’ to, an’ as fer ’er . . . I won’t ’ave ’er over me doorstep again! Norreven if the Pope ’imself were ter ask me!’

  ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Sent packin’ ter some ’ome fer wayward girls.’

  Cat sank down on the floor and took her mother’s hand. She was still seething. If only she could get her mother out of this house. To the little home she dreamed of providing – one day. Frustration was added to fury. She was no nearer to the White Empress than she had been the day she landed. Mrs Travis had been kindness itself but she couldn’t ask her to take her mother in. ‘Are you sure you’re alright, Ma?’

  ‘A bit shaken . . .’

  She clasped the trembling hand in her own, wishing vehemently she could get her hands on both her sister and her father. ‘I’ll stay as long as I can, Maisey. He won’t be in a very good mood when he gets back!’

  Maisey grunted. She was a god-fearing woman, a hard worker and she was respected by her neighbours and if it hadn’t been for Ellen she would quite cheerfully have thrown the lot of them out on the streets.

  They had all crept back, one by one. Mid-afternoon saw her father enter the house in the company of Mr O’Dwyer and the parish priest. He was somewhat shaken for Father Maguire had far more influence and was held in far more esteem than a station full of ‘scuffers’. After ascertaining that Mrs Cleary was alright and informing them all that from now on he expected no more trouble at all, he turned to leave.

  ‘Father, where is my sister?’

  The stern features relaxed a little as he looked at Cat. ‘Ah, Catherine. Don’t you be worrying over that one, she’s with the Sisters of Charity.’

  She nodded. Despite their name she knew Shelagh would find little charity with them. It served her right.

  The atmosphere had livened up a little after the priest’s exit. The younger children resorted to their usual noisy horseplay, Maisey to her boisterous denunciation of them all and Mr O’Dwyer to his newspaper.

  Her father remained white-faced and silent. She had never held a very high opinion of him. She had hoped he would change, but since they had arrived he had been content to shove the burden of his wife and family on to someone else. She despised him even more now. The only thing that could be said in his defence was that at last he had shown some parental responsiblity, although it had taken a bellyful of ale to bring that about. And to the detriment of her poor mother.

  She was reluctant to leave but as seven o’clock drew nearer she picked up her hat and coat. Maisey followed her to the door and Cat pressed the coins into her hand.

  ‘If anything else like that ever happens, or . . . or if she comes back, send one of the kids straight up for me, Maisey.’

  ‘It won’t ’appen again, cos she’s not cumin’ back ’ere, an’ as fer ’im, ’e gets ’is courage out of a bottle an’ if ’e starts, I’ll be straight round fer the priest!’

  ‘Oh, I wish I could take her with me!’

  ‘Well, yer can’t, luv, an’ that’s that! Yer doin’ every-thin’ yer can for ’er, God knows! Now, gerroff with yer, yer’ll be late!’

  Chapter Eight

  AS SHE LAY IN BED that night listening to the rain lashing against the small attic windows, she tossed and turned, thinking of her mother in the cold, cheerless bedroom at Eldon Street. She must do something! The dreaming had to become re
ality. She pulled the quilt up to her chin, her feet curled around the stone jar with its tight rubber stopper, filled with hot water. Such comforts were denied her poor Ma. She made her decision. On Wednesday afternoon she would go to The Pool and if she got no satisfaction, she’d go to the offices of Canadian Pacific. She had to do something positive, she couldn’t just wait and dream. Even if, like Joe, she had to go to every shipping line and beg, she’d do it. Joe had got the job on the Marguerita in the end!

  She wore her best coat and hat, her only coat and hat, and had polished her shoes until they gleamed, but gazing at her reflection she realised she didn’t present a very smart picture. She felt drab and plain.

  As she got off the tram it started to rain and her shoes became dull and splashed. The wind blew her hair across her face in damp, untidy wisps. The walk to Mann Island across the dirty cobbles added to the dejection that was already setting in, but she pushed open the door of The Pool and went straight to the counter. A middle-aged man in a rather shabby suit looked up from his paperwork.

  ‘Yes, luv?’

  ‘I’ve come to see if there are any vacancies for stewardesses?’

  He looked her up and down quickly. ‘Had any experience? Have you got your Discharge Book?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  He sighed. ‘Seaman’s Record Book and Certificate of Discharge. It’s like a passport.’

  ‘No. I didn’t know I needed one.’

  ‘Never been to sea before. Thought not!’

  ‘Well, where can I get one?’

  ‘You can’t, unless you’ve got a job – a ship.’

  ‘That’s what I came here for!’ She was getting impatient.

  He leaned forward across the counter. ‘Look, luv, we get dozens of girls in here, all looking for work on the liners. We don’t take you on here. You have to go to the company and they decide if you’re, well . . . suitable!’

  ‘And you don’t think I am?’

  He sighed again. ‘I’ll be honest, no good building up your hopes. No. You’re probably a good worker, honest, decent, but that’s not enough for them and the competition is tough!’