Read Online Liverpool Daisy by Helen Forrester - Free Book Online
Authors: Helen Forrester
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just committed. She could almost hear Father Patrick holding forth on the subject of lust; and a deep flush crept up her neck and over her cheeks. The two coins she had dropped down her chest fell to the pavement with a sharp clink and she bent down and picked them up. Her heart was still pattering unnaturally fast. In the light of the pub she counted the money in her hand. It totalled eight shillings and sixpence. Amongst the change given her by the last sailor were two threepenny bits.
She smiled at the two tiny silver coins. “Two joeys! I’ll keep them for luck. He were a proper nice lad.”
She sighed. She felt extremely shaky and decided she needed a drink. She went round the side of the pub to the parlour entrance. Over the door was a notice saying, “Ladies with Escorts only.”
“Bugger them,” she muttered forcefully.
A labourer with his beshawled wife pushed past her. She followed him in smartly and sat down on the same bench as they did. The place was blue with tobacco smoke and the conversation was lively but not noisy.
She sat primly down, hands folded in her lap, her worn wedding ring glinting softly on one swollen finger.
When the barman took her order for a hot rum toddy, he realised that she was without an escort, but she looked so primly respectable that he made no objection to serving her.
As she sat staring at her glass she felt that everybody must know what she had done, and she was thankful for the comforting glow that the rum engendered in her. Nobody spoke to her, however. St. Margaret, her patron saint, did not appear, to upbraid her, and God did not strike her down. Her heart returned to its normal beat and she began to feel clever that she could drink without taking her teeth out. She asked the barman who was easing his way among the crowded tables, a tray of empties poised on four fingers, how to get to Lime Street Station. He told her and she swept out with a great feeling of newfound confidence.
By the time she had boarded the tram for Dingle, her eyelids were drooping. The vehicle’s steady swaying and its steamy heat made her doze.
At one stop the driver put his brake on rather abruptly and the shudder that went through the great vehicle awoke her.
Where was she?
She rubbed a spyhole in the steam on the window and peered anxiously through it.
There was the pub with the grocery store next door to it.
She hastily heaved herself off the wooden seat and proceeded unsteadily down the narrow centre aisle, while the driver tapped his foot impatiently. She clambered down the steep steps and wrapped her shawl round her tightly as the wind struck her.
Only when the tram had moved onward and had resumed its rhythmical clang-clang did she realise that she had descended at the Shamrock, instead of at the Ragged Bear.
She shivered in the chilly night wind, and cursed. Holy Mary, it was nearly a mile to her home and rain threatened from a lowering sky. Along the street the gas lamps seemed to marchfor dismal, frightening miles.
The door of the Shamrock opened and a gust of laughter came out with a patron. It would be at least half an hour before another tram came by, she thought; it would be quicker to walk. But first she would have another drink, to warm her.
The silver in her apron pocket made a happy jingle as she went up the steps, and she grinned ruefully, catching her lower lip with her new teeth.
“Ah’ll have a gin, son,” she ordered the barman. After all, gin was what you were supposed to drink if you didn’t want to get pregnant. Then she remembered that she was past the age when she had to worry about pregnancy.
The gin tasted horrible, so she ordered a rum to follow. The world began to take on a kind of happy haze.
A heavily-built man on his way out paused in front of her. His close-clipped white hair did nothing to soften a wind-hardened red face. His greasy trousers and cap, his jacket ripped under the sweat-soiled armpits suggested a docker.
“Evenin’, Mrs.
She smiled at the two tiny silver coins. “Two joeys! I’ll keep them for luck. He were a proper nice lad.”
She sighed. She felt extremely shaky and decided she needed a drink. She went round the side of the pub to the parlour entrance. Over the door was a notice saying, “Ladies with Escorts only.”
“Bugger them,” she muttered forcefully.
A labourer with his beshawled wife pushed past her. She followed him in smartly and sat down on the same bench as they did. The place was blue with tobacco smoke and the conversation was lively but not noisy.
She sat primly down, hands folded in her lap, her worn wedding ring glinting softly on one swollen finger.
When the barman took her order for a hot rum toddy, he realised that she was without an escort, but she looked so primly respectable that he made no objection to serving her.
As she sat staring at her glass she felt that everybody must know what she had done, and she was thankful for the comforting glow that the rum engendered in her. Nobody spoke to her, however. St. Margaret, her patron saint, did not appear, to upbraid her, and God did not strike her down. Her heart returned to its normal beat and she began to feel clever that she could drink without taking her teeth out. She asked the barman who was easing his way among the crowded tables, a tray of empties poised on four fingers, how to get to Lime Street Station. He told her and she swept out with a great feeling of newfound confidence.
By the time she had boarded the tram for Dingle, her eyelids were drooping. The vehicle’s steady swaying and its steamy heat made her doze.
At one stop the driver put his brake on rather abruptly and the shudder that went through the great vehicle awoke her.
Where was she?
She rubbed a spyhole in the steam on the window and peered anxiously through it.
There was the pub with the grocery store next door to it.
She hastily heaved herself off the wooden seat and proceeded unsteadily down the narrow centre aisle, while the driver tapped his foot impatiently. She clambered down the steep steps and wrapped her shawl round her tightly as the wind struck her.
Only when the tram had moved onward and had resumed its rhythmical clang-clang did she realise that she had descended at the Shamrock, instead of at the Ragged Bear.
She shivered in the chilly night wind, and cursed. Holy Mary, it was nearly a mile to her home and rain threatened from a lowering sky. Along the street the gas lamps seemed to marchfor dismal, frightening miles.
The door of the Shamrock opened and a gust of laughter came out with a patron. It would be at least half an hour before another tram came by, she thought; it would be quicker to walk. But first she would have another drink, to warm her.
The silver in her apron pocket made a happy jingle as she went up the steps, and she grinned ruefully, catching her lower lip with her new teeth.
“Ah’ll have a gin, son,” she ordered the barman. After all, gin was what you were supposed to drink if you didn’t want to get pregnant. Then she remembered that she was past the age when she had to worry about pregnancy.
The gin tasted horrible, so she ordered a rum to follow. The world began to take on a kind of happy haze.
A heavily-built man on his way out paused in front of her. His close-clipped white hair did nothing to soften a wind-hardened red face. His greasy trousers and cap, his jacket ripped under the sweat-soiled armpits suggested a docker.
“Evenin’, Mrs.
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