Read Online Liverpool Daisy by Helen Forrester - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Helen Forrester
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singing. She signalled to Joe Hanlon.
“I’ll have another.” She beamed beatifically round at her neighbours who, between polite gossiping, regarded her pityingly. Our Daisy was taking her sad loss very hard, they muttered.
“I think you’d better go home, Mrs. Gallagher,” Joe said firmly. “Have you finished your drink?”
She stood swaying like a tall jelly pudding. “Yesh,” she said. “But I want another. I don’t want to go home. Nobody there. Why the hell should I go home?”
Joe put his arm confidentially round her shoulder. “Because I don’t want you to become ill, Mrs. Gallagher. I would rather you came in again tomorrow and had another enjoyableevening.” He eased her round till she faced the door. “Come on, luv.” He pushed her firmly through the door, which his wife had opened, and she stumbled clumsily down the steps, staggered across the pavement and leaned against the gas lamp at the corner. She continued to sniff for a moment and lifted the corner of her apron to wipe her eyes. The clink of money in her apron pocket reminded her of the three sailors. She began to giggle a little ruefully, as she started unsteadily down the slope towards her home. She began to hum to herself, at first sadly and then a little more cheerfully.
Ahead, she could see the river glitter, as a brightly lit liner moved slowly downstream. She stumbled down towards it. Dear, friendly river — it was always there, sometimes scowling, sometimes smiling. Lovely river. She began to sing again.
“Three German officers crossed the line,” she shrieked joyfully at the glittering water, as she leaned over the brick wall which separated her from the dock below in which lay a single ship, dark except for the watchman’s lantern rising and dipping with the small movement of the water.
She waved drunkenly towards the river. “Hooray to yez, hooray to the bloody Mersey!”
EIGHT
Daisy stood for a long time leaning against the wall and looking out over the river, until she felt steady enough to cross the road again back to her own home. Moggie was complaining loudly on the doorstep and leaped ahead of her, as she stumbled into the dead dark front room.
The fire was out, and she felt around for the box of matches which she kept on the windowsill close to the entrance. The damp breeze from across the river was cold and she hastily closed the door behind her.
“Jaysus!” she exclaimed irritably. Then her fingers closed over the errant box and she fumbled to strike a match to light the lamp. She had not cleaned the lamp that morning and its wick was untrimmed. She took off its funnel awkwardly with one hand. The match sputtered out.
She put down the funnel on the table and got out another match. She paused as she was about to strike it and held her breath. She could distinctly hear heavy breathing behind her.
She had been cold. Now perspiration burst from her in sheer terror. Ghosts come back to haunt you, she knew that. Was her poor mother there? Unable to rest in her grave, unable to go to Purgatory because of what Daisy had done that evening?
She stood, match poised above the box, paralysed with fear. And the rhythmical breathing continued.
She screamed. Moggie brushed against her skirts. She shrieked again and crossed herself. “Holy Mother, help me!”
The breathing stopped with a snort.
“That you, Daisy?” asked a woman’s voice from the direction of the old easy chair. “What’s up?”
Daisy did not answer as the fright ebbed out of her and relief flooded in. But her heart was still pounding like a labourer’s pickaxe against asphalt, when she answered cautiously, “That you, Nellie?”
“Course it’s me. Where you been all this time?”
“My! Did you ever give me a fright.” Daisy struck the match, shielded the wick while it caught, put back the funnel and turned, lamp in hand, to survey her visitor with drunken suspicion. “What you come for? You said you wasn’t well.”
“I wasn’t.
“I’ll have another.” She beamed beatifically round at her neighbours who, between polite gossiping, regarded her pityingly. Our Daisy was taking her sad loss very hard, they muttered.
“I think you’d better go home, Mrs. Gallagher,” Joe said firmly. “Have you finished your drink?”
She stood swaying like a tall jelly pudding. “Yesh,” she said. “But I want another. I don’t want to go home. Nobody there. Why the hell should I go home?”
Joe put his arm confidentially round her shoulder. “Because I don’t want you to become ill, Mrs. Gallagher. I would rather you came in again tomorrow and had another enjoyableevening.” He eased her round till she faced the door. “Come on, luv.” He pushed her firmly through the door, which his wife had opened, and she stumbled clumsily down the steps, staggered across the pavement and leaned against the gas lamp at the corner. She continued to sniff for a moment and lifted the corner of her apron to wipe her eyes. The clink of money in her apron pocket reminded her of the three sailors. She began to giggle a little ruefully, as she started unsteadily down the slope towards her home. She began to hum to herself, at first sadly and then a little more cheerfully.
Ahead, she could see the river glitter, as a brightly lit liner moved slowly downstream. She stumbled down towards it. Dear, friendly river — it was always there, sometimes scowling, sometimes smiling. Lovely river. She began to sing again.
“Three German officers crossed the line,” she shrieked joyfully at the glittering water, as she leaned over the brick wall which separated her from the dock below in which lay a single ship, dark except for the watchman’s lantern rising and dipping with the small movement of the water.
She waved drunkenly towards the river. “Hooray to yez, hooray to the bloody Mersey!”
EIGHT
Daisy stood for a long time leaning against the wall and looking out over the river, until she felt steady enough to cross the road again back to her own home. Moggie was complaining loudly on the doorstep and leaped ahead of her, as she stumbled into the dead dark front room.
The fire was out, and she felt around for the box of matches which she kept on the windowsill close to the entrance. The damp breeze from across the river was cold and she hastily closed the door behind her.
“Jaysus!” she exclaimed irritably. Then her fingers closed over the errant box and she fumbled to strike a match to light the lamp. She had not cleaned the lamp that morning and its wick was untrimmed. She took off its funnel awkwardly with one hand. The match sputtered out.
She put down the funnel on the table and got out another match. She paused as she was about to strike it and held her breath. She could distinctly hear heavy breathing behind her.
She had been cold. Now perspiration burst from her in sheer terror. Ghosts come back to haunt you, she knew that. Was her poor mother there? Unable to rest in her grave, unable to go to Purgatory because of what Daisy had done that evening?
She stood, match poised above the box, paralysed with fear. And the rhythmical breathing continued.
She screamed. Moggie brushed against her skirts. She shrieked again and crossed herself. “Holy Mother, help me!”
The breathing stopped with a snort.
“That you, Daisy?” asked a woman’s voice from the direction of the old easy chair. “What’s up?”
Daisy did not answer as the fright ebbed out of her and relief flooded in. But her heart was still pounding like a labourer’s pickaxe against asphalt, when she answered cautiously, “That you, Nellie?”
“Course it’s me. Where you been all this time?”
“My! Did you ever give me a fright.” Daisy struck the match, shielded the wick while it caught, put back the funnel and turned, lamp in hand, to survey her visitor with drunken suspicion. “What you come for? You said you wasn’t well.”
“I wasn’t.
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