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Authors: Lyn Andrews
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Boundary Street to the junction of the Rotunda Lyric Music Hall and Kirkdale Road. Then they changed trams and
got halfway up the steep decline called Everton Valley before they got off. Big three-storeyed houses, all soot-grimed but
with small, neat, walled gardens, clean paintwork, whitened steps and lace curtains flanked both sides of the road and the
pavement was flagged. At its junction with Saint Domingo Road was the obligatory public house, aptly named ‘The Valley’ and
beyond, on the left-hand side loomed the soot-stained bulk of the Methodist Church. On the right-hand side a four-storeyed,
square edifice jutted obliquely forward, narrowing the roadway.
‘What’s that, it looks like a workhouse?’ she asked, twisting her head to take in all the sights of this new district of Liverpool,
for it was the furthest she’d ventured beyond Scotland Road.
‘A convent and there’s a private school for girls there as well. Notre Dame, it’s called. Some of the girls board there but
most of them go home each day. I often see them at four o’clock. They wear straw hats in the summer and black ones, shaped
like po’s in the winter. They don’t half look daft!’
Cat lost interest in the convent and the description of its pupils as they stopped outside a large house with a brown-painted
front door, which boasted a highly-polished, brass letterbox and knocker. It looked daunting and some of her ebullience faded.
‘Is this it?’
He nodded and pushed her up the three steps, rapping sharply on the brass knocker. Cat stood fiddling with the top button
of her blouse until, after what seemed like hours, slow, shuffling footsteps were heard beyond the door.
‘It’s me, Mrs Travis! Joe! Joe Calligan and I’ve brought the girl I was telling you about.’
The door opened and a small woman with white hair, pulled tightly back from her face into a bun, stood peering at them through
a lorgnette. She wore an ankle-length black dress with a high collar and leg-o’-mutton sleeves.
‘Bring her in then, don’t stand cluttering up the doorstep!’
Cat noticed that her voice bore only the faintest trace of the Liverpool accent. She followed Joe and Mrs Travis down a wide
hallway, painted in brown and cream, the walls covered with prints of old sailing ships. The floor was of highly polished
wood and a runner of brown and cream carpet ran along the middle of it. Mrs Travis had disappeared through a door on the left
and Joe stepped aside, motioning her to follow.
She’d never seen a room quite like it. It reminded her of the parlour in the priest’s house, but it was much bigger. It was
also very dark for beside the lace curtains that covered the windows, heavy maroon-coloured drapes were half drawn. The furniture
was old-fashioned and large but highly polished, in fact the whole room held a faint fragrance of beeswax. There were tables
and lamps that had obviously come from foreign parts. Strange pictures of even stranger lookingplaces covered the walls, and stuffed animals and birds, queer little ornaments and jugs covered the mahogany sideboard, the
cane tables and corner cabinets, one of which held a collection of vividly coloured butterflies of all sizes. A piano, draped
with a dark red chenille cloth stood in one corner of the room and on the top of this, too, was a collection of exotic bric-a-brac.
Mrs Travis had seated herself in a button-backed chair and motioned Cat towards the shiny hide sofa with its array of brightly
coloured cushions.
She sat cautiously on the edge, finding it hard and slippery. Joe stood behind her, his cap deferentially in his hand.
‘So, you’re looking for work? Have you been in service before?’
‘No, but I’ve kept house for as long as I can remember and I can cook too. Simple things, M’am,’ she added.
‘By your accent I assume you are Irish.’
‘That I am, from Dublin.’
‘I have always found that the Irish can be divided
got halfway up the steep decline called Everton Valley before they got off. Big three-storeyed houses, all soot-grimed but
with small, neat, walled gardens, clean paintwork, whitened steps and lace curtains flanked both sides of the road and the
pavement was flagged. At its junction with Saint Domingo Road was the obligatory public house, aptly named ‘The Valley’ and
beyond, on the left-hand side loomed the soot-stained bulk of the Methodist Church. On the right-hand side a four-storeyed,
square edifice jutted obliquely forward, narrowing the roadway.
‘What’s that, it looks like a workhouse?’ she asked, twisting her head to take in all the sights of this new district of Liverpool,
for it was the furthest she’d ventured beyond Scotland Road.
‘A convent and there’s a private school for girls there as well. Notre Dame, it’s called. Some of the girls board there but
most of them go home each day. I often see them at four o’clock. They wear straw hats in the summer and black ones, shaped
like po’s in the winter. They don’t half look daft!’
Cat lost interest in the convent and the description of its pupils as they stopped outside a large house with a brown-painted
front door, which boasted a highly-polished, brass letterbox and knocker. It looked daunting and some of her ebullience faded.
‘Is this it?’
He nodded and pushed her up the three steps, rapping sharply on the brass knocker. Cat stood fiddling with the top button
of her blouse until, after what seemed like hours, slow, shuffling footsteps were heard beyond the door.
‘It’s me, Mrs Travis! Joe! Joe Calligan and I’ve brought the girl I was telling you about.’
The door opened and a small woman with white hair, pulled tightly back from her face into a bun, stood peering at them through
a lorgnette. She wore an ankle-length black dress with a high collar and leg-o’-mutton sleeves.
‘Bring her in then, don’t stand cluttering up the doorstep!’
Cat noticed that her voice bore only the faintest trace of the Liverpool accent. She followed Joe and Mrs Travis down a wide
hallway, painted in brown and cream, the walls covered with prints of old sailing ships. The floor was of highly polished
wood and a runner of brown and cream carpet ran along the middle of it. Mrs Travis had disappeared through a door on the left
and Joe stepped aside, motioning her to follow.
She’d never seen a room quite like it. It reminded her of the parlour in the priest’s house, but it was much bigger. It was
also very dark for beside the lace curtains that covered the windows, heavy maroon-coloured drapes were half drawn. The furniture
was old-fashioned and large but highly polished, in fact the whole room held a faint fragrance of beeswax. There were tables
and lamps that had obviously come from foreign parts. Strange pictures of even stranger lookingplaces covered the walls, and stuffed animals and birds, queer little ornaments and jugs covered the mahogany sideboard, the
cane tables and corner cabinets, one of which held a collection of vividly coloured butterflies of all sizes. A piano, draped
with a dark red chenille cloth stood in one corner of the room and on the top of this, too, was a collection of exotic bric-a-brac.
Mrs Travis had seated herself in a button-backed chair and motioned Cat towards the shiny hide sofa with its array of brightly
coloured cushions.
She sat cautiously on the edge, finding it hard and slippery. Joe stood behind her, his cap deferentially in his hand.
‘So, you’re looking for work? Have you been in service before?’
‘No, but I’ve kept house for as long as I can remember and I can cook too. Simple things, M’am,’ she added.
‘By your accent I assume you are Irish.’
‘That I am, from Dublin.’
‘I have always found that the Irish can be divided
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