A Liverpool Lass (28 page)

‘Sure, Stuart,’ Lilac said eagerly. ‘Oh, aren’t I glad you’re here to tell me what to do!’

The doctor came and ordered an ambulance which took Aunt Ada off to the nearest hospital. After she had gone, still without regaining consciousness, Stuart stood in the small room, looking thoughtfully across at Lilac. Art stood beside him. Lilac’s aches and pains, which had almost disappeared whilst she was rushing round after Aunt Ada, began to nag at her again. She looked at the two males standing shoulder to shoulder watching her, one no more than a kid really, like herself, the other a young and handsome man, and wondered what would become of her with no Aunt Ada to lend her respectability? How long would it be before her aunt came home from hospital? What should she do until then?

‘Well, Ada never noticed you’d been in the mud, I dare-say,’ Art said suddenly. ‘Unless she reckernised the pong, that is.’

And with the words, it all came flooding back into Lilac’s mind. Her horrible misadventure, the smelly mud, how dirty she still was, how stiff her clothing, how mucky her person and her hair. And she hurt, she hurt!

Lilac gave a muffled sob and collapsed onto the sofa. The horsehair pricked the sensitive skin at the backs of her knees, but she was past caring. She folded both arms round her middle and learned forward, groaning.

‘What’s the matter, Lilac?’ Stuart said. ‘What’s all this about mud? Now that I come to look at you ... well, what a sight! Art, is there a bath?’

‘Aye. A tin one, in the yard by the privy.’ Art pulled a sympathetic face at Lilac but she was past caring. Troubles seemed to flap around her head like bats; why had she not been a sensible girl and said ‘no’ to Art’s suggestion of mud-raking? ‘Shall I bring it in, Stuart?’

‘If you would,’ Stuart said politely. ‘Will your mam still be busy, do you suppose? Because if not, I could use a bit of help.’

‘She’s got five young’uns to feed and bed down,’ Art said gloomily. ‘I’ll give you an ’and.’

Stuart looked at him narrowly.

‘By the look – and smell – of you, Lilac isn’t the only one needing a bath,’ he said frankly. ‘I’ll poke the fire up and shove the pair of you in the water.’

Art bridled.

‘Not me you won’t,’ he said firmly. ‘She’s the filthy one, I’m only a bit dirty ’cos I heaved her outa that mud.’

‘I’ve got a dreadful belly-ache,’ Lilac said sullenly.
‘I think my insides are going to fall out. It’s because Art pulled and heaved at me the way he did ... I can’t get into the bath.’

But Stuart jollied her along, heated water, made her drink a cup of tea whilst they waited for the bath to be filled. And though the pain did not go, though she still felt quite sick with it, she managed to stifle her groans. She thought Stuart quite the nicest and best-looking young man in the world and desperately wanted him to like her, too. He was unlikely to feel fond of someone who made a dreadful fuss!

The bath full at last, Lilac reluctantly pulled her dress over her head. She was wearing tattered knickers but nothing else. Stuart got the blanket that had not gone off in the ambulance with Aunt Ada and warmed it by the fire.

‘You can dry on that, once you’re clean,’ he said. ‘Come on, into the water.’

Art had been banished since he refused to bath too, so Lilac, still clutching at her agonising stomach, got into the tin tub and sat down. For a moment it was really lovely, as though the hot water was a healing force in itself, but then Stuart threw her the soap and as soon as she began to wash the pain returned twofold. Wave after wave of it, frighteningly severe.

‘I think I’ve got the ’flu, like Auntie,’ Lilac whimpered. ‘I’m going to be sick, I am, I am!’

‘Hold on!’ Stuart ordered her sharply. ‘I’ll fetch the bucket.’

She retched a couple of times into the bucket but only managed to produce what looked like dirty water. Then she sat back in the bath again, tears running down her cheeks. Oh, she wanted so badly to have Stuart for a friend and all she could do was whine at him and be sick!

‘Good girl,’ Stuart said kindly. ‘Use the soap ... oh here, I’ll do your hair.’

He rubbed the soap vigorously into her long hair, then rinsed her with the tall enamel jug full of fresh water. It was cold and for some reason this gave her a whole new series of pains, sharp, darting pains, driving into her lower stomach and back. She gasped but said nothing more until he wrapped a thin towel round her head.

‘All right? Want to come out? I’ll hold the blanket for you.’

She climbed out stiffly, a mass of acute discomfort. Stuart held the blanket, wrapped it firmly round her shoulders. Doubled up with the pain, she managed to get to the horsehair sofa before collapsing.

‘I should have got the doctor to you, I would have if I’d known you’d been face down in Mersey mud,’ Stuart said. ‘Here, get close to the fire, it’ll help to dry you.’

Lilac got to her feet and shuffled nearer to the fire, then felt something running down her legs. A strong feeling that it was probably her insides prompted her to look down. She gasped and collapsed into the chair Stuart had put out for her.

‘Oh Stuart, there’s blood on me leg! Oh, the pain in me belly’s awful, I’m bleedin’ to death, I must have been worse hurt in the mud than I knew.’

Stuart flicked the blanket back and looked at her pale and skinny legs. ‘You aren’t ...’ he began, then stopped abruptly. He looked at the watery blood running down the inside of her calf and then looked up at her. He cleared his throat, then used the blanket to wipe the blood off. More trickled down and the pain, sharp as knives, dug into the sides of Lilac’s stomach. She whimpered again, clutching her middle protectively,
squeezing her knees together as though by so doing she could prevent her guts from descending, which was what she most feared. All that pulling and tugging had obviously done awful damage internally – she was probably dying!

She voiced the thought aloud; Stuart snorted, then rumpled her hair apologetically. His face was pink and his eyes kept darting around as though they wished they were somewhere else.

‘Look, queen, what’s happening to you is perfectly natural, though painful, I’m afraid. Did Nellie ever talk to you about ... well, about things that happen to ... to growing girls?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Lilac said, considerably mystified.

‘What about Aunt Ada? Didn’t she ever tell you about ... oh hell and damnation, sit still a mo, I’ll see if Mrs O’Brien’s free yet.’

He left. He was gone a long time. Lilac sat and hugged her stomach and wondered what on earth he was on about. But soon all she could think of was the pain and her loneliness. By the time Stuart returned she was in tears.

He opened the door and came across the floor. He had a cup in his hand and was carrying it carefully, as though anxious not to spill a drop.

He saw her tears and his own expression softened.

‘Poor kid, what a time for it to happen! Look, flower, just get this down you. It’ll help, honest. You’ll go to sleep and feel fine in the morning, Mrs O’Brien says. And she says to tell you that the pains are the start of ...’ his face was very red and his eyes were looking – staring, really – down into the cup. He handed it to her and half turned away ‘... the start of your ... your monthlies. Okay? Now drink up.’

‘Oh. All right. Only I don’t want to fall asleep here,’ Lilac said, trying to think where she had heard that expression before. Monthlies? It sounded vaguely familiar ... if only the pain would go away she might be able to think what he meant. ‘Shall I go upstairs before I drink it in case I fall down asleep that very minute?’

He laughed, openly and naturally this time.

‘Goodness, it’s not that strong, you drink it down here and then I’ll see you into bed.’ He fished in the pocket of his coat and produced what looked like a bundle of rags and a length of string. ‘Mrs O’Brien gave me this for you to ... er to wear ... you’ll know how to use it, I daresay. And don’t worry, because you aren’t going to be left alone, I’ll kip down on the sofa until morning.’

Lilac stared at the bundle of rags, then up at Stuart. She could not think why she might need the rags, but it scarcely mattered, because she had just realised she was in love for the second time in one afternoon. She looked lovingly at Stuart. He’s the best person in the whole world, she decided. She lay the rags down on the sofa and drank the liquid in the cup, which was hot and sweetly medicinal and smelt of the stuff Aunt Ada liked too much, then smiled up at the young man hovering over her.

‘There, all gone! And will you really stay all night? Until morning?’

‘On my word of honour, I’ll still be here when you get up. And then we’ll have to talk about what to do with you until Auntie’s well again.’

‘Thanks ever so, Stuart. I’ll go off now, then.’

He came up the stairs with her. Already the terrible pains had eased to no more than a deep, twanging throb. She sat on the bed and he handed her the pad of rags.

‘Don’t forget to use these, love, or you’ll mark your bed.’

Lilac took the rags and, when he had left, regarded them with disfavour. She knew she should put them on, she had seen Bessie with the same sort of pad several times, but somehow it had never occurred to her that one day she, too, would need the wretched things. She examined the rag pad and presently, saw how it worked. She adjusted it around herself, feeling foolish and self-conscious, thoroughly glad, for once, that she had the room to herself.

She climbed into bed and settled down. As she began to relax it suddenly occurred to her where she had heard that expression - ‘monthlies.’

She had heard Nellie blame her pallor on her monthlies, and Bessie explain that she did not wish to heave the sack of coal indoors because she had her monthlies and they were hurting ever so.

And with that she remembered something Nellie had once said. About a girl being careful how she behaved, especially after she’d started her monthlies.

‘Why then, Nell?’ she had asked curiously.

‘Because then a girl isn’t a girl any more, she’s a woman,’ Nellie had said, smiling at her. ‘Then she can have a little baby of her own.’

And now it had happened to Lilac herself, the moment of true growing up had arrived! Lilac sat bolt upright in bed.

‘I’m a woman!’ she said, speaking aloud in her excitement. ‘I’m a real woman, like our Nellie and our Bess. Why, I can even have a baby!’

It was a startling, not altogether welcome thought.

Presently she snuggled under the covers once more. Downstairs, Stuart would be sleeping, curled up on the horsehair sofa with a blanket over him. How strange it
was that he should have realised she had reached womanhood before she had known it herself. Still, if she had to share this exciting, frightening knowledge with anyone, she would as soon it was Stuart. In the morning she would tell him so, thank him for explaining to her what had happened to her body. If he had meant it, that was. If he really had kipped down on the shiny horsehair sofa.

Should she check? She could sneak halfway down the stairs and peep, although the stairs always creaked she had a shrewd suspicion that after the sort of day he had had, Stuart was unlikely to be woken by a mere creak or two. But then she pulled the blanket back up round her ears and snuggled down. She had no need to check, she knew Stuart was there, that he would keep his word.

She slept.

On the day following Stuart’s eruption into her life, the three of them – for Art insisted on coming too – made their way to the hospital where Aunt Ada had been taken.

At Stuart’s insistence they caught the tram as far as Great Crosshall Street and then walked. Down Tythebarn, along Pall Mall and into Leeds Street. Walking briskly along Pall Mall the children picked their way between the passengers entering Exchange station, and then spent an enjoyable few minutes watching the trains. Then they went under the huge bridge on Leeds Street, and Lilac shuddered with delicious terror at the thought that the bridge might give way when they were halfway under and the trains might come thundering down and kill them.

Who would I save first, Art or Stuart, she wondered, hurrying along between them. Art was nice most of the time, but he could be horrible, rough and rude. Besides, everyone saved the man they loved first, so she would, of course, save Stuart. She imagined flinging herself at him with a wild cry ... ‘Run, Stuart, I’ll hold up the bridge whilst you escape!’ and then seeing Art’s round, reproachful eyes fixed on her as they died together ... that would be romantic, now she thought about it. To sacrifice your life for one man and die in another’s arms. Cor!

She glanced sideways at Stuart in the dimness under the bridge. He was looking troubled; she guessed he was wondering what to do with her should he be called
away before Auntie improved. She glanced at Art. As luck would have it he was giving one of those awful, juicy snorts and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Oh dear. No contest, Lilac thought rather smugly. Art was no gent, though it did occur to her that he might well have caught a chill lugging her out of the mud which would account, at least in part, for the snort.

They emerged into the sunlight and, looking to their right, could see the hospital ahead of them. It was dauntingly large, a great mass of grimy brick surrounded by railway lines, which was no doubt why it was so dirty. Poor Aunt Ada, shut up in there, Lilac thought with genuine sympathy. But it wouldn’t matter to her where she was, provided they made her well again.

‘Isn’t it ugly!’ she said however, swinging on Stuart’s arm. ‘What’s it like inside?’

‘Not too bad, but you’ll see for yourselves in a minute,’ Stuart said. ‘It was built by a great philanthropist in the last century, a chap called David Lewis, so it may be a bit old-fashioned, but it’s one of the best for treatment they say. I was brought here once when I was a kid but I don’t remember much about it now. Except that they made me well again, of course,’ he added.

‘David Lewis? I thought that was a theatre,’ Art said. ‘I
know
it’s a theatre, I bin scrumpin’ fruit off of the barrer outside there, I seen the people go in an’ out, all dressed fine.’