Rainbow's End (48 page)

‘An’ I dare say Mam’s munitions place might have a few bangers goin’ spare, now the war’s over,’ Deirdre said, linking her arm firmly in her friend’s. ‘Come on, Eth, let’s see if we can get home.’

‘See if we can? Course we can, you an’ me. We’ll wiggle and squiggle through the crowds like a coupla tadpoles through a reed-bed,’ Eth said thickly. ‘Tell the truth, Dee, I’ll be glad to get back to me mam; me ’ead’s fair swimmin’ an’ me ’ankerchief’s wetter’n the River Mersey in flood.’ Eth spent her holidays with an aunt who kept a small farm out at Upton and knew all about the country. ‘’Sides, there’ll be all sorts o’ parties an’ frolics planned for this evenin’. I want to join in, so I does.’

So the two girls, arms linked, began to fight their way through the crowd in the direction of home.

It took them longer than they expected to get back to Heyworth Street and instead of parting once they reached it, Deirdre decided to go home with her friend. ‘You ain’t so good, Eth,’ she said as they emerged from Priory Road. ‘I’ll come back wit’ you, see you into bed. No, don’t go sayin’ you won’t miss out on the fun tonight. You’ll be best in the warm.’

‘I know it,’ Eth said gratefully as they ploughed across a Heyworth Street on which all the traffic was at a standstill once more. ‘I reckon it is flu. Oh, an’ I did want to share in the fun.’

‘Mebbe, if you rest till, say, five o’clock, you’ll be better,’ Deirdre suggested hopefully. ‘I’ll come back then, see how you are, queen.’

But once she had seen her friend into her mother’s cosy, noisy kitchen, Deirdre made her way to Mere Lane, with very little real hope of seeing Ethel out and enjoying herself that evening.

‘She’s got the flu, an’ I just hope she hasn’t give it to me an’ all,’ Deirdre told her mother as the family – those of them still at home – gathered round the table for a meal later that afternoon. Sammy and Toby had been allowed out of school early – or possibly, Deirdre thought, the teachers had been unable to stop the entire school leaving the premises – and were eating scrag-end stew and boiled potatoes with great enthusiasm. ‘Are you goin’ to let the lads come out when we’ve et, Mam?’

‘I’ll come out an’ all,’ Ada said. ‘Reckon there’ll be high old doin’s this evenin’, judgin’ by the noise outside right now. They aren’t goin’ to want us at work, that I can guarantee.’

Deirdre, in the middle of her meal, stopped eating abruptly. ‘Tolly! Reckon he’ll be free too, our Mam?’

‘Bound to be,’ Ada said, helping herself to another potato. ‘Eat up, all of you; I’ve put Donal’s share aside, he can have it when he gets home, even though I dessay it’ll be nearer tomorrer mornin’ than today when he catches that bloomin’ ferry.’

‘Depends where he was when the peace started,’ Deirdre observed, following her mother’s example. ‘Eat all you can, you little fellers,’ she added, addressing Sammy and Toby, ‘’cos it’s my belief that you won’t eat again till tomorrer breakfast!’

‘We’ll all call for Tolly,’ Ada decided, inspired. ‘We’ll ask him back for a late supper . . . Me credit’s good, we’ll have a bit of a party.’

‘Right. I’ll go round there, an’ bring him along,’ Deirdre said briskly, finishing up the last of the gravy on her plate with half a round of thickly cut bread. ‘Wharrif he’s with a pal though, our Mam? Can it stretch to one more?’ She had it in mind to ask Liza too, if that was the only way to get Tolly. ‘He might be with Liza Bartlett, I dessay.’

‘Oh aye, another one or two won’t mek no difference,’ Ada said cheerfully. She was earning more money than she could have dreamed of four years earlier and never minded spending some of it on others. ‘Right, queen, you go for Tolly an’ the lads an’ I will meet up wi’ the pair of ye at nine o’clock tonight, back here. Awright?’

Deirdre agreed eagerly and set off once more into the crowded streets, her eyes darting everywhere for a glimpse of Tolly.

But for most of that evening she found it impossible to search for any one person, you simply went with the flow. She called on Eth’s mam, and was told that Ethel was much too ill to go out and that the youngest member of the family, five-year-old Freddy, was also poorly.

‘They’ve got flu, there’s no doubt of it,’ Mrs Rathbone said gloomily. ‘Still, we’ve caught it early, I reckon. I got a bottle from the pharmy. He reckons if I keep ’em warm an’ quiet it won’t last above a week. Off you go, young Dee, an’ enjoy yourself. Lerroff a firecracker or two for me, will ye?’

Deirdre, laughing, promised to do so and was soon back in Heyworth Street once more, making her way up, this time, in the direction of Mere Lane. She had given up on Tolly, but was working up quite an appetite and wondering hopefully what party food her mother had managed to get hold of when, through the throng, she caught sight of Donal, hair on end, his chin gleaming with grease, a large piece of sausage in one hand. He saw her and dived through the crowd.

‘Dee! I say, wharra go, eh? Want a fire cracker? I was give half a dozen an’ I’ve still gorra couple left.’

‘Gi’s a bite of that sausage an’ all,’ Deirdre shrieked, grabbing her twin by the arm. ‘Mam’s havin’ a party at home, wi’ lots of food, so we’ll be awright once we get back to Mere Lane, but right now I’m starved!’

‘Sure,’ Donal said good-naturedly. ‘Who’s comin’ to the party, then, eh?’

‘Oh, Tolly, us . . . neighbours, I reckon,’ Deirdre shouted. ‘Only I haven’t seen neither hide nor hair of Tolly since we walked to work this . . . Well, wouldn’t you know it? There he is!’

And there he was, with his arm round Liza, doing what looked like a dance with a dozen other people and waving a bottle of beer with the hand that wasn’t squeezing Liza’s shoulders.

Deirdre fought her way over to him and clutched his sleeve. ‘Tolly!’ she shouted. ‘Mam’s havin’ a bit of a party at home; can you come? You an’ Liza, I mean.’

‘We’ll be there,’ Tolly shouted back. ‘Nine, you say? Right, we’ll be there. Got somethin’ to show you an’ your mam, anyroad.’

So Deirdre and Donal made their way back to Mere Lane, assuring their mother and a crowd of neighbours and friend that Tolly and Liza would be along any time now.

And so they were. Tolly entered the room, blinking at the light, with an arm around Liza Bartlett’s plump shoulders. ‘Evenin’, Mrs Docherty. Evenin’, all,’ he said breezily. He took hold of Liza’s hand and held it out for everyone to see. ‘We’re engaged to be married, me an’ Liza here!’

There were shouts of congratulation and more bottles of beer were opened and poured. Neither Tolly nor Liza drank as a rule but they shared a small glass of stout, beaming at everyone.

Deirdre saw, from a quick look round, that she was the only person surprised and dismayed by their news, and as soon as possible she made her way to Tolly’s side whilst Liza was showing her little ruby engagement ring around. ‘Tolly! What was you thinkin’ of?’ she demanded furiously. ‘Wharrabout our Ellen, eh? What’ll she say when she knows you’ve been an’ gone an’ got engaged to that Liza?’

‘She’ll wish us happy, as you should, Dee,’ Tolly said courteously. ‘Why, she’s Liza’s best friend as well as me own pal. Your sister would no sooner grudge us our happiness than . . . than you would!’

‘Well, I do,’ Deirdre hissed. ‘You an’ Ellen’s been sweethearts for years, Tolly. How can you turn to someone else when our Ellen’s off in France, nursin’ the wounded?’

Tolly sighed. ‘Your Ellen’s gorra feller of her own,’ he said quietly. ‘Hasn’t she told you? But anyway, chuck, she an’ I agreed we wouldn’t suit months an’ months back. Didn’t she tell you?’

‘N-no, she didn’t,’ Deirdre said, considerably surprised and taken aback by this statement. ‘Why, she writ to me mam askin’ that we tek you in when you first come back to Blighty. We thought . . . I thought . . .’

‘Well, think again,’ Tolly said quietly. ‘I were always mortal fond o’ Ellen, but it were . . . it were a brotherly fondness, I suppose. The way I feel about Liza . . . it’s different.’

‘Oh,’ Deirdre said inadequately. ‘Well, I wish you happy too, o’ course. But . . . but Ellen hasn’t said nothin’ about havin’ a feller. Honest, Tolly.’

‘She’ll have to say somethin’ soon,’ Tolly observed. ‘Since she’s bringin’ him back wi’ her when they come back to Blighty. I dessay your mam knows, queen, even if you don’t. So have you forgiven me for arrangin’ to marry Liza?’

‘Of course,’ Deirdre said rather stiffly. ‘I hope you’ll be very happy.’

She sounded doubtful, but Tolly only laughed, then bent and kissed her cheek. ‘We shall be, don’t you worry,’ he said lightly. ‘An’ the whole Docherty family will dance at our wedding, see if they don’t!’

‘Cripes! When’s the weddin’ then, Tolly?’ Deirdre asked. ‘Are you goin’ to wait until our Ellen’s back?’

‘Of course. Who else will be bridesmaid but your Ellen?’ Tolly said gravely. ‘An’ then it’ll be Ellen’s turn, see if it ain’t. An’ you’ll be bridesmaid, Dee!’

Tolly was right over Ellen’s reaction to his news, Deirdre had to admit it. She wrote at once, saying she was delighted, would certainly act as bridesmaid for her dear friend Liza if she was home in time and telling Ada shyly that she would be bringing a friend home when she came; a young Irishman called Liam Nolan.

‘Fancy her tellin’ Liza first,’ Deirdre said rather crossly to Donal. ‘You’d ha’ thought she’d tell Mam or us first, not a stranger.’

But Donal had pointed out that Liza was no stranger but an old friend. ‘And some things are easier to tell a friend than your mam or your little sister,’ he pointed out.

And then they got the letter from Ellen, telling them the expected date of her return in March.

‘She an’ Liam should be home around the same time as your brothers,’ Ada said. ‘It’s a long time to wait but it’ll give us a chance to do somethin’ special. Tell you what, we’ll have a party, we’ll get the whole fambly round, an’ friends, an’ the neighbours. Yes, we’ll have a real big welcome home party!’

Seamus charged up the stairs, flung open the kitchen door and stormed into the room, his cheeks pink with wrath, his eyes sparkling. His mother, peeling potatoes at the table by the window, turned and stared at him. ‘All right, are ye, Seamus? Where’s your brother?’

‘You tell me,’ Seamus said bitterly, throwing his coat in the rough direction of the coat-stand and scowling blackly when it fell to the floor. ‘You’ll never believe it, Mammy – he’s quit again!’

‘Quit?’ Aisling said mildly. ‘Quit work early, d’you mean? Well and isn’t that just like Garvan now, when Mr Reilly gave the lot of you a bonus on Armistice Day and you took most of the day off? I wonder what he’s up to now? He’s not shown his face here yet.’

‘He hasn’t left early, he’s left work,’ Seamus growled. ‘Quit the job, Mammy, not even give notice, just told them he’ll not be comin’ back. And it’s the best-paid job the pair of us ever got, so it is. And Mr Reilly wouldn’t have took Garvan on if I hadn’t promised to make him behave. Oh, I could give him a good wallop, so I could! The ingratitude, Mammy! I shan’t know how to face the Reillys tomorrow.’

Aisling sighed. ‘And now I suppose you’ve quit as well, so there’ll be two jobs wantin’,’ she said resignedly. ‘Well, if you want to give Garvan a tap you can join the queue. It seemed just the job for him, too, what wit’ bein’ in the open air half the time, an’ mixin’ wit’ folk the other half. Still, now the war’s over an’ the fellers will all be comin’ home, I dare say you’d ha’ lost the jobs regardless.’

‘No we wouldn’t, Mammy,’ Seamus said dully. ‘And I’ve not quit, not this time. I told Garv if he walked out again he could do so alone and I meant it. Mammy, I’ve a future with the firm, Mr Reilly as good as told us so. Well, I’m stayin’ on and so I told Mr Reilly this afternoon, before I came home. Garvan’s eighteen, same as I am. He’ll have to learn to stand on his own two feet ’stead of tramplin’ mine. If he believes I’d t’row a dacint job like this one down the pan he must t’ink I came up the Liffey on the last lily! Besides, there’s . . . there’s other considerations.’

‘Oh, well, if you’re still in work then it’s not quite so bad,’ Aisling said. She finished peeling the potatoes and looked hopefully round at her son. ‘Did you see Ticky as you came t’rough the courtyard? I could do wit’ a hand to get the meal on the table.’

Ticky, at twelve, was a handful and resentful of being asked to do what he considered to be ‘girl’s work’, but Seamus got to his feet, picked up his coat and slung it over one shoulder. ‘I’ll fetch him up for you,’ he said. ‘I’d better go an’ see if I can find Garvan, I suppose. I wonder if he’s down at the docks? He’s still hankerin’ for a job down there, though small hope he’d have of keepin’ it, wit’ the troops comin’ home any day now.’

‘Right. Thanks, Shay,’ his mammy said and, as he opened the door, she turned towards him. ‘There’s not . . . not another reason for Garvan’s givin’ his notice, is there, son? It’s . . . it’s nothin’ . . . personal . . . like?’

‘Ask Garv,’ Seamus growled and made his escape, clattering down the stairs and out into the courtyard, feeling that he’d evaded some acute – and embarrassing – questions by the skin of his teeth. He stood in the middle of the courtyard and roared for Ticky and, when his brother did not appear, dived into the next block of housing and whipped up to the first-floor landing. Sure enough, a small gang of boys, including Ticky, sat in a semicircle, with a variety of ill-made clay marbles before them.

‘Ticky, go home,’ Seamus ordered his younger brother. ‘Mammy needs a hand, so she does.’

‘But I’m busy . . .’ began Ticky defensively, only to feel his collar grabbed in a firm hand. ‘All right, all right, I’m goin’,’ he said at once, freeing himself. ‘But it ain’t fair, you an’ Garv never help Mammy, it’s always me.’

‘We’re in work,’ Seamus began, then stopped. What was the use of justifying himself to his small brother, who knew very well why he was called upon to help in the house from time to time? He hustled Ticky down the stairs and out into their own apartment block, saw him up the stairs, then turned back to the courtyard once more. He had better try to find Garvan; for all his brother’s vaunted independence, this would be the first time he had gone job-hunting alone. If he was job-hunting, that was.