The Leaving Of Liverpool (37 page)

Issy appeared with a plate heaped with chips and two pieces of battered fish. ‘I’ll bring the tea in a minute, luv,’ she panted.

‘In Liverpool, all the women call me “love”,’ Zeke Penn remarked. He removed his coat and tucked into the food.

Mollie smiled. She turned away to let him eat in peace and told Harry the events of the day before. ‘When everyone had gone, Megan only asked her grandma for a divorce. “I don’t want to live with you any more,” she said. Irene nearly went through the roof.’

‘It must be funny having kids,’ Harry mused.

‘You can meet mine, if you want. They’re coming to the first house at the Rotunda on Saturday. You might like to come at the same time.’

‘Will your mother-in-law be there?’ When Mollie confirmed that was the case, he said hastily, ‘I’d sooner go to the second house.’ On reflection, Mollie thought that was probably a wise decision.

Zeke Penn had finished his meal in record time. ‘What did you think of the show?’ he enquired.

‘I loved every minute,’ Mollie enthused. ‘At least, every minute that I managed to see. I’m in the box office and I missed the first half.’

‘Why don’t you bring your tea over here and drink it with us, mate?’ Harry suggested.

‘“Love” and “mate”; I like that.’ He put his tea on their table and sat next to Harry. ‘It’s a big improvement on what I was called back in the States by white folk. It was more usually “nigger” or “you dirty nigger”, or names that I can’t repeat in front of a lady.’

‘
All
white folk?’ Mollie’s brow puckered. ‘My auntie lives in New York and she’d never call black people names like that.’

‘No, not all white folk,’ he conceded. ‘I suppose I got over-sensitive about it. I had some really good friends who were white, but they moved to California. Not long afterwards, I left to live in Paris. It’s different there; I’m treated as an equal.’ He gave a joyful sigh. ‘You’d have to be black yourself to know how good it feels, though I badly miss my family back in New York. Whereabouts in New York does your aunt live, ma’am?’

‘Oh, please call me Mollie and this is Harry,’ Mollie cried. ‘Aunt Maggie used to live in Greenwich Village, but now she’s in Queens.’

‘I lived in Harlem; ’fact I was born there, but I know Greenwich Village well. There’s clubs there, jazz clubs, that admit blacks.’

He seemed ready to chat all night, but after a while Mollie said reluctantly that she couldn’t stay another minute. Irene would have been expecting her home ages ago. Zeke said he’d catch a taxi back to the hotel, but Harry informed him he’d have a long time to wait for a taxi, as not many cruised along Scotland Road in the hope of picking up a fare.

‘Best thing is to take a tram into town. I’ll come with you, show you to the door of your hotel. It’d be a bit risky to go wandering round town looking like that. I’m talking about your coat, mate, not your colour. There’s some scallies who’d give their right arm for a coat like yours; they’d have it off your back before you could turn around.’

 

The audience must have gone home and told their friends about the show, and the friends told their friends. The following night, the queue was longer than Mollie had ever known. At least a hundred people had to be turned away. The night after, the queue was even longer. Some who’d queued for hours sold their tickets for twice as much to people at the back.

‘Couldn’t you stay another week?’ she asked Zeke when he turned up at Charlie’s for the third night in a row. The room was almost full. It seemed to have got around that Zeke Penn graced Charlie’s with his company after the show.

‘Sorry, Mollie,’ he said regretfully. ‘I must say I’m enjoying Liverpool, but we’re due in Manchester next week and Birmingham the week after, then three other cities - I can’t remember the names. We finish at the Palladium in London around the end of May. We’ve been given to understand the King of England will be there.’

‘Lucky old you,’ Harry said scornfully. ‘I hope you don’t bow and scrape to him. Don’t forget you were born in a country that got rid of kings and queens a long time ago and became a republic. As for France, they chopped the buggers’ heads off.’

Zeke’s eyes twinkled merrily. ‘I shall probably bow, Harry, but I certainly won’t scrape.’

‘Where did you learn to tap-dance, Zeke?’ someone shouted.

‘I went to a stage school in New York.’

‘Does anyone know if there’s a stage school in Liverpool?’

No one did, but Mollie said loudly there were plenty of dancing teachers around.

‘I wouldn’t mind our Rosie learning to tap-dance. I wonder how much it costs?’

The questions continued. Zeke, the centre of attention, seemed perfectly happy to answer them. Yes, he really had starred on Broadway, he confirmed: ‘It was in a show called
Roses are Red
; I played a bellboy.’

As the week progressed, more and more people packed into Charlie’s, and the chip shop, unused to doing so much trade at such a late hour, required extra help. The late Charlie’s wife, who only worked during the day, came to supervise. A tiny, wizened woman, who wore a dirty white overall and too much lipstick, she sat at the top of the stairs, watching the charismatic young man entertaining her customers with tales of New York and Paris.

Harry continued to accompany him on the tram and deliver him safely to his hotel. ‘What do you talk about?’ Mollie asked.

‘All sorts of things.’ Harry shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Football. He’d like to see a match on Saturday - Everton are playing Chelsea - but he’d have to leave at half-time and it wouldn’t be worth it. He’s worried about the situation in Europe - Hitler loathes Negroes as much as he does Jews. Oh,’ he grinned, ‘and we talked about you. He thought you were me wife.’

Mollie claimed to be offended. ‘If I were your wife, I wouldn’t let you go around looking like a tramp. I’d’ve chucked that jersey a long time ago and bought you a new pair of trousers and a pair of socks -
two
pairs of socks. Doesn’t your gran look after you?’ she asked exasperatedly.

‘She’d like to, but I won’t let her. I’m all right as I am, Mollie. Don’t fuss.’

‘I’m only fussing because Zeke thought I was your wife.’

 

Saturday night was sad enough seeing the show for the final time, but even sadder at Charlie’s where a crowd had gathered to say tara to Zeke. The atmosphere was gloomy. Zeke was like a star that had briefly shone on their minuscule part of the universe and was about to move on. Unless a miracle happened, they would never see his like again.

‘Manchester and Birmingham and all those other places will seem very dull after Liverpool,’ Zeke said to Mollie.

‘Liverpool will seem dull without you,’ she told him. She put her arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. ‘Goodbye, Zeke, it’s been lovely knowing you.’

Everyone went outside to see him and Harry off on the tram, cheering and banging the windows. Mollie watched the tram make its rackety way towards town. The magic was over and life was about to resume its normal dull routine.

 

Actually, life wasn’t all
that
dull. Her job at the Rotunda continued to enthral her, although the shows weren’t a patch on
Parisian Music Hall
. Harry met her every night and they became regulars at Charlie’s, but never bought more than two cups of tea, which they drank while sorting out the problems of the world.

She felt convinced it must have got back to Irene that she was seeing Harry, but her mother-in-law didn’t say anything. For months now, putting aside the occasional tiff between Megan and her grandma, an air of tranquillity had filled the house in Turnpike Street. Mollie and the girls enjoyed a decent night’s sleep, having swapped bedrooms with Irene, who’d moved into the middle bedroom. Mollie had bought an extra bed. No doubt due to the provision of better food, Dandelion hadn’t found it necessary to fill his stomach elsewhere, so Brodie was happy. Furthermore, after seeing
Parisian Music Hall
, Mollie had heard Megan and Brodie saying how much they’d love to dance, not like Zeke, but Mimi. She found a ballet teacher who taught in St Oswald’s church hall, Old Swan, and booked the girls in for two hours on Saturday mornings. The cost was sixpence an hour for both and she was thrilled at the idea of being able to spend an entire shilling without having to cut back on other things. She made the little frilly frocks herself - they were called tutus - and visited Paddy’s Market to look for ballet shoes. She’d actually found some that only required a small amount of darning on the toes.

Mollie would far sooner Tom were still alive and they were living in the house in Allerton. But Tom was dead and she had to make the best of things the way they were. Tommy was now five and would start school in September and be able to keep an eye on his brother; she worried about Joe when he was at school. Brodie was such a sweet little girl and the other girls seemed to like her. Megan didn’t care if they liked her or not. As for Irene, she relished her weekly visits to the Rotunda with the children; they went to the first house every Saturday. The only fly in the ointment was Harry Benedict.

They couldn’t go on the way they were. He was young, virile, and exceptionally good-looking. If he bothered to comb his hair now and again and dress more smartly, he could have had any woman he wanted. As it was, enough girls went weak at the knees at the mere sight of him. Mollie knew he wouldn’t be content for long with tea in Charlie’s and a stroll along Scotland Road. Much to her disappointment, he hadn’t tried to kiss her again. Even if he did, the time would come when he’d want more than just kisses. She tried to visualize going to bed with Harry Benedict, but her imagination refused to let her; she was too attached to the memory of Tom.

The crunch came months later, in August, when the children were on holiday from school and the theatre had closed for a month. She still met Harry. At half past nine, when it was beginning to grow dark and the children were in bed, she’d say to Irene, ‘I’m just going for a walk, I won’t be long.’

Irene didn’t ask where she was going or why hadn’t she gone for a walk in daylight, just, ‘All right, luv. I’ll probably be in bed by the time you get back.’

Harry would be in Charlie’s, the tea already paid for. Rita or Issy would bring it up as soon as she arrived. ‘Hello,’ Mollie would say, touching his shoulder lightly then sitting opposite him at the wobbly table.

‘Hello.’ He in turn would touch her hand.

On the night in particular, when the crunch came and everything changed, Harry was hunched over the table and didn’t move when she sat down.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘You look very glum.’

‘Glum!’ He sat up straight and gave her a caustic smile. ‘I’m not glum, as you put it,’ he said angrily. ‘I’m on top of the world. I’m going away. I’m going to do something proper with me life for a change, stop fiddling round at the edges trying to put things right and wasting me bloody time.’

‘Going away?’ It was the only part of the diatribe that she understood. ‘Going away where?’

‘Spain. I’m going to join the International Brigade and fight the Fascists, who are trying to overthrow the legally elected Socialist government. We got a letter asking for volunteers.’ His face changed, became softer. ‘Mollie, luv, I’ve always wanted to do something like this: fight for what’s right,
really
fight, not just attend meetings, sign petitions, and go on marches, but meet the enemy face to face, deal with them at first-hand.’

‘You mean kill them before they kill you?’ She was horrified. She didn’t want him to go away and risk his life, however worthy the cause. ‘What about us?’ she asked in a small voice.

‘Us?’ He was angry again. ‘There is no “us”. We both know I’m not good enough for you, that there’ll never be an “us”. That’s another reason I’m going. I love you, Moll, but we’re going nowhere.’ He picked up the tea that Issy must have brought without her noticing, took a sip, and returned the cup to the table with a bang. ‘No bloody where at all.’

‘But, Harry,’ she said meekly, ‘there’s nowhere for us to go.’

‘We could get married.’ He looked at her challengingly and the expression on his face, so full of love and longing, made her want to weep.

‘Oh, Harry, you know we can’t.’ She was almost weeping now. ‘There’s so many things against us: religion, for one.’

‘Religion! Huh! I’ve no time for religion; lighting candles, saying prayers to statues, listening to a priest drone on in Latin, which no one understands.’ The table was banged again, this time with his fist. ‘Marx said religion is the opium of the people and he was right. Me, I’m an atheist. I don’t believe in anything except meself and the goodness in people’s hearts, if only they were allowed to get on with their lives without interference from the capitalists and the politicians - and the bloody priests.’

She wanted to argue that he was wrong, that most people weren’t as good as he thought, that he was looking at the world through rose-tinted spectacles. He was prepared to die for a cause he believed in, but not many men, or women, would do that.

‘It’s not just religion, Harry,’ she whispered. ‘Say if we got married and I had more children and had to give up my job. What would we live on? Tell me, how much do you earn a week?’

‘Twenty-five bob,’ he muttered. ‘We could move into the country, and I could get a job on a farm - though a farm worker’s wages are disgraceful.’ His shoulders drooped as the sense of what she had just said sank in. ‘It’s hopeless, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, love.’ She stroked his hand.

‘I want you,’ he said. ‘I want you so much that I’d go back on the docks if they’d take me, and keep me big mouth shut this time. I wish you weren’t so prim and proper, Moll,’ he said childishly, ‘and more like other girls.’

‘In what way, Harry?’ She had no idea what he meant.

‘You know what way.’ He refused to meet her eyes.

The penny dropped. ‘You mean make love with you?’ She felt herself blush, but pressed on. ‘Where? In the back entry of Turnpike Street? In my mother-in-law’s house while she and the children are asleep? Would that keep you here, Harry, if we were able to make love?’