The Leaving Of Liverpool (9 page)

‘Thank you, Finn,’ she said gratefully. ‘How is Hazel? I forgot to ask. The baby should arrive in a few weeks’ time.’

‘Hazel’s blooming and the baby’s due in the middle of April.’ Finn could hardly wait to become a father. ‘We’re going to call it Patrick if it’s a boy, but we can’t decide on a girl’s name.’ He fancied Deirdre, but Hazel was rather taken with Geraldine, a name he loathed. They were still arguing over a compromise. Finn sighed and wished he were back in the little cottage in Duneathly with the wife he adored. He didn’t feel like traipsing around a strange city on the other side of the world looking for his sister. But it had to be done. He dearly loved both his sisters and was determined to find Annemarie during the week he was about to spend in New York. He expected to be home in good time for the arrival of his first child.

She stood on the platform, waving to her brother until the train chugged out of sight in a cloud of smoke. It was even worse than watching the
Queen Maia
leave because now Annemarie was lost and it was all Mollie’s fault! She’d felt miserable enough before, but it was nothing compared to how she felt now.

With a deep sigh, she trudged across to the ladies’ waiting room where a bright fire burned in the grate. There were a few other women there with suitcases at their feet, and she remembered the parcel underneath her arm containing a new frock and the ‘few other things’. She didn’t bother to look: she couldn’t care less what the frock was like or see what the ‘other things’ were.

What was she going to do now? It would be ages before Finn returned, but at least he’d promised to send a telegram to the Brophys when Annemarie was found -
if
she was found. A wave of horror swept over her at the thought that she might never see her sister again. She could be in a completely different part of America by now. She could have been kidnapped or even murdered - there was actually a chance that she was
dead
.

‘Oh!’ she groaned aloud, but was diverted from her black thoughts by a woman in a fur coat and a red cloche hat who came into the waiting room dragging a small boy by his arm. ‘I shall never,
ever
take you shopping again. You’ve been nothing but a nuisance,’ she shouted. She flung the child on to the wooden bench that surrounded the room on three sides. ‘Now, sit there and don’t
move
.’

The child, who only looked about two or three, immediately began to cry. The woman then slapped his face so hard that he uttered a scream of pain. There were murmurs of complaint from the other women there. ‘There’s no need for that,’ one muttered. The woman gave her a malevolent glare and slapped the child on the other side of his face. He screamed again.

Mollie leapt to her feet. ‘He’s hardly more than a baby. How dare you hit him like that? You should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘Should I really?’ The woman did no more than stand up and slap Mollie’s face. Mollie, who wouldn’t normally have hurt a fly, punched her in the jaw, all the unhappiness and frustration that she’d felt over the last few weeks going into the blow. Perhaps her opponent had been suffering from similar frustrations, because she returned Mollie’s punch with one of her own. Within minutes, they were in a fistfight.

‘What the hell’s going on in here?’

Mollie felt herself being dragged away by her collar and saw the fur-coated woman was in receipt of the same treatment. They were being held apart by the strong arms of a young policeman, splendid in his black uniform with gleaming silver buttons, a wide leather belt, and an enormous helmet. ‘This is the
ladies
’ waiting room,’ he said sarcastically. ‘If you want to fight, you’d best find a back alley somewhere and do it in private. Better still, don’t do it at all and stay within the law.’

‘She hit me first,’ Mollie spat, ‘and she was hitting her little boy so hard it made him scream.’

‘She’s right, officer,’ one of the spectators put in - they all looked rather stunned. ‘It was the other woman that started it.’

‘I’ve a good mind to take you both to the station and book you for causing an affray,’ the policeman said pompously, ‘but there’s the kid to consider, so I’ll take your names and addresses instead. I’ll have to consult with my superior officer as to whether any charges will be brought.’

‘My husband will be terribly cross if the police come to the house,’ Mollie’s adversary said fearfully. ‘I’m sorry I hit Rowley, but he’s been a very naughty boy all morning. I suppose I felt at the end of my tether. And I’m sorry I hit you, too,’ she said to Mollie. She looked more frightened than sorry.

Mollie ignored her. She had no intention of apologizing. She had two young brothers and knew how naughty little boys could be, but she’d never felt tempted to hit them. What’s more, she’d actually been
enjoying
the fight and wished the policeman hadn’t broken it up. At this moment, she didn’t care if she was thrown into prison.

The policeman released their collars and produced a notebook from his pocket. Both women told him where they lived. ‘If someone reports a similar incident to this, I’ll know where to come,’ he said, snapping the notebook shut.

 

Mollie returned to Wavertree to find Mrs Brophy sitting in the window sewing gloves. ‘You look as if you’ve been in the wars,’ she exclaimed. ‘You have a bruise on your forehead and your cheeks are very red.’

‘I fell over,’ Mollie lied. She wasn’t ashamed she’d been in a fight, but wasn’t prepared to pass on the gory details to Mrs Brophy.

‘What did your brother have to say?’

‘That Annemarie never arrived at my aunt’s. She’s disappeared.’

 

Later that afternoon, she gave Mrs Brophy one of the ten-shilling notes. ‘That’s for having me all this time. Do you mind if I stay until I hear from our Finn?’ If Annemarie were found, she’d go straight to New York. If she couldn’t be located, Mollie had no idea what she would do.

‘As far as I’m concerned, dear, you can stay for ever,’ Mrs Brophy said as she gratefully accepted the ten shillings.

 

She was peeling a huge stack of potatoes the following morning when the doorbell rang. Mrs Brophy shouted, ‘It’s all right. I’ll get it.’ A few minutes later, she came into the kitchen and announced Mollie had a visitor. ‘A rather nice young man. I’ve put him in the parlour.’

Mollie dried her hands, perplexed. She still had no idea who her visitor was when she went into the parlour and the young man jumped to his feet. He wore a well-pressed grey suit and clutched a dark-grey trilby close to his chest. His mackintosh had been folded neatly and placed on the back of a chair. ‘Good morning, Miss Kenny,’ he said respectfully.

‘Good morning,’ Mollie replied, as mystified as ever.

He grinned. ‘You don’t recognize me, do you? It was me who broke up the fight yesterday.’

‘You’re the policeman!’ He looked very different out of uniform, much younger - about twenty-one, she reckoned - and not quite so pompous. His hair was short and brown and his eyes very blue. She supposed he was quite handsome in a way. ‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘Have you come to take me to prison?’ She was slightly less prepared to go to prison today than she’d been the day before.

‘No, I’ve come to ask you to the pictures one night. Do you mind if I sit down? And can I call you Mollie? I’m Tom Ryan,
Constable
Tom Ryan,’ he added proudly.

‘Of course you can sit down, and yes, you can call me Mollie.’ She sat by the table in the window that was spread with pieces of glove for Mrs Brophy to sew. ‘What do I call you - Tom, or Constable Ryan?’

‘Tom.’ He blushed slightly. ‘What do you say about the pictures?’ he asked eagerly.

‘I don’t know.’ She was surprised he wanted anything to do with her after the fight. Another time, she would have found the situation embarrassing, but so much had happened lately, most of it bad, that she’d gone beyond the point of being embarrassed about anything. She didn’t care what people thought of her or what impression she made. ‘Do you make a habit of inviting criminals to the pictures?’

‘You’re not exactly a criminal. I know I shouldn’t say this, me being a bobby, like, but I thought that woman deserved a poke for hitting her kid.’ He was being pompous again and it made her want to laugh - yesterday she’d thought she’d never laugh again.

‘Oh, all right, I’ll come to the pictures with you.’ She’d never been out with a boy before and she’d always thought the first time would be a grand occasion, but she was only going with Tom Ryan because he made her laugh and it might stop her from thinking about Annemarie, if only for a little while.

 

They went to a picture house in Lime Street opposite the Palais de Luxe to see
Sherlock, Jr.
with Buster Keaton, who was very famous, according to Tom. Mollie enjoyed it more than
Little Annie Rooney
, mainly due to the fact it was hilariously funny, as well as having the presence of an entire orchestra that played throughout the film.

Afterwards they had a fish supper. Over the meal, Tom told her about himself. He’d been a fully-fledged policeman for less than a year, but wanted to become a plain-clothes detective.

‘What does that mean?’ she asked.

His blue eyes gleamed. ‘It means solving crimes - murders and robberies and stuff like that - and you wear your own clothes, not a uniform. Have you ever heard of Jack the Ripper?’ he enquired. Mollie shook her head and he continued, a trifle ghoulishly, ‘He murdered six women in the East End of London in a dead horrible way. He was never found, but I reckon
I’d
have caught him given half a chance. I’ve got a book about him at home - you can borrow it, if you like,’ he said generously. ‘And I’ve got one on Doctor Crippen, too, and loads of other murderers. I like using me brain, you see, looking for clues like Sherlock Holmes - that’s why I took you to see that picture. Ordinary bobbies have got more brawn than brain.’

‘I hope you don’t say that to the ordinary bobbies,’ Mollie remarked.

‘Course not.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘That’s all most want to be, bobbies. Me, I intend to become a detective inspector one day.’ He clearly thought very highly of himself.

‘Out of interest,’ Mollie said, ‘why
did
you ask me out?’ She felt sure she would get an honest answer because she doubted if Tom Ryan was capable of telling a lie.

‘I liked your face,’ he said instantly. ‘It’s a nice face; pretty, too. That’s another thing I’m good at, reading faces. I just knew if you were fighting with that woman you had a good reason. I can tell if someone’s a criminal from a mile away.’

‘You’re going to make a good bobby,’ she told him, hiding a smile.

‘I know. I was born for it. I used to tell me ma when I was little that I’d be a policeman one day.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘That she’d far sooner I became a priest. But I stuck to me guns, didn’t I?’ He grinned. ‘I liked
your
ma. She seemed really nice.’

‘Mrs Brophy isn’t my mother,’ Mollie said hastily. ‘My own mother’s dead and I’m just staying there temporarily. ’ She explained about New York and Finn and Annemarie. ‘If Finn finds her,
when
he finds her,’ she finished, ‘I shall be off to New York on the next boat.’

‘But you can’t!’ To her amazement, Tom Ryan’s lips trembled and he looked on the verge of tears.

‘Why ever not?’

‘Because I’m in love with you, that’s why. I told you I could read faces and the minute I saw yours I just knew I wanted you to be me wife. I wasn’t going to tell you, not straight away like, case it put you off.’ He threw back his shoulders and looked at her defiantly. ‘So, there you are, Mollie, I’ve laid all me cards on the table and it’s up to you whether you pick them up or not.’

 

Finn had come to New York prepared to dislike it at first sight. He wasn’t used to cities and New York was a city and a half, a monument to Mammon where the dispossessed came from all corners of the earth to make their fortunes. But on his first day there, he’d stopped in the middle of a street where nothing could be seen except tall, magnificent buildings on all sides and a little patch of sky above. Inside him, something had stirred at the sight of this man-made wonder, as if a part of him were coming alive for the first time. His heart had raced and from then on he was caught in the vibrancy and sheer energy of the place.

He felt the same in Greenwich Village where there were no tall buildings, just houses and shops that never seemed to close, the goods displayed on the pavement outside, and every inch of wall covered with posters promoting poetry readings, plays, meetings, lectures, concerts, sporting events . . . the list was endless.

Everywhere he went he could hear music. It came from the Negro bands shuffling along the pavement in single file playing their hearts out, making Finn want to tap his feet, or from an open window where someone was practising the saxophone or the trumpet or singing at the top of their voice. It came through Maggie’s floorboards from the shop below: little fat Ziggie on the piano, singing plaintively and slightly off-key. Finn had bought the music for ‘Manhattan’, a song from the
Ziegfeld Follies
, presently showing on 42nd Street, and asked Ziggie to sign it. He didn’t own a piano or any sort of musical instrument, but he’d have it framed and hang it on the wall of the cottage where it would remain a perfect memento of New York.