The White Empress (10 page)

‘Oh, my God!’ Cat whirled around and faced Maisey. ‘Where is he? Where’s that swine, I’ll kill him! I’ll kill him with my
own two hands!’

‘Cat, he didn’t mean to . . .’ The words came thickly from her mother’s swollen lips.

Maisey thumped the bowl down hard on the table. ‘It was all ’er fault, that little slut!’

‘Shelagh?’

‘Right! Cum ’ome drunk an’ with ’er blouse all undone an’ her skirt all torn! Yer Da, who’d ’ad one too many ’imself, laid
into ’er, yellin’ at ’er, callin’ ’er a whore, a common little tart. An’ he’s right! She’s the talk of the street, carryin’
on . . .’

‘What’s that got to do with . . .’

‘’E took ’is belt off and laid into ’er. Give ’er a good thrashin’! Holy Mother of God! Yer could ’ear the screams all the
way t’ the Pierhead! Yer Mam tried t’ stop ’im an’ he caught ’er with the buckle end.’

Cat’s eyes blazed with a ferocious green light. ‘Where is she, Maisey?’

‘All the neighbours was out, someone went fer Father Maguire, but the scuffers arrived first!’

‘So she’s in jail?’

‘No. I told ’em t’ clear off, that we sort out ourselves an’ hadn’t a father the right to give ’is own daughter a good hidin’
for the way she’d been carryin’ on, disgracin’ us all! They went off, saying, “Alright, Ma, seeing as it’s a domestic we won’t
interfere, as long as it doesn’t get out of hand.” Then Father Maguire arrived. ’E calmed yer Pa down, talked ter yer Mam
an’ carted that slut off with ’im!’

‘So where are they now?’

‘Yer Pa was collared by Himself after Mass. I ’ope Himself gives ’im a good talkin’ to, an’ as fer ’er . . . I won’t ’ave
’er over me doorstep again! Norreven if the Pope ’imself were ter ask me!’

‘So where is she?’

‘Sent packin’ ter some ’ome fer wayward girls.’

Cat sank down on the floor and took her mother’s hand. She was still seething. If only she could get her mother out of this
house. To the little home she dreamed of providing – one day. Frustration was added to fury. She was no nearer to the White
Empress than she had been the day she landed. Mrs Travis had been kindness itself but she couldn’t ask her to take her mother
in. ‘Are you sure you’re alright, Ma?’

‘A bit shaken . . .’

She clasped the trembling hand in her own, wishing vehemently she could get her hands on both her sister and her father. ‘I’ll
stay as long as I can, Maisey. He won’t be in a very good mood when he gets back!’

Maisey grunted. She was a god-fearing woman, a hard worker and she was respected by her neighbours
and if it hadn’t been for Ellen she would quite cheerfully have thrown the lot of them out on the streets.

They had all crept back, one by one. Mid-afternoon saw her father enter the house in the company of Mr O’Dwyer and the parish
priest. He was somewhat shaken for Father Maguire had far more influence and was held in far more esteem than a station full
of ‘scuffers’. After ascertaining that Mrs Cleary was alright and informing them all that from now on he expected no more
trouble at all, he turned to leave.

‘Father, where is my sister?’

The stern features relaxed a little as he looked at Cat. ‘Ah, Catherine. Don’t you be worrying over that one, she’s with the
Sisters of Charity.’

She nodded. Despite their name she knew Shelagh would find little charity with them. It served her right.

The atmosphere had livened up a little after the priest’s exit. The younger children resorted to their usual noisy horseplay,
Maisey to her boisterous denunciation of them all and Mr O’Dwyer to his newspaper.

Her father remained white-faced and silent. She had never held a very high opinion of him. She had hoped he would change,
but since they had arrived he had been content to shove the burden of his wife and family on to someone else. She despised
him even more now. The only thing that could be said in his defence was that at last he had shown some parental responsiblity,
although it had taken a bellyful of ale to bring that about. And to the detriment of her poor mother.

She was reluctant to leave but as seven o’clock drew nearer she picked up her hat and coat. Maisey followed
her to the door and Cat pressed the coins into her hand.

‘If anything else like that ever happens, or . . . or if she comes back, send one of the kids straight up for me, Maisey.’

‘It won’t ’appen again, cos she’s not cumin’ back ’ere, an’ as fer ’im, ’e gets ’is courage out of a bottle an’ if ’e starts,
I’ll be straight round fer the priest!’

‘Oh, I wish I could take her with me!’

‘Well, yer can’t, luv, an’ that’s that! Yer doin’ every-thin’ yer can for ’er, God knows! Now, gerroff with yer, yer’ll be
late!’

A
S SHE LAY IN BED
that night listening to the rain lashing against the small attic windows, she tossed and turned, thinking of her mother in
the cold, cheerless bedroom at Eldon Street. She must do something! The dreaming
had
to become reality. She pulled the quilt up to her chin, her feet curled around the stone jar with its tight rubber stopper,
filled with hot water. Such comforts were denied her poor Ma. She made her decision. On Wednesday afternoon she would go to
The Pool and if she got no satisfaction, she’d go to the offices of Canadian Pacific. She had to do something positive, she
couldn’t just wait and dream. Even if, like Joe, she had to go to every shipping line and beg, she’d do it. Joe had got the
job on the
Marguerita
in the end!

She wore her best coat and hat, her only coat and hat, and had polished her shoes until they gleamed, but gazing at her reflection
she realised she didn’t present a very smart picture. She felt drab and plain.

As she got off the tram it started to rain and her shoes
became dull and splashed. The wind blew her hair across her face in damp, untidy wisps. The walk to Mann Island across the
dirty cobbles added to the dejection that was already setting in, but she pushed open the door of The Pool and went straight
to the counter. A middle-aged man in a rather shabby suit looked up from his paperwork.

‘Yes, luv?’

‘I’ve come to see if there are any vacancies for stewardesses?’

He looked her up and down quickly. ‘Had any experience? Have you got your Discharge Book?’

‘What’s that?’

He sighed. ‘
Seaman’s Record Book and Certificate of Discharge
. It’s like a passport.’

‘No. I didn’t know I needed one.’

‘Never been to sea before. Thought not!’

‘Well, where can I get one?’

‘You can’t, unless you’ve got a job – a ship.’

‘That’s what I came here for!’ She was getting impatient.

He leaned forward across the counter. ‘Look, luv, we get dozens of girls in here, all looking for work on the liners. We don’t
take you on here. You have to go to the company and they decide if you’re, well . . . suitable!’

‘And you don’t think I am?’

He sighed again. ‘I’ll be honest, no good building up your hopes. No. You’re probably a good worker, honest, decent, but that’s
not enough for them and the competition is tough!’

‘Isn’t there a form or something I can fill in?’ she pleaded.

‘I can register you, that’s all. You go up to the Liver Buildings and see them, you may be lucky! Tell them Arthur Hanson
sent you, it may help.’

She nodded her thanks and turned away.

She crossed the windswept pierhead, the rain soaking into her cheap coat. She felt cold and dejected. She had known it wouldn’t
be easy. As she entered the Royal Liver Buildings a porter stopped her and asked her her business. He directed her to the
offices she asked for. Canadian Pacific, Cunard and the Booth Line. Her confidence waned with each step she took up the flight
of wide stairs. She was so nervous by the time a haughty-looking clerk in a stiff, winged collar asked in clipped tones what
she wanted, she could only stammer, ‘I . . . I want to go to sea!’

‘Any experience?’

She shook her head.

‘Sorry, we’ve no vacancies! Try Cunard, White Star.’

Her hand was shaking as she pulled open the door. She had forgotten how it felt to have to beg. Her thoughts flew back to
those cold, winter days in Dublin when, as a child, she had accosted the wealthier citizens begging for ‘a halfpenny please,
sir? Tis starved I am!’ She couldn’t go on! She leaned against the wall. She
had
to! Joe had!

She received the same treatment in the Cunard office but resolutely pressed on, her self-confidence in tatters. The polished
wooden counters, carpeted floors and tastefully framed prints of their ships, the offices of the
Booth Steam Ship Company exuded quiet, old-fashioned gentility. The clerk was a middle-aged man in a dark suit and stiff white
collar. It appeared to be a uniform among shipping clerks.

‘May I be of assistance, miss?’

She took courage from his tone and manner. It was neither openly hostile nor arrogantly patronising. ‘I’ve come to see if
. . . well, if you might be having any vacancies for a stewardess?’

‘Have you been to The Pool?’

‘I have that, sir. Arthur Hanson told me to try . . . here.’

‘He often does tell them that.’

‘Even . . . even if you don’t have anything right now, could I put my name on a list or something?’

‘We are an old-established company, miss?’

‘Cleary.’ She supplied eagerly. At least he was treating her as a person of some account.

‘Well, Miss Cleary, our ships are away for nine months of the year, we sail up the River Amazon – that’s Brazil – and we don’t
carry too many lady passengers so therefore we don’t employ many stewardesses. The ones we have have been with us for years
and are likely to remain until they retire. Have you tried Cunard, White Star or Canadian Pacific?’

The tiny ray of hope that had flickered at his pleasant treatment of her, died. ‘Both.’

‘I’m sorry. There are others.’

She turned away and then turned back to him. ‘Sir, I was told that to be a stewardess I would need to have qualifications,
to talk properly and be able to get on with
people. Is that the truth of it? Is that why they won’t take me on?’

He placed the pen he was holding neatly down in front of him in a precise, definite movement. Then he clasped his hands. ‘Yes,
most of that is true, sadly.’

She turned and ran. Everything Joe had said was true! How could she have ever believed she could turn that dream into reality!
Because she had risen, with Joe’s help and Mrs Travis’s, a step higher than the slum girl she had been, she had thought she
could just walk in and expect to be handed her dream. It was patently obvious that she was still little more than that Dublin
slummy who had stepped off the cattle boat! And it hurt. It hurt so much that her chest felt tight, her throat was dry and
her eyes burned with unshed tears! She had no chance. No chance at all!

‘Settle for what you have,’ Joe had said, but she had refused to listen to him. Now it was a fact she could no longer refute.
‘Never give up your dream! Fight for your ambitions, Catherine!’ Mrs Travis’s words. But there was no fight left in her now.
There was nothing she could do except go back to Everton Valley and try to come to terms with defeat.

There was no one she could tell about the disastrous attempt. She couldn’t go to Mrs Travis and tell her she was looking for
an alternative job, not when she had been so kind. She was afraid Joe would sympathise and pity her, but would also say ‘I
told you so’ and even her severely lacerated pride wouldn’t tolerate that. She was tempted to tell Marie, but she felt she
hadn’t known her long enough; that their friendship wasn’t yet so close.
She knew it was pride that kept her tongue silent. What little she had left of it. So she was miserable and silent and not
even her visits to Marie’s could dispel her utter dejection that was increased when Joe again got a month’s work on the
Marguerita
.

He and Mrs Travis had a very long talk in the parlour and he had told her later that they had come to an agreement. The old
lady understood his restlessness and agreed that, whenever the opportunity arose, he should take it. She would manage, he
did his work well enough to be absent for the odd month or two whenever he managed to get a ship.

Despite Maisey’s threats Shelagh had returned home and whenever Cat paid her Sunday visit there was an argument between them.
Shelagh resented the security and luxury she lived in. She was jealous of the few clothes Cat had, for they were of a superior
quality to her own and made Cat appear older, smarter and more attractive than herself. All she wanted out of life was a bit
of fun, surely that wasn’t too bad, but Cat always seemed to be looking down her nose at her, disapproving. Cat blamed Shelagh
for the decline in her mother’s health. She caused nothing but worry and trouble. She wasn’t stupid – she could get a better
position if she worked harder and took things more seriously. She could be more considerate, she should help more in the house
instead of complaining. But Shelagh had always been lazy and selfish and Cat knew that it was only her mother’s pleadings
that had swayed Maisey to take her back.

One spring morning she was walking up the street on her way home. She walked slowly, not really wanting to go at all. She
was more dejected than usual for Joe had sailed the previous day. This time he would be away for nearly three months and had
been promoted to donkey man, keeping the donkey boiler going at all times. The
Marguerita
was tramping around the ports of Europe and was even venturing as far as the Mediterranean, hopefully, he had said. Marie
was working hard for examinations and on the previous Sunday immediately after afternoon tea, she had taken a reluctant farewell
as Mr Gorry led his daughter, with all her books and writing materials, into the parlour to ‘study’. She had wished desperately
that she could have joined them. She wanted to learn. Her experiences at the shipping offices had made her realise the truth
about herself and she was trying to improve. In the evenings and when there was time to spare, she would borrow a book from
the bookcase in the parlour and pore over it. They were mainly books on navigation and the like, which were totally beyond
her, but there were a few on foreign countries and these she did find interesting. But there were so many words she couldn’t
pronounce and many whose meaning was lost to her.

Her attention was diverted by the clanking and clattering of cans, the high-pitched yowling of a cat and the sniggering laughter
of young boys, followed by the sound of running feet. At the junction of the alleyway between the houses – known as ‘the jigger’
– and the street, she was knocked sideways by three lads who charged blindly into the street. She grabbed two of them by their
collars. One was Eamon.

‘What do you think you’re doing? What have you been up to at this time on a Sunday morning?’

He glared at her from under the thick fringe of hair. ‘Nothin’!’

She shook him hard. ‘Don’t give me that, Eamon Cleary!’

He refused to answer. She was making him look stupid in front of ‘the gang’.

‘We was only playin’ kick the can,’ the other lad muttered sullenly.

She knew him. He lived at the top end of the street. ‘Kick the can on a Sunday, Vinny O’Brien! You should be home getting
ready for Mass! And what was all the yowling, it sounded like a cat?’

The third member of the group had sauntered back, courage restored, seeing it was only a girl who had caught the others. She
didn’t recollect having seen him before. ‘Where do you live? Round here?’

‘What’s it ter you?’

‘Hard-faced little sod, I’ll box your ears!’

He ignored her. ‘We was only ’avin’ a birrof a laugh! Tied a can to the tail of a jigger rabbit. What’s wrong with that?’

‘It says a lot about you! No more sense in your head than to be persecuting a poor cat!’

‘Dinny’s got a job, he don’t go ter school no more!’ Eamon piped up, emboldened by his friends obvious lack of fear. ‘He’s
a delivery boy!’

‘I didn’t think they let you out of school until you’d grown up and had some sense in your thick heads!’ she replied sarcastically.

‘Who’re yer callin’ thick?’

She had released Eamon and Vinny O’Brien and her hand shot out and Dinny Lacey received a stinging slap across the side of
his head that made his ears ring. ‘Now you can get home and tell your Da that Cat Cleary boxed your ears for your cheek, then
you can get to Mass and if I don’t see you there I’ll tell Father Maguire about these shenanigans! Clear off!’

He turned and ran with Vinny close on his heels. Eamon was about to follow but she grabbed him by his ear and he squealed
like a stuck pig.

‘Hasn’t Ma got enough to worry about without you playing the eejit with the likes of them! Get home!’

He rubbed his tingling ear as she pushed him into the house. Her father had just come downstairs, looking grey and needing
a shave. Cat pushed her brother at him.

‘Can’t you do anything with him? Don’t you care about him at all?’

‘What’s he done now?’ he muttered.

‘Only woken half the street and tormented the daylights out of a poor cat, and he’s hanging around with back-crack lads! Don’t
you care what happens to him? Don’t you care what happens to any of us? For the love of Heaven, Pa, can’t you do something
– anything to help Ma? You know she’s ill, you know she’s worn out and worried to death about this boyo and . . . Shelagh!’

His bleary eyes rested on her for a second then he looked away. ‘What can I do about anything? We should have stayed in Dublin.’

‘So, you’ve given up again! You just don’t care, do you?’

‘I do . . . in me way.’

‘And what way is that Pa? Getting drunk as often as you can so you won’t have to face up to things?’