The White Empress (9 page)

‘Come on in and warm yourself, you look half-starved!’

Encouraged by the unexpectedly friendly greeting she ventured further into the room. Mrs Gorry was a buxom woman with fair
hair and blue eyes that crinkled when she smiled. Mr Gorry was a tall, thin man with greying hair and a pair of spectacles
perched on the end of his nose. He smiled and she began to relax. Of the two older Gorry girls there was no sign.

‘I said to you, Bernard, didn’t I, that it was about time our Hazel had a nice friend. Come and sit down here, it’s warmer.
Hazel, go and see if those two have finished doing the tea, will you?’

Mr Gorry lowered his newspaper. ‘Don’t fuss, Leila.’

Mrs Gorry tutted. ‘It’s Polly’s day off, so our Doreen and Marlene are making the tea. It will probably be stone cold, the
cake will be burnt and the sandwiches curled up at the edges!’

Cat was taken aback afresh. They had a servant, too, yet they seemed so . . . ordinary. There were no airs and graces about
them.

‘Do what your mother tells you, Marie, or we’ll get no peace!’

It seemed strange to Cat that only Mrs Gorry called her daughter Hazel.

‘So you work for Mrs Travis, Cat?’ Mrs Gorry continued. There was no questioning about her name, but before she could answer
Mrs Gorry carried on. ‘Some of my relations are called Travis, but I don’t think she’s one of us.’

Feeling obliged to make conversation Cat said, ‘Marie . . . I mean Hazel, tells me that you have a coal business and that
your parents came from Ireland.’

Mr Gorry nodded. But it was his wife who answered. ‘His mother came from Ireland. The old man was Manx. Came from the Isle
of Man originally. Oh, but she was a lovely woman was Mary O’Donnell. A saint. Went to Mass every day of her life, even when
she was dying of consumption. But he was a cantankerous old so-and-so! I never met him, he died before I met Mr Gorry. Eighty
he was when he died!’

Before she could embark on the family history any further the door opened and two older replicas of Marie
appeared. Smartly dressed and laden with trays of sandwiches, cakes and a china tea service.

‘You must be Cat, Marie’s friend. I’m Doreen and this is Marlene.’

Cat liked them both instantly. All her fears vanished and she basked in the warmth of the fire and the friendship extended
to her by this rather unique family, who although they were obviously well off, did not look down their noses at her or patronise
her, but who seemed to accept her as an old and valued friend.

Mrs Gorry ushered them all to the table and began to fuss over the milk that Marlene had slopped from the jug.

‘She’s always like this, she’s a real scatterbrain at times,’ Marie whispered, handing Cat a delicate bone-china cup.

After tea Cat insisted on helping to wash up, despite protests from Mrs Gorry that she was a guest and that either ‘the girls’
could do the dishes later, or Polly would do them in the morning. After that Marie took her on a tour of the house while her
sisters got ready to go out dancing. It was a far more modern and well-designed house than Mrs Travis’s. There were no small
pokey rooms or narrow passages. It was tastefully decorated and furnished and had an upstairs bathroom and toilet. It also
had a narrow staircase that led from the kitchen to the upstairs landing and was obviously meant for Polly’s use, for a servant
would be expected to use the back stairs. But it appeared that everyone else used it as well.

In the parlour with its fine furniture and ornaments
and rich Persian carpet stood Marie’s particular pride and joy. A pianola. An instrument that looked like a piano and sounded
like a piano but produced the music from rolls of paper, perforated with holes, which were fitted over a metal cylinder. It
was worked by pressing up and down on two pedals at the base. Cat was mesmerised at the way the keys moved by themselves.

‘You can use it as a proper piano as well, but Dad bought it because he got so fed up with listening to us all practice. We
all learned to play but none of us is any good at it. Go on, have a go!’

For the next half hour the sounds of Strauss, Schubert and Gershwin filled the room while Cat and Marie took it in turns,
with great flourishes and peals of laughter, to pretend that they were both actually pressing the keys and playing the music.

All too soon it was six o’clock. Cat was reluctant to leave but she was always back with Mrs Travis by seven on Sunday nights.
Marie wanted to walk with her to the tram but Mrs Gorry insisted that her husband drive Cat back, telling Marie that she could
go too. It was the first time Cat had ever been in a car and, she found the journey quiet, luxurious and warm. She was loath
to step out of the car when it stopped for it was like stepping out of a dream. She felt she had found a new world and Mrs
Travis’s words came back to her again. She
did
have more choice, there
were
better things in life and success was not unattainable. The Gorrys had proved all that. She thanked Mr Gorry profusely, wishing
she had some small gift to give him, wishing she had a father like him.

Marie poked her head out of the window. ‘Will you come again next week, Cat?’

‘Can I?’

‘You’re welcome any time, Cat,’ Mr Gorry said, patting her hand.

‘See you next week!’ Marie called as the car pulled away.

Cat hugged herself. At last she’d found a friend, a real friend and how she envied Marie. Not for the material things she
possessed, but for the warmth, affection and security of a closely knit, loving family. A family into which she had been welcomed.
She hoped it would last, this new friendship, but instinct warned her that nothing lasted forever. That people change and
circumstances change. But as she watched the car disappear little did she know that she had just forged the links of a friendship
that was to last for the whole of her life.

T
HE
MARGUERITA
DOCKED IN
Liverpool on 22 December and Joe was signed off. There was to be no second trip, so with his pay in his pocket and the gifts
he had bought for Cat and Mrs Travis, he made his way, with mixed feelings, back towards the home of his old employer. Although
he had missed Cat, he had felt the blood pound in his veins as the deck had rolled under his feet, the salt spray had stung
his face and the cold North wind had cut through his duffle coat. Not that he had spent much time up on deck. The engine room,
cramped, smelly and ankle deep in bilgewater had been his domain. One of the crew had failed to turn up and he had been promoted
to Stoker and for this he had been paid the princely sum of £1 12s.

Cat was up to her elbows in flour, making (under supervision) the mince pies, when the knocker echoed through the house. ‘Oh
drat!’ she exclaimed.

‘You stay and finish that pastry, I’ll go!’ Mrs Travis instructed.

Joe’s expression changed when he saw the frail figure that opened the door to him. He had been expecting Cat.

‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea! Come in, Joe!’

‘Thanks. May I see Cat?’

Mrs Travis nodded as she ushered him down the hallway and into the kitchen.

Cat gave a little cry of surprise, dropped the rolling pin and wiping her hands on her apron, rushed to him.

He held her at arm’s length, laughing. ‘You’ve got flour on your nose but you look wonderful!’

‘When did you get in?’

‘This morning.’

Cat looked uncertainly at her mistress but the old lady gestured her to sit down.

‘The pies will wait. I think a little drop of Madeira is called for.’ She opened the cupboard and took out three glasses and
poured a small amount into each glass. She handed one to Joe who held it as though it would snap between his fingers.

‘To your safe return and to the festive season!’

Cat took the glass from her, having washed her hands, and sipped the sweet wine. There was a tenseness in the air and she
knew Joe felt it, too, as he slowly twisted his empty glass between his fingers.

‘Did you have a good trip?’ she asked, to break the silence.

‘Not bad.’

‘Well . . .?’

He delved into his kit bag and pulled out two parcels.
‘I bought you this, I was going to save it for Christmas but you might as well have it now.’

She took the parcel from him and began to carefully unwrap it. Inside was a box. She lifted the lid and a brooch, shaped like
a butterfly, nestled on a bed of cotton wool. Brightly coloured stones formed its wings and gold wire its body and antennae.
She knew the stones weren’t real gems but she had never owned a single piece of jewellery. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful! Look how all
the colours glow in the light! Oh, Joe, thank you!’

‘Aren’t you going to put it on?’

‘No, I’m keeping it to wear with my best clothes. I’ll pin it to my coat. Oh, it’s lovely!’ She wanted to fling her arms around
him and tell him how she had missed him, but the presence of the old lady stopped her.

Joe stood up and placed a second parcel into Mrs Travis’s hands. She was surprised.

‘You shouldn’t have wasted your money on me, Joe!’

‘I wanted to.’

She pulled off the wrapping paper to reveal an elephant carved in ebony with long tusks of ivory and two smaller elephants
completed the set. ‘You must have searched hard for something like this, they’re not the sort of thing you can pick up easily.’

‘I bought them from an old Chinese cook, I thought you’d like them.’

‘I do, I like them a great deal but are they a form of bribe?’

He looked abashed.

Cat looked from one to the other. They had obviously cost him more than the butterfly brooch.
Obviously they were not keeping him on and he had come back for his old job. The little frown disappeared when she saw that
Mrs Travis was smiling.

‘So, you’ve come back to us then? Well, I did promise to hold your job open, didn’t I? Do you still want it?’

He nodded, twisting his cap between his hands. He was grateful to her but it hurt his masculine pride to have to come, tail
between his legs, to get his job back. His hopes had been so high. He had promised himself he was never going to take a shore
job again. But it was a hard winter and there was little work for, although the Port was thriving, the country was not and
Liverpool was not the only city in the grip of unemployment, economic and social depression. ‘Take what you can, lad, until
things pick up!’ the captain of the
Marguerita
had advised. But it still galled him that he had to settle for second best. One day he’d get a steady job at sea. One day
he’d make it. He realised that Cat was speaking to him.

‘At least I’ll have someone to help me get the tree home from the market and put up the holly!’

He smiled at her. ‘I come in handy for some things then?’

‘Aye, that you do!’

That Christmas was the one Cat swore she would always remember, no matter how long she lived. It was the first ‘real’ Christmas
she’d ever had, she told Joe as they struggled home on the tram on Christmas Eve. He with the tree and boughs of holly and
she with the goose, vegetables and the fruit. Everyone was in festive mood. The market stallholders, shopkeepers, policemen
and the crowds of shoppers who thronged Church Street, congregating around the huge Christmas tree while the Salvation Army
band played carols. Even the conductor of the packed tramcar sported a sprig of holly in his buttonhole and one of mistletoe
in his cap and demanded a kiss from all the women who crushed aboard. There were many ribald remarks from some of the older
ones, too. To his jocular ‘Move along there, Ma, there’s hundreds waiting behind yer!’ came the reply, ‘If I move up any more
I’ll be drivin’ the tram meself an’ we’ll all end up in Church Street!’ Which caused more ribald remarks as to who would look
best, dressed up as the Christmas Fairy, the old shawlie or the driver!

They had decorated the tree and then Joe had sat by the warmth of the kitchen fire and watched as she had plucked and cleaned
the bird and prepared it for roasting. Then he had helped her prepare the vegetables.

Mrs Travis had asked her if she wanted to spend the holiday with her family, but comparing the comfort and warmth of her surroundings
with those of the little house in Eldon Street, she declined the offer, although she was to go home early Christmas morning
and stay until just before lunch.

‘Why don’t you bring your mother and Eamon here for dinner?’ Mrs Travis had generously offered.

‘She wouldn’t come. She’d feel uncomfortable and as for our Eamon, his table manners would disgrace a pig, so they would!
But thank you, you’re very kind.’

So she had gone home with her brown paper carrier-bag of gifts and was surprised to find everyone up and
the little house decked out with paper chains and holly. The big table, which took up most of the kitchen, was laid with a
red cloth and was already set for the meal. On the old dresser stood bottles of ale and a bottle of cheap sherry.

‘I see someone’s been busy or has Santa come early?’ she laughed as she kissed her mother’s cheek.

‘Oh, Ellen and me went down the market late last night. They’re practically givin’ stuff away by ten o’clock! Perked ’er up
no end, too! Now youse lot, sit still while I get me ’at and youse can gerra cloth an’ wipe our Ethel’s fingers an’ that toffee
from round ’er mouth. It’s a good job she’s too young for Communion!’ Maisey instructed the eldest of her brood. ‘’Ave you
been eatin’, our Dora?’

‘No, Mam!’

‘Yer’d berra be tellin’ the truth! Father Maguire can sniff out food like a blood ’ound an yer’ll disgrace us all if yer get
turned away from the altar rail!’

Cat delved into the brown paper bag. ‘Is there time for me to give them their presents, Maisey?’

Maisey paused, still poking wisps of hair under a dark-blue felt hat that had seen better days. ‘Aye, luv, go on, but hurry
up!’

She felt like Lady Bountiful as she handed out the presents. She had bought something for everyone. Packets of toffees and
Everton Mints for all the O’Dwyer children. A pair of silk stockings for Maisey who declared she had never had anything so
fine for years and quickly moved her ample bulk into the scullery to put them on. There was a tie for Mr O’Dwyer and another
for her
father, although she had begrudged spending anything on him and it was only at Joe’s prompting that she had done so. For Eamon
there was
The Boy’s Own Annual
with which he was not very impressed and a big bag of coloured glass marbles, with which he was, taking each one and holding
it up to the light. For Shelagh she had bought a colourful headscarf in shades of pink, purple and lilac. She had deliberately
left it in the ‘Owen Owen’s’ bag, as this was one of the better-class shops that Shelagh did not frequent. She received a
cold peck on the cheek and a muttered ‘Thanks, it’s lovely’ in return.

All her savings had gone towards her mother’s present. She had discussed with both Mrs Travis and Marie just what she could
buy but it had been Marie who had come up with the most inspired and touching suggestion.

‘If you buy her anything like jewellery it will spend most of its time in pawn.’

‘Anything I buy will!’ she had retorted.

‘So write off to the Cenacle Convent.’

‘What for?’

‘If you send them five shillings, they will say a Mass for her every day for a year and will send a nice Mass card and a lovely
rosary. He can’t pawn them, can he?’

Cat thought about it. It was rather a strange gift, but her mother was a devoutly Catholic woman who would appreciate the
prayers offered up at Mass on her behalf by the nuns. She would also appreciate and treasure the rosary beads and neither
would be pawned. So she had done as Marie had suggested and had received in return
a Mass card bearing a coloured picture of the Nativity inscribed,

Accompanying it was a rosary of imitation pearls in its own little white-leather purse, engraved with a gold cross. Feeling
that this was not enough, Cat bought a pair of warm knitted gloves, around the wrists of which was threaded bright ribbon,
decorated with two tassels.

The glow she felt from being able to distribute such largesse, to bring such gasps of delight and such obvious happiness,
grew as her mother first tried on the gloves, exclaiming over the tassels. But it was with eyes full of tears that she reverently
opened the card and read the inscription. There were tears in Cat’s eyes as Ellen drew out the rosary and spread it across
her thin, chapped hand.

‘Oh, Cat . . . Cat . . . !’ Ellen Cleary’s words became choked as a sob caught in her throat.

‘I wanted to get you something very special, Ma, something more than just a brooch or gloves!’

‘You couldn’t have given me anything more . . . more beautiful . . .’ She choked again, then held up the card to Maisey.

‘What’s all the fuss about a card?’ Shelagh grumbled, craning her neck to peer over Maisey’s shoulder. Trust Cat to go one
better than her! And she’d spent 1s 6d on
a bottle of lavender water and her mother had only kissed her, put it to one side and said ‘You shouldn’t have spent so much
on me, Shelagh.’

Maisey read out the inscription in a strangely strangled tone, then blew her nose loudly on her clean handkerchief. ‘Yer’ve
got one to be proud of ’ere, Ellen!’ She struggled to find the right word. ‘One who thinks! She’s . . . sensitive!’

‘What’s sen . . . sen . . . that word mean, our Mam?’ Dora enquired, for a strange atmosphere had suddenly descended on the
room.

‘It means she really understands ’er Mam an’ what she
really
likes, an’ ’as got ’er somethin’ special that can’t end up in Stanley’s pawnshop every Monday mornin’! Eh, yer’ve gorra proper
little treasure there, Ellen!’

The warm glow had continued as Cat, the butterfly brooch pinned to the lapel of her coat, tucked her mother’s gloved hand
through her arm as in bright, crisp sunlight they all trouped around the corner to Our Lady’s to morning Mass.

The festive atmosphere had disappeared without trace two weeks later when, in driving rain that stung her cheeks, Cat paid
her weekly visit home. Blowing off the Mersey was a ‘lazy’ wind, as people called it, for it cut through you instead of going
around you. She knew there was something seriously wrong as soon as she opened the kitchen door. The room was silent. Her
mother sat huddled close to the pitiful fire that was struggling against the down-draught from the chimney. Maisey was peeling
potatoes in a bowl at the table and of
Shelagh, her Pa, Eamon and the entire O’Dwyer brood there was no sign.

‘What’s the matter? Where is everyone?’

‘Out!’ Maisey’s lips snapped closed into a thin line.

As this was unheard of Cat crossed and placed a hand on her mother’s shoulder. ‘Ma . . .?’ Her question died as her mother
turned towards her. The right side of her face was badly swollen, her lip cut and her eye half-closed and surrounded by purplish-blue
bruising.